Post by Kivawolfspeaker on May 1, 2006 5:31:21 GMT -5
Tao Living
The Master's
Tea Cup
by Derek Lin
The Zen master Ikkyu had always been quick in his thinking. This quickness came in handy for him in a well-known story from his youth:
As a young monk, Ikkyu got himself in trouble one day when he accidentally dropped his master's tea cup, breaking it into many pieces.
This was serious, because the tea cup was the master's favorite. It was a rare treasure, beautifully crafted from precious material. Of all of the master's possessions, it was probably the one thing he cherished the most - and now it was hopelessly smashed!
Ikkyu felt guilty, but before he could formulate a plan to get away, he heard footsteps approaching. He swept the broken pieces together and, blocking them from view with his body, turned to face the door just as the master entered.
When they were within speaking distance, Ikkyu asked: "Master, why must people die?"
The master replied: "It is perfectly natural. Everything in the world experiences both life and death."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"So it is not something we should feel upset about?"
"Definitely not."
At that point, the crafty Ikkyu moved aside to present the broken pieces. "Master... your cup has experienced its inevitable death..."
The first thing we notice about this story is probably its sly humor. It is the same sense of humor that has always been part of Tao spirituality. Chuang Tzu, our favorite vagabond philosopher, was perhaps the ultimate representation of this playful yet profound mindset - a mindset that made its way into the Zen tradition, giving it a flavor that was distinctively different from the original Buddhism.
As we smile at how young Ikkyu deftly extricated himself from trouble, the humor has subtly delivered the real lesson. It sinks in at some level that material objects have a life span too, just like living beings. If we can recognize our own mortality, then surely we can also see the impermanence of our various acquisitions. They can leave us at any time, no matter how much we value them and try to hold on to them.
Most of us are quite attached to our material possessions, and will continue to cling to them even after hearing the above story and comprehending its message. We all get upset when things belonging to us are lost, damaged or stolen. Protecting them from harm and hiding them from theft seem to give us a measure of peace - at least temporarily.
I'm as guilty as anyone. I remember how I used to collect comic books in my teens. Once, by accident, I got a drop of water on the cover of one particular comic. I flew into a rage because the water made a noticeable dot, marring the perfection of the cover. There was no question that I had to buy another copy - even though, like most teenagers, I was pretty much broke.
I never realized my folly as I grew older. My acquisitions changed from comic books to computer hardware and software, but my basic pattern remained the same: I had to have more and I didn't want to let any of it go.
That was the crucial key. I couldn't let go. I was a pack rat. I accumulated boxes full of stuff that I hadn't looked at or used in years. As time elapsed, I found myself unable to recall the contents of some boxes. I had forgotten much of what I owned; those boxes might as well not exist. And yet, I refused to dispose of them.
As the quantity of the items increased, my environment became more and more cluttered. I fought the encroaching chaos, but things never seemed to stay organized very long. This was one consequence of my inability to let go. Slowly but surely I was drowning myself in a flood of clutter.
I knew I had a problem, but I was powerless to change myself. I bought books and tapes on organization, but succeeded only in adding to the clutter with them. This was prior to my study of Tao philosophy, when I still didn't understand that I already had everything I needed within myself. I sought external solutions while sinking ever deeper into the quagmire.
When I read Ikkyu's story, something clicked. I wondered how the master reacted to the young monk's ploy to escape accountability. If he could not let go, then the incident would bring him much misery - anger at Ikkyu's carelessness and sadness about the loss of something so valuable. If he truly practiced what he preached, and saw clearly the similarity between the "life expectancy" of material objects and human life spans, he would be able to let go of the tea cup and accept the loss with perfect serenity.
To me, this connection between material possessions and the weighty issue of life and death was a new angle. It made me realize that, however difficult I found it to be to let things go, if I were to suddenly pass on for any reason, I would have no choice but to let everything go. No choice at all! This was a mighty sobering thought.
Nor was death the only thing that could separate us from our cherished belongings. Any disaster, major or minor, could do the job. If your house caught fire somehow, you would have no choice but to kiss most of your possessions good-bye.
This leads us to the next question: why wait? Why must we wait until we have no choice to learn to let go in a painful way? Why should we wait until the final moments on the deathbed, or perhaps the verge of a disaster, to gain clarity? Why do we not start letting go now?
