 SITTING UP STRAIGHT,
I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO SIT ON THE SEAT OF ENLIGHTENMENT, MY MIND WITHOUT ATTACHMENT. [1] When we first come to Zen practice, we receive instruction in zazen. The teacher goes through the various physical elements of the posture, including what to do with our legs, hands, torsos and heads. At first it may feel a bit strange, since we’re often used to sitting down while leaning back into a sofa or slouching over a keyboard, but we do our best to follow along. When we’ve got everything lined up, we find that we’re sitting upright, stable and balanced on the cushion, and that the posture itself is enabling us to remain so. In fact, we soon discover, pain or strain during zazen is a good indication that something about our posture has drifted out of alignment and we need to pay attention and make an adjustment. Sitting up straight is essential for what happens in zazen in both body and mind, but it’s not a matter of holding ourselves in a rigid pose. When we find our center of gravity, it’s gravity itself that holds us up—just another example of our interconnected functioning in the midst of the universe. In teaching zazen,[2] Okumura Roshi has said that after we arrange our legs, we should “lean the upper body forward while keeping the legs in place, and return the torso to center without moving your lower back. This will create a natural curvature in the lower back. Then pull your chin in so your neck is straight. You should feel as if the top of your head and the center of your buttocks are within the same vertical line. The horizontal line connecting your ears and the horizontal line connecting your shoulders should be parallel, and the vertical line connecting your nose and belly should be straight.” This echoes Dogen’s instructions in the Fukanzazengi, in which he says that our ears should be in line with the shoulders and our noses in line with our navels. Before settling into an upright posture, it’s helpful to lean from side to side and front to back a few times, both to find your balance and to stretch and relax the muscles of the spine. Sotoshu’s zazen instructions advise, “Place your hands palms-up on your knees and sway the upper half of your body from left to right a few times. Without moving your hips, move the trunk as if it were a pole leaning to one side then the other, so that the waist and hip muscles are stretched. You may also sway forward and backward. At first this movement should be large, gradually becoming smaller and smaller, and ceasing with your body centered in an upright position. Once again forming the hokkai-join [zazen mudra] with your hands, assume an unmoving upright posture.” All of this prevents us from putting strain on our muscles and tendons by helping us find our center of gravity. If we’re off center, we’re holding ourselves in unnatural positions by force rather than settling naturally into groundedness and stability. Okumura Roshi explains, “The important point of this posture is to keep the body upright and well balanced; try not to lean in any direction, neither right nor left, neither forward nor backward. If your body is not straight your back will be bent and sitting for a long time will create pain at the point where the spine is bent. It is important to find a natural position for yourself in sitting. The body should be thoroughly straight, yet the muscles should be relaxed, not tense.” It’s difficult to keep the proper zazen posture for a 50-minute period of sitting if you’re doing it by gritting your teeth and powering through, fighting gravity because, for instance, you’re leaning a bit forward and holding your head (which weighs something like 10 or 12 pounds) out in space with no other support than the muscles of your back. When the head is properly on top of the spine, gravity itself is doing the work. “Finally,” concludes Okumura Roshi, “when your posture becomes really upright, be still, take in one deep breath through your nose, and then exhale completely through your mouth to help you really settle into the posture. Adopting this posture is how we harmonize the body.” If the body is bent, it inhibits the flow of air, blood and other things, and it’s very difficult to settle down. We need to be able to breathe deeply, and to take care that we’re not cutting off the blood supply anywhere or pinching nerves. Total dynamic functioning means there’s no hindrance anywhere. We can see now why paying attention to the process and practice of setting out a cushion, preparing to sit, carefully taking the posture and breaking preoccupation is more useful than dashing into the zendo at the last minute and throwing ourselves onto the nearest cushion in the seconds before the zazen bell rings. However, even if we do take the necessary time to get ready to sit up straight for 50 minutes, our work with the posture doesn’t stop there. As soon as we get caught up either in sleepiness or thinking during zazen, we can find ourselves slipping a bit sideways, collapsing our mudra, hunching