Zen Masters Of China. Richard Bryan McDaniel
heart of nirvana—or liberation—the true aspect of no-form, the unquestionable dharma. Today I have passed these on to Mahakasyapa.”
Buddha is not a name but rather a title meaning “the awakened one.” The man now known as the Buddha had been a prince named Siddhartha Gautama. At his birth, astrologers predicted that he would either grow up to become a great secular or great religious leader. His father, King Suddhodana, naturally hoped the boy would succeed him on the throne, so he tried to shield his son from those sorrows that often draw people to the religious life.
The child was raised in luxury and seclusion. The accounts of his early life insist that he had no contact with sickness, old age, or death until he was nearly thirty years old, by which time he was already married and his wife was pregnant.
However, the ease and privileges of his life had eventually begun to pall, and he grew curious about what life was like beyond the grounds of the palace. So one day he ordered his charioteer, Channa, to take him to see the kingdom he was to inherit. On that first outing, they encountered an old man. The prince stared at him in wonder, then turned to Channa and asked:
“Tell me, Channa, what kind of being is that over there, moving so slowly and with such great effort? Can it be a man? He does not look like other men I have seen. His hair is sparse and white, unlike that of other men. His skin is wrinkled and hangs loosely on his neck and arms, unlike that of other men. His mouth is sunken, and he appears to lack the teeth of other men. His back is stooped, and he supports himself on that stick, unlike other men. His movements are halting, and his limbs quiver, unlike those of other men. What kind of being, O Channa, is he?”
“Prince, he is only a man like yourself who has grown old and frail with the passing of the years.”
“Is it perhaps, Channa, that only this man is subject to this deterioration of age, or are all men so subject?”
“All men, my Prince, are subject to the deterioration of their powers and faculties as they grow older. Even you, sir.”
Distressed by this information, Prince Siddhartha ordered Channa to return to the palace. But not long after, he felt compelled to go out into the kingdom once again. On this occasion, they encountered a man sick with fever, emaciated but with a swollen belly, covered with flies, and soiled by his own filth.
“What kind of being, O Channa,” Prince Siddhartha asked the charioteer, “is that over there? Surely his body is not like that of other men. His shaking and sweating are not like the behavior of other men. The moans and incomprehensible sounds proceeding from his mouth are not like the words other men speak. What kind of being is he?”
“Prince, he is only an unfortunate man, such as yourself, who has fallen ill with a fever.”
“Is it perhaps, Channa, that only this man is subject to the ravages of illness, or are all men so subject?”
“All men, my Prince, are subject to the ravages of illness. Even you, sir.”
“Then how can humankind bear this burden, knowing this to be their fate? If physical beauty and good health are so fragile and fleeting, how can one take any joy in entertainments and the pleasures of the senses?” And once again, he ordered Channa to return to the palace.
For a time, the prince tried to lose himself in the pleasures and privileges of his station, but eventually he once more felt compelled to venture out of the palace grounds. On this occasion, they came upon a funeral procession.
“Why, O Channa,” Siddhartha asked, “are these people wailing and lamenting so? And what kind of being is that which they carry on that litter? He does not move as other men do. The odor that comes from him is not like that of other men. Even the mottled color of his skin is not like that of other men.”
“Prince, that is a corpse. The man has died. The breath has left his body, and he will never again be with his family and friends to share their joys and sorrows. The ones who carry him are those same friends and family, mourning him as they take his body to be burnt.”
“And is it perhaps, Channa, that only this man is subject to death, or are all men so subject?”
“All men, my prince, are inevitably subject to death. Even you, sir.”
Siddhartha returned to the palace, but by now had lost all interest in the distractions his father provided. He was so devastated by what he had discovered that he was unable to rest. And so, for a final time, he ordered his charioteer to take him from the security of the palace to the world beyond. On this occasion they came upon a figure with a shaved head, walking with serenity and dignity. He wore a robe that left one shoulder bare, and he carried a begging bowl. He went up to the door of a house, knocked, and waited calmly until the housewife looked out at him. Wordlessly, he bowed and proffered the empty bowl, into which she placed a small ball of rice.
“Tell me, O Channa, what kind of being is that over yonder? He has a serenity and dignity I have not seen in other men.”
“He is a bhikku, my Prince, a monk. He is one who has left his home and given up all of his possessions. He has learned to control his passions and his ego. He spends his time in meditation and devotional activities seeking to learn the secrets of Being.”
When he heard these words, Siddhartha felt as if a door had opened. He sensed for the first time the purpose of his life and the destiny for which he had come into the world. So it was that he gave up his royal position to become a wandering monk. In doing so, he sought to understand the purpose of his existence and to find a way to escape the bondage of a life subject to illness, age, and final dissolution.
In that culture, it was commonly believed such concerns could best be resolved not by reasoning but through the practice of meditation. Accordingly, Gautama studied with two of the most celebrated meditation masters of his time, but he was dissatisfied with what they were able to teach him. Leaving them, he went on to practice severe austerities with a group of ascetics for six years. These practices also failed to help him achieve what he was seeking and brought him to the brink of starvation. He had become so weak from this lifestyle that one day he collapsed. A young girl, sent to take a food offering to the spirits of the forest, found him and offered him a bowl of milk. He accepted her gift and from that moment gave up the practice of asceticism. His former companions considered this a betrayal of their way of life and abandoned him.
Left on his own, he retired to a grove of fig trees, where he sat under a tree that would later be known as the Bodhi Tree, or Tree of Enlightenment. There he vowed he would remain meditating until he came to full and complete enlightenment.
Even after years of practice with meditation teachers and further years of ascetic activity, the future Buddha still did not have complete control over his thoughts and emotions. As he sat beneath the tree, he was assailed by sexual images, anxieties, and fantasies of accomplishment. But not allowing these to distract him, he remained focused, seeking an answer to the questions of life and death, of existence and human experience.
He sat through the night, focused on these questions, and ignoring the random distractions that arose in his mind. Then as dawn broke he saw the planet Venus on the horizon, and at that moment he became awakened—he came to full and complete enlightenment. Tradition has it that at the moment of his enlightenment, he exclaimed: “O wonder of wonders! All beings just as they are are whole and complete! All beings are endowed with Buddha-nature!” All beings, in other words, have the inherent capacity to realize that their most basic nature, their fundamental nature, is no different from that of all existence.
This was a well-known experience in the traditions current in Buddha’s time. It was experience of what in Sanskrit was called advaya, which can be translated as “nonduality.” While most people have a sense of themselves as an entity within the world confronting other entities through their six senses (the Asian tradition considers thought a sixth sense), in the experience of advaya there is no sense of self separate