I started to go through my boxes. I found many computers that were too old to run today's programs. I held on to them all these years for no sensible reason. I moved them from location to location, struggling against their collective weight, without realizing what I was doing. For all the utilities these old systems had for me, I might as well have dragged massive rocks from one place to another.
The clutter began to vanish from my life. I noticed that I had more energy in a clutter-free work environment. When clutter was present, the mind needed to tune them out. This required some mental energy - a relatively small amount, but a constant effort that, over an hour or two, would add up to quite a drain. I never suspected how much pressure this exerted on me until it suddenly went away, leaving me with a sense of tranquillity and tremendous relief.
Finally I began to understand chapter 48 of Tao Te Ching:
Pursue knowledge, daily gain
Pursue Tao, daily loss
Prior to understanding the Tao, I was in hot pursuit of knowledge. I acquired more and more material things, but none of it led to what I truly wanted. I ended up with clutter, which in turn led to stress and agitation. I put in a lot of extra effort but did not gain any significant benefits. I was the very opposite of wu wei.
Now, on the path of the Tao, I let go of more and more every day. The more I discard, the better I can utilize what's left. The more I simplify my life, the easier it is to attain serenity and peace of mind. The wisdom of Ikkyu's story is inextricably linked to the wisdom of Tao Te Ching.
Earlier this morning, I opened another box and found my collection of comic books, which I hadn't looked at in twenty years. I found myself no longer interested in their colorful depictions of fantasy. Instead, I wanted to work on my own reality so I could make it the colorful adventure it ought to be - an adventure of challenges, explorations, discoveries, personal connections and enlightenment.
The comic book with the damaged cover and its replacement were nowhere in sight, forever lost in the passage of time. I let them go. Reflecting back on the fanaticism to acquire in my teenage years, I had to laugh at myself.
Yes, I found amusement in my own foolish struggles over the years, my pointless zealotry of material acquisitions. I began to see why the ancient sages regarded the world with a twinkle in their eyes and a sly smile on their lips. In learning the life lesson of how to let go, humor is not only the best way to convey the teaching... it is also the reward of a lesson well learned!
from www.truetao.org
The Master's
Tea Cup
by Derek Lin
The Zen master Ikkyu had always been quick in his thinking. This quickness came in handy for him in a well-known story from his youth:
As a young monk, Ikkyu got himself in trouble one day when he accidentally dropped his master's tea cup, breaking it into many pieces.
This was serious, because the tea cup was the master's favorite. It was a rare treasure, beautifully crafted from precious material. Of all of the master's possessions, it was probably the one thing he cherished the most - and now it was hopelessly smashed!
Ikkyu felt guilty, but before he could formulate a plan to get away, he heard footsteps approaching. He swept the broken pieces together and, blocking them from view with his body, turned to face the door just as the master entered.
When they were within speaking distance, Ikkyu asked: "Master, why must people die?"
The master replied: "It is perfectly natural. Everything in the world experiences both life and death."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"So it is not something we should feel upset about?"
"Definitely not."
At that point, the crafty Ikkyu moved aside to present the broken pieces. "Master... your cup has experienced its inevitable death..."
The first thing we notice about this story is probably its sly humor. It is the same sense of humor that has always been part of Tao spirituality. Chuang Tzu, our favorite vagabond philosopher, was perhaps the ultimate representation of this playful yet profound mindset - a mindset that made its way into the Zen tradition, giving it a flavor that was distinctively different from the original Buddhism.
As we smile at how young Ikkyu deftly extricated himself from trouble, the humor has subtly delivered the real lesson. It sinks in at some level that material objects have a life span too, just like living beings. If we can recognize our own mortality, then surely we can also see the impermanence of our various acquisitions. They can leave us at any time, no matter how much we value them and try to hold on to them.
Most of us are quite attached to our material possessions, and will continue to cling to them even after hearing the above story and comprehending its message. We all get upset when things belonging to us are lost, damaged or stolen. Protecting them from harm and hiding them from theft seem to give us a measure of peace - at least temporarily.
I'm as guilty as anyone. I remember how I used to collect comic books in my teens. Once, by accident, I got a drop of water on the cover of one particular comic. I flew into a rage because the water made a noticeable dot, marring the perfection of the cover. There was no question that I had to buy another copy - even though, like most teenagers, I was pretty much broke.