our shoulders, or doing other things that break the posture. Okumura Roshi points out, “It is difficult for even ten minutes to continually keep this upright posture, keep your eyes open without focusing on anything, and keep letting go of whatever arises in your mind. It is exceedingly difficult to do nothing, and zazen is essentially doing nothing but sitting. . . . So whenever we become aware that we have deviated from that point of upright posture, deep breathing, keeping the eyes open without focusing, and letting go of whatever comes up, we try to return to that point. In whatever condition we find ourselves in, we just return to posture, breathing, waking up, and letting go.” Thus we sit up straight with the mind as well as the body, and these two elements are interconnected and function together. A crooked posture leads to distraction, and distraction leads to a crooked posture. During the zazen period we pay attention to both body and mind and make a constant series of microadjustments to ensure that we’re sitting upright in every way. In her recent discussion session on the phrase butsu no sugata 仏の姿 (The practice of zazen is realized as the form of Buddha), Tonen O’Connor reminded us that in Zanmai-O-Zanmai (King of Samadhis Samadhi), Dogen describes this connection. “If the body is upright, the mind is easily set right. When the body sits upright, the mind is not weary, the mind is regulated, the intention is right, and the attention is bound to what is immediately present. If the mind races or becomes distracted and if the body leans or becomes agitated, sitting upright regulates them and causes them to recover. If we want to experience samadhi and want to enter samadhi, even if the mind is chasing images and is variously distracted, sitting upright completely regulates all such states. Practicing like this, we experience and enter the samadhi that is king of samadhis. Zanmai-o-Zanmai.”[3] That brings us to the seat (or throne) of enlightenment mentioned in our gatha, as well as the mind that is without attachment. The throne of enlightenment refers both to the Buddha’s seat, from which he teaches the dharma and transmits his wisdom, and to his full awakening, which includes complete understanding of the dharma and liberation from suffering. Rather than attaching importance to the concrete object—a chair itself—early practitioners engaged in creating Buddhist art at a time before images of a human Buddha were common depicted an empty throne beneath the bodhi tree. It pointed to the teaching and awakening of the Buddha even while he was physically absent. We can see the connection here with our upright zazen practice. When we sit down and take the posture, we’re embodying Buddha’s awakening, which is not different or separate from our own. At the same time, while on the seat we’re completely transmitting the dharma, keeping all precepts, and putting wisdom and compassion into the world. In tangible and intangible ways, we entirely occupy the throne of enlightenment right along with Buddha. Opening the hand of thought is nothing other than the functioning of the mind without attachment. When we sit, thoughts naturally come up because we’re karmic beings, but we don’t grab onto their coattails and ride them into the distance. It’s not just the pleasant and entertaining thoughts that beckon us away; the disturbing or annoying thoughts are equally seductive. In both cases, we’re holding onto our thoughts rather than simply stepping back and watching them go by. When we take the zazen posture, keep the eyes open, breathe deeply and let go of thought, the mind without attachment is right there. Zazen allows it to operate without hindrance as we sit up straight on the throne of enlightenment. The upright posture of body and mind, the rootedness in stability, the throne of enlightenment and the freedom from clinging all point to unobstructed nature of reality in this moment, which we can experience in zazen. Next time: SITTING CROSS-LEGGED, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO HAVE FIRM AND STRONG ROOTS OF GOODNESS AND ATTAIN THE STATE OF IMMOVABILITY. [1] Translations are based upon Thomas Cleary’s translation of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and have been recast by Hoko in the form of standard Sōtōshū gāthās. [2] See Okumura Roshi’s complete zazen instructions here. For additional written instructions for zazen as well as audio and video materials, see the zazen page of Sanshin Source. [3] Dōgen. Master Dogen’s Shobogenzo, Volume 3. Japan, Dogen Sangha, 2006. p. 73.  WHEN SETTING OUT A SEAT,
