Unmon's “Every Day Is a Good Day”

Engo's commentary on the case

Unmon first studied with Bokushū. Bokushū's working turned like lightning and was extremely difficult to approach. Ordinarily, the moment someone crossed his threshold, Bokushū seized him and demanded, “Speak! Speak!” If the visitor deliberated and failed to respond, Bokushū shoved him out, saying, “An auger from the Qin dynasty!”² Unmon went to see him repeatedly. On the third visit, he had barely knocked when Bokushū asked, “Who is it?” “Wenyan.” The door had scarcely opened when Unmon leapt inside. Bokushū seized him: “Speak! Speak!” Unmon deliberated, so Bokushū pushed him out. One of Unmon's feet remained inside the threshold. Bokushū slammed the door and crushed it. Unmon cried out in pain and suddenly greatly awakened.³ Unmon's later manner of meeting people emerged directly from Bokushū. Afterward Unmon stayed three years at Minister Chen Cao's home. Bokushū directed him to Seppō. On arrival Unmon stepped forward and asked, “What is Buddha?” Seppō said, “Do not talk in your sleep.” Unmon bowed. He stayed three years. One day Seppō asked, “What is your seeing like?” Unmon said, “My seeing does not differ by even a single hair from that of all the sages since antiquity.” For twenty years Lingshu did not appoint a head monk. He would say, “My head monk is being born,” then, “My head monk is herding cattle,” and later, “My head monk is traveling on foot.” One day he ordered the bell struck and the head monk received at the main gate. The assembly was astonished. Unmon arrived, and Lingshu had him enter the head monk's quarters and unpack. People called Lingshu “the Zen teacher who knew the sages,” saying he foresaw past and future events. Once the ruler of Guang, King Liu, was about to raise an army. He came personally to ask Lingshu to judge whether it was right. Lingshu already knew. He serenely sat and died. The ruler angrily asked, “When did the reverend fall ill?” The attendant replied, “He was never ill. He sealed a small box and told me to present it when Your Majesty arrived.” Inside the ruler found a slip reading: Eye of humans and devas: the head monk in the hall. The ruler understood, halted the campaign, and invited Unmon to teach at Lingshu. Only later did Unmon reside at the monastery bearing his name.⁴ When Unmon opened the hall, Court Attendant Ju asked, “Has Lingshu's fruit ripened?” Unmon said, “In what year did you manage to believe it was alive?” Engo next reports stories that Lingshu retained supernatural knowledge through repeated lives, whereas Unmon had been a king for three lives and lost it. These are lineage claims, not evidence supplied independently here. Once King Liu summoned several elders to spend the summer retreat in the palace. All received greetings and preached to the household. Unmon alone said nothing, and no one approached him. A palace officer wrote a verse on the blue-jade hall: Great wisdom practiced—only then is it Zen. The Zen gate should be silent, never noisy. How could ten thousand clever speeches equal reality? Unmon wins them all by saying nothing. Unmon often used three-character Zen: “Look! Examine! Yi!” He also used one-character Zen.⁵ A monk asked, “One who kills father or mother repents before the Buddha. Where does one who kills buddhas and patriarchs repent?” Unmon said, “Exposed.” Another asked, “What is the treasury of the true Dharma eye?” Unmon said, “Universal.” He left no room for deliberation. Even when he spoke evenly, his single phrase was like an iron stake. Four outstanding successors emerged from his community: Tōzan, Chimon, Tokusan Emmitsu, and Kōrin. Each became a great teacher. Kōrin served Unmon as attendant for eighteen years. Whenever Unmon met him, he only called, “Attendant Yuan!” “Yes?” “What is it?” After eighteen years of this, Kōrin awakened. Unmon said, “From now on I will no longer call you.” Unmon generally met people with Bokushū's methods. He was difficult to approach and possessed hammer and tongs that pulled nails and extracted wedges. Setchō said, “I love Shaoyang's newly fixed working; all his life he pulled nails and extracted wedges for people.”⁶ Unmon set a question before the assembly: I do not ask you about before the fifteenth day. Concerning after the fifteenth, bring me a phrase. This cut off a thousand differences and allowed neither ordinary people nor sages to pass. Then he answered for them: Every day is a good day. Before the fifteenth, this phrase has already cut off a thousand differences. After the fifteenth, it cuts them off as well. Unmon did not say, “Tomorrow is the sixteenth.” Later people merely follow the words and generate explanations. What does that have to do with him? When Unmon established his house style, there had to be a place where it served people. After setting out the question, he answered it himself: “Every day is a good day.” This phrase runs through past and present and cuts off before and after at once. This mountain monk's present explanation also follows the words and generates an explanation. Better to kill yourself than be killed by another. The moment you make it into a principle, you fall into a pit. Within one phrase of Unmon's, all three phrases are complete: such is the central teaching of his house.⁷ When he sets out one phrase, it must return to the source. Otherwise it is mere invention. This matter does not have so much discussion. Yet those who have not penetrated it require this much. Penetrate it, and you see the ancient's intent. Now look at Setchō entangling himself in vines. In versifying the ancients, Setchō alone could act this way. First he swings the diamond king's precious sword directly; afterward he reveals a little of the pattern. Even so, there are not ultimately two interpretations. Take one away; pick up seven. Many people calculate: taking one away concerns before the fifteenth. Setchō's two opening lines suddenly seal and break that understanding, then expose something to let people see. Never make a livelihood in the words “take one away; pick up seven.” Why? What juice is there in a flatbread?¹⁰ Many fall into discriminating consciousness. You must grasp it before phrases arise. When great function appears, you naturally see. After old Śākyamuni awakened in Magadha, for three weeks he considered: The quiescent character of all things cannot be expressed in words. I would rather not teach Dharma, but quickly enter nirvāṇa. He could find no place to open his mouth. Through skillful means he taught the five mendicants and eventually preached the teaching of his lifetime in three hundred sixty assemblies. It was all expedient. He removed his jeweled royal robe and put on filthy rags; from necessity he led the children through shallow places in the secondary gate.¹¹ If he had raised the matter above in its entirety, there would not have been even half a person on the whole earth. Tell me: what is the first phrase? Here Setchō discloses a little of his intent. Above, you do not see buddhas; below, you do not see sentient beings. Outside, you do not see mountains, rivers, and earth; inside, you do not see seeing, hearing, awareness, and knowing. It is like someone who has died the great death and then come alive. Long and short, good and bad, become a single piece. Pick up each thing and no separate view remains. Then respond without losing what fits the situation. Only then do you see what he means by: Take one away; pick up seven. Above, below, through the eight directions—nothing can match it. Penetrate this, and throughout the ten directions nothing can match it. The dense array of things—grass, refuse, humans, animals—at every point fully displays your own household style. Thus it is said: Amid the ten thousand forms, the solitary body stands revealed. Only one's own assent makes it intimate. In former years I mistakenly searched along the road; today I see ice within fire. “Above heaven and below heaven, I alone am honored.” People pursue branches and do not seek the root. First make the root true; then wind bends grass and water completes its channel naturally. Walking slowly, he treads the sound of flowing water in two. Even while walking gradually, he should tread through the surging sound of the stream. Looking freely, he writes out the tracks of flying birds. At one free glance, even a flying bird's track appears as though written out. Here a breath extinguishes cauldrons and furnaces, a shout collapses sword trees and knife mountains. That is no difficult matter. At this point Setchō, out of compassion, fears that people will sit in a realm of unconcern. He continues: Grass thick and soft; smoke layer upon layer. He covers it until only grass and smoke remain. Tell me: whose domain is this? Can you call it “Every day is a good day”? Happily, that has nothing to do with it. “Treading the sound of water in two” is not it. “Writing the birds' tracks” is not it. The grass is not it. The smoke is not it. Even if none of this is so, you are precisely at the cliff where Subhūti sits amid scattered flowers. You still must turn beyond that side. Have you not heard? Subhūti sat in repose in a cliff cave while devas rained flowers in praise. He asked, “Who is raining flowers from the sky and praising me?” “I am Śakra, lord of the devas.” “What do you praise?” “I honor you for skillfully teaching the perfection of wisdom.” Subhūti said, “I have never spoken a single word about the perfection of wisdom. Why praise me?” Śakra replied, “Venerable one, you did not speak; I did not hear. Neither speaking nor hearing—this is true prajñā.” Again flowers rained and the earth shook.¹² Setchō also once wrote: Rain passed; cloud held; the dawn half opened. Several peaks, blue and towering, seemed painted. Subhūti did not know how to sit inside his cliff; he provoked heaven's flowers into shaking the earth. Once Śakra has shaken the earth and rained flowers, where can you hide? Setchō also said: I fear I cannot escape however I flee; beyond the great square it fills everything. Hurried, disturbed—who knows an end? Winds from eight directions catch my robe. Even utterly clean and naked, bare and washed free, without the least fault, you have not reached the ultimate standard. What is it, finally? Look at the next line: A snap of the fingers—how lamentable, Śūnyatā! The Sanskrit Śūnyatā is explained here as “the spirit of empty space.” Empty space is its body; it has no body that can sense touch, and appears only when illuminated by Buddha-light.¹³ If you become like the spirit Śūnyatā, Setchō can rightly snap his fingers and lament. Then he says, “Do not move!” What if you move? In broad daylight, you open your eyes and doze.