I never realized my folly as I grew older. My acquisitions changed from comic books to computer hardware and software, but my basic pattern remained the same: I had to have more and I didn't want to let any of it go.
That was the crucial key. I couldn't let go. I was a pack rat. I accumulated boxes full of stuff that I hadn't looked at or used in years. As time elapsed, I found myself unable to recall the contents of some boxes. I had forgotten much of what I owned; those boxes might as well not exist. And yet, I refused to dispose of them.
As the quantity of the items increased, my environment became more and more cluttered. I fought the encroaching chaos, but things never seemed to stay organized very long. This was one consequence of my inability to let go. Slowly but surely I was drowning myself in a flood of clutter.
I knew I had a problem, but I was powerless to change myself. I bought books and tapes on organization, but succeeded only in adding to the clutter with them. This was prior to my study of Tao philosophy, when I still didn't understand that I already had everything I needed within myself. I sought external solutions while sinking ever deeper into the quagmire.
When I read Ikkyu's story, something clicked. I wondered how the master reacted to the young monk's ploy to escape accountability. If he could not let go, then the incident would bring him much misery - anger at Ikkyu's carelessness and sadness about the loss of something so valuable. If he truly practiced what he preached, and saw clearly the similarity between the "life expectancy" of material objects and human life spans, he would be able to let go of the tea cup and accept the loss with perfect serenity.
To me, this connection between material possessions and the weighty issue of life and death was a new angle. It made me realize that, however difficult I found it to be to let things go, if I were to suddenly pass on for any reason, I would have no choice but to let everything go. No choice at all! This was a mighty sobering thought.
Nor was death the only thing that could separate us from our cherished belongings. Any disaster, major or minor, could do the job. If your house caught fire somehow, you would have no choice but to kiss most of your possessions good-bye.
This leads us to the next question: why wait? Why must we wait until we have no choice to learn to let go in a painful way? Why should we wait until the final moments on the deathbed, or perhaps the verge of a disaster, to gain clarity? Why do we not start letting go now?
I started to go through my boxes. I found many computers that were too old to run today's programs. I held on to them all these years for no sensible reason. I moved them from location to location, struggling against their collective weight, without realizing what I was doing. For all the utilities these old systems had for me, I might as well have dragged massive rocks from one place to another.
The clutter began to vanish from my life. I noticed that I had more energy in a clutter-free work environment. When clutter was present, the mind needed to tune them out. This required some mental energy - a relatively small amount, but a constant effort that, over an hour or two, would add up to quite a drain. I never suspected how much pressure this exerted on me until it suddenly went away, leaving me with a sense of tranquillity and tremendous relief.
Finally I began to understand chapter 48 of Tao Te Ching:
Pursue knowledge, daily gain
Pursue Tao, daily loss
Prior to understanding the Tao, I was in hot pursuit of knowledge. I acquired more and more material things, but none of it led to what I truly wanted. I ended up with clutter, which in turn led to stress and agitation. I put in a lot of extra effort but did not gain any significant benefits. I was the very opposite of wu wei.
Now, on the path of the Tao, I let go of more and more every day. The more I discard, the better I can utilize what's left. The more I simplify my life, the easier it is to attain serenity and peace of mind. The wisdom of Ikkyu's story is inextricably linked to the wisdom of Tao Te Ching.
Earlier this morning, I opened another box and found my collection of comic books, which I hadn't looked at in twenty years. I found myself no longer interested in their colorful depictions of fantasy. Instead, I wanted to work on my own reality so I could make it the colorful adventure it ought to be - an adventure of challenges, explorations, discoveries, personal connections and enlightenment.
The comic book with the damaged cover and its replacement were nowhere in sight, forever lost in the passage of time. I let them go. Reflecting back on the fanaticism to acquire in my teenage years, I had to laugh at myself.
Yes, I found amusement in my own foolish struggles over the years, my pointless zealotry of material acquisitions. I began to see why the ancient sages regarded the world with a twinkle in their eyes and a sly smile on their lips. In learning the life lesson of how to let go, humor is not only the best way to convey the teaching... it is also the reward of a lesson well learned!
from www.truetao.org