I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO CAUSE GOOD PRINCIPLES TO BLOOM, AND SEE THEIR TRUE CHARACTER.[1] If we sit alone at home, we may not have a space we can dedicate solely for zazen. It may be a matter of getting out our cushions each time and arranging our sitting space with whatever accoutrements we need and putting everything away when we’re finished. The set-up and tear-down becomes part of our practice. We’re entering into zazen even before we take the posture, keep the eyes open, breathe through the nose and open the hand of thought. We undergo the same process when we arrive in a permanent zendo in which the seats are always there and all we need to do is choose where to sit. Bowing at the zendo door, walking silently to a seat with hands in shashu, bowing to the seat in gassho, turning to the right and bowing to the room before sitting down—all these standard activities help us break preoccupation and get our minds and bodies in order. We’re preparing the ground for practice whether or not we’ve carried our cushions to the spot and laid them out. I’ve written “preparing the ground” intentionally, because the sense of the kanji in this gatha is of seating being set out on the floor. Of course, sitting on the ground is a common practice in Asia. In his Fukanzazengi, Dogen tells us to find a place to sit regularly, and to spread out thick matting and put a cushion on top. The zafu 座蒲, or round pleated cushion we use today, originated in China in the 7th century. (Some say the pleats represent the petals of the lotus flower.) 座 means seat and 蒲 is the cattail fluff that was used for stuffing. When zafus arrived in Japan in the 12th century, practitioners there preferred to fill them with kapok or cotton, which are more resilient. The zafu is designed to elevate the pelvis such that the knees are lower than the hips and the spine is naturally aligned. It distributes your weight from high pressure areas like the spine and tailbone to the hips and buttocks, making it more comfortable to sit for extended periods of time. Today, practitioners in North America may also use cushions shaped like crescents or boxes, filled with buckwheat or foam, and in sizes that accommodate taller, larger frames. We frequently put a flat rectangular zabuton 座布団 under the zafu to cushion our knees and feet. The zabuton started out as an aristocratic seat called a shitone made of thin woven straw with silk fabric edges. It was used by members of the imperial court and high-ranking Buddhist monks. Although commoners were not allowed to use them in the 13th and 14th centuries, they later became everyday household items when cotton imported from China and grown domestically made soft padding more widely available and makers shifted away from straw and hay cores. Of course, in North America practitioners may use benches or chairs instead of cushions. These are relatively recent additions to the zazen lineup, since the traditional zazen posture in Japan is full lotus or half lotus on a zafu, not seiza or chair-style. If you step into a sodo in Japan prepared to do zazen and look around for a bench or chair, you’ll be unsuccessful in finding one. Nonetheless, if this is the equipment that best supports your body during zazen and this is what you’re setting out when you prepare to sit, you can take the same attitude of breaking preoccupation and paying careful attention to taking care of your sitting place and the items it contains. Although the second line of our gatha is translated here “cause good principles to bloom,” a more literal reading of the kanji would be “unfold good dharmas.” As we set out our cushions, we create the conditions for wholesomeness to arise. When we unfold the zabuton and top it with a zafu, we enter into the continuous unfolding of awakening. The second of the three pure precepts is shōzenbōkai 摂善法戒, the precept of embracing all good dharmas. Buddha’s awakening itself is the dharma of good actions, and Dogen says that this is the way in which we should practice ourselves and the way in which we should lead others. It may be that we’re in official positions of practice leadership and we’re authorized to teach and lead others. However, even if not and we have no desire to lead, we’re helping others to practice simply by engaging in practice ourselves. The sangha member sitting zazen next to you might be feeling discouraged, confused or timid, but on seeing your aspiration and your dedication to practice, she can be reassured and encouraged to continue sitting, studying, working and chanting. You’ve put something positive and meaningful out there as a bodhisattva not only for yourself but for others. Okumura Roshi recalled, “When I started to practice, I was seventeen years old. I didn’t know anything about sitting or Zen or practice, but somehow my teacher’s way of life was really attractive to me. I liked his attitude, so I started to practice with him. Finally I became a priest myself and I have been continuing this way of life. Because of my practice, someone else may start to practice. That’s the way Buddha’s teaching and this tradition have been transmitted.”