Chōsa Wanders in the Mountains

Engo's commentary on the case

The great teacher Zhaoxian of Luyuan at Chōsa was a Dharma heir of Nansen and a contemporary of Jōshū and Zihu. His responsive edge was swift. If someone asked for doctrine, he expounded doctrine; if someone wanted a verse, he supplied a verse. If you wanted to meet as an adept, he met you as an adept. Kyōzan's responsive edge was ordinarily regarded as foremost. Once, while he and Chōsa were enjoying the moon, Kyōzan pointed to it and said, “Everyone has this, but they cannot use it.” Chōsa said, “Exactly. Let me ask you to use it.” Kyōzan said, “Try using it and see.” Chōsa kicked Kyōzan down. Kyōzan rose and said, “Uncle, you are just like a tiger.” Later people therefore called him Cen the Tiger.² On the day Chōsa returned from wandering in the mountains, the head monk who questioned him was a member of his own community. When Chōsa said, “At first I followed the fragrant grasses out; then I pursued the falling blossoms home,” only a person who has cut off the ten directions can do this. The ancients never came or went without keeping this matter in mind. See how guest and host exchange places: direct at the occasion, neither yields to the other. Since Chōsa had gone wandering in the mountains, why ask where he had been? A present-day meditation monk might answer, “I went to Kassan Pavilion.” The ancients had no thread of rational calculation and nowhere to lodge. The head monk followed Chōsa's movement and said, “Very much like the spirit of spring.” Chōsa answered, “Still, it surpasses autumn dew dripping on lotus blossoms.” Setchō's “Thank you for the reply” substitutes for a concluding word. Yet it too falls into the two sides. Ultimately the matter is on neither side. The scholar Zhang Zhuo once read the Scripture of the Names of a Thousand Buddhas and asked Chōsa, “I have only heard the names of these hundreds and thousands of buddhas. I do not know in which lands they dwell, or whether they still transform beings.” Chōsa said, “After Cui Hao inscribed his poem at Yellow Crane Tower, did you ever compose one there?” Zhang said, “I have not.” Chōsa said, “When you have leisure, composing one would be good.”³ Throughout his life Cen the Tiger responded with pearls circling and jade turning. He wanted people to understand face to face. His verse says— Tell me: is this case the same as or different from Kyōzan asking a monk, “Where have you recently come from?” “Lushan.” “Did you reach Five Elders Peak?” “I did not.” Kyōzan said, “Reverend, you never wandered in the mountains.” Distinguish black from white and see. Here the mechanism must be exhausted and discriminating consciousness forgotten. Mountains, rivers, the great earth, grasses, people, and animals must have no smallest leak. Otherwise, the ancients called it still remaining within a surpassingly subtle realm. Unmon said, “Even if mountains, rivers, and the great earth are entirely without the slightest fault, you are still being turned by things. Not seeing any form at all is only half raising it. You must further know the moment of full raising and the upward opening before you can sit securely.” Penetrate this and mountains are still mountains, waters still waters. Each abides in its own position and meets its own body—like a person utterly blind. Jōshū said: The cock crows in the hour of the ox; sadly I rise and still disclose a leak. Of skirt and short shirt, I have not one, only a slight semblance of a robe. Underwear without a crotch, trousers without an opening, three or five pecks of blue ash upon my head. Originally practicing to benefit people, who knew I would instead become a useless fool?⁴ If you truly arrive at this realm, whose eyes do not open? You may tumble seven times down and eight times up: every place is this realm, every moment this season. The ten directions have no walls; the four sides have no gates. Therefore Chōsa said, “At first I followed the fragrant grasses out; then I pursued the falling blossoms home.” Setchō is undeniably clever. On Chōsa's left he pastes one phrase, and on his right another, making something like a poem: “A lean crane stretches upon a cold tree; a wild ape howls from an ancient terrace.” Having led us this far, Setchō himself realizes that he has leaked. Abruptly he says, “Chōsa's boundless meaning—bah!” It is like waking from a dream. Although Setchō gives a shout, he has not completely cut it off. This mountain monk would do otherwise: Chōsa's boundless meaning— dig the ground and bury it deeper.