[2] Zazen is itself the direct unfolding of the dharma. We put out our cushions, sit down, align ourselves with reality, and total dynamic functioning happens without our trying to make it into something or control the outcome. This moment simply does what it does and completely expresses itself—and that complete expression is important when we’re considering “unfolding” as a way to describe our practice. Unfolding something usually means that there’s a gradual disclosure—that something remains hidden until we straighten out all the folds and reveal what’s hidden. However, we know that dharmas are constantly revealing themselves, and that it’s all there to be seen if only we know how to look. When we set out the cushion and sit down, the dharma is unfolding, but not because it’s keeping any secrets from us. There’s no special mystical realm we need to enter or mysterious text we need to decode. Everything just as it is is preaching the dharma. It’s all right here! In his Tenzo Kyokun, Dogen tells the story of being a young novice and meeting an old temple cook in China. Dogen asked him about practice and the dharma: “What is engagement of the way?” The old cook replied, “In the whole world, it can never be hidden.”[3] The way unfolds itself right in front of us, and the path begins at the zafu. That leads us to the last line of our gatha: our aspiration to see the ultimate truth. Zazen is an opportunity to set aside the self-clinging and deeply-held delusions that get in the way of our wisdom. Engaging the way is nothing more than directly experiencing the reality of this moment, and as soon as we do, nothing is hidden from us. This is the intention we set when we get out our cushions and prepare to sit. Next time: SITTING UP STRAIGHT, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO SIT ON THE SEAT OF ENLIGHTENMENT, MY MIND WITHOUT ATTACHMENT. [1] Translations are based upon Thomas Cleary’s translation of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and have been recast by Hoko in the form of standard Sōtōshū gāthās. [2] From Okumura Rōshi’s manuscript in preparation on the precepts. [3] See Nothing is Hidden: Essays on Zen Master Dōgen’s Instructions for the Cook.(2001). Japan: Weatherhill, p. 28.  WHEN ENTERING A HALL, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO ASCEND TO THE UNEXCELLED SANCTUARY AND REST THERE SECURE AND UNSHAKABLE.[1] In North America, it’s likely that our dharma centers have been converted from some previous use–private homes, commercial buildings, churches, etc. In other words, the buildings were not conceived and built as Soto Zen temples. We’ve had to be creative in turning living rooms, offices, auditoriums, or sanctuaries into places for zazen, and sometimes these spaces have to serve multiple purposes and support various sangha activities. This multi-purpose aspect is also true of the sodo 僧堂 in the traditional Japanese training temple. In this hall, practitioners not only sit zazen but also eat meals using oryoki and sleep according to traditional forms and protocols. 僧 (so) can be either an individual Buddhist clergy or the sangha as a whole. 堂 (do) is a hall. While a zendo 禅堂 is a place primarily for sitting zazen, a sodo enables all of the basic activities of the sangha’s practice life. The sodo is one of the seven main temple buildings that were traditionally arranged as the shichido garan (seven hall temple). It’s usually located across from the kitchen and living quarters, with the main gate between them on one side of the courtyard and the Buddha Hall between them on the other. The long, rectangular sodo has entrances in the two long sides of the room; these do not have doors but may have curtains or blinds that keep out the cold in winter and the heat and insects in summer.  The sodo includes a platform called a tan that runs along the two long sides of the room. It’s about two feet high and one tatami mat wide, and one mat is designated for each person. This is where practitioners eat, sleep and sit. Manjusri, the bodhisattva of wisdom, sits on the altar in the center of the hall, and practitioners are careful not to cross between the figure and the bowing mat, instead going around behind the altar. The head of the temple sits closest to the front entrance at Manjusri’s left.
Entering this hall is not just a matter of sashaying through the door and choosing a good seat. There are forms that go with entering the space. If the door is open, we put our hands in shashu and step in with the left foot at the left side of the doorway; only the head of the temple enters through the center. On stepping in, we bow in gassho, return to shashu and walk mindfully to a seat, which may have been assigned and have a name plate hanging in front. Once the teacher arrives and zazen gets underway, the curtain or blinds are lowered, enclosing the sodo, and latecomers sit in the hallway outside rather than entering. Bowing on entering the sodo and putting our hands into position reminds us that we’re stepping into a place of practice and gets us ready to pay attention to all aspects of whatever we’re called upon to do here with body, speech or mind. As we can see from the diagram, the sodo is divided into two spaces, the lower one being the gaido and the main one being the naido. Gai means outside, so the small section around the entrance to the sodo is outside of the main area. The gaido is where you sit if you have to get up in the middle of the zazen period to do your job, or you arrive late, or you’re a visitor and you’re not formally enrolled in the senmon sodo (training temple). The naido is where you sit, sleep and eat meals if you’re formally there for training as clergy. It has four sections, and each one has an officer of some kind sitting in the corner. Interestingly, the size of the elements of the sodo is based on an average chu size (the distance from elbow to fingertip) just like the measurement of an okesa. An individual space is two chu by four chu, which is a standard tatami, and each section has five of these units or seats in this diagram. The rectangles marked N are kanki, or storage spaces, with a top shelf and a curtained area on the bottom. The okesa goes on top of the kanki, personal items go on the shelf, and the bedding behind the curtain. That’s all the personal space you get. The thin strips marked O are the boards at the edge of the space where we lay out oryoki and eat meals. The width of the meal board is determined by the width of the placemat from our oryoki set. At night, the pillow goes on this board for sleeping, so your head is pointed toward Manjusri, never your feet. In front of the individual tatami is a certain amount of open space. It’s just enough that you can get up to and down from your seat, do bows, or get ready for kinhin without getting in each other’s way, and this space plus your sitting space plus your bit of personal storage is all you have. Tsugen Narasaki Roshi makes the point that living together this way forces us to simplify our lives and use fewer resources, and also naturally results in cooperation, harmony, communication, helping each other, and supporting practice. As mentioned above, in the middle of the sodo is Manjusri. In a traditional sodo, Manjusri is sitting in a chair rather than on a lion, as we have here at Sanshin. The lion symbolizes wisdom, but the chair is itself the lion seat, and it’s not just Manjusri sitting in the lion seat but all of us. We don’t need a special lion; the zafu is enough because we’re all bodhisattvas and Manjusri is representing all of us here in the sodo. Tsugen Roshi explains: In order not to cause even a trace of jealousy, contempt, covetousness or desire for luxury, disciples of the Buddha need to take the utmost care regarding the design, material, color and size of the sodo, so as to embody the formless Buddha’s teaching as seen in the form of the kesa. These three important fundamental rules of Buddhist teachings (the three nyoho: material, size and color) apply to both the sodo and the kesa. For a disciple of the Buddha, the three nyoho are also to be applied in every aspect of practice. The three nyoho symbolize our basic attitude toward life. When we live in these three nyoho, our practice brings us to supreme enlightenment. Therefore, if you practice at the sodo even for a short time, or if you have had any connection to a sodo at all, the seed of Buddha mind is planted and will grow.[2] Thus the sodo is the unexcelled sanctuary for our practice, enabling and protecting the activities of the sangha. This holds true whether we’re stepping into a sodo in Japan or a North American zendo, both of which are designed to offer good conditions for shikantaza. There are minimal distractions, cushions to choose and use, and someone to watch the clock and ring the bell. The point of the sodo is to give us a safe place to come together to drop off body and mind, re-enact Buddha’s awakening, and embody the dharma in this moment. After all, another term for the sodo is undo 雲堂, or cloud hall. Un 雲 is a cloud, a reference to effortless and natural practice that doesn’t get stuck anywhere, and perhaps also to the many practitioners who function together in the temple like clouds that pile up in the sky without obstructing each other. If you’ve created your own practice space, you’ve quickly realized that your home was not created with these things in mind. You may have devices, pets, family members, decorations, work, and hobbies all vying for your attention. In one room someone may be cooking a meal while in another someone may be playing music. Somehow in the midst of all this you need to find an appropriate place to sit down, and to create the discipline and structure necessary to support regular practice so that you can rest there, secure and unshakable, as our gatha suggests. Find a room or corner in your home that you can dedicate to your shikantaza practice, if possible. Sitting in the same place day after day really helps you to settle into stability. However, if you need to set up the space each time and clean up afterwards, make those activities a part of your sitting process and approach them with attention and care. (We’ll consider that process further with our next gatha.) Your practice place should be clean and quiet, with lighting that is not harsh or overly bright. Pay attention to whether, how, and when the sun or streetlight comes in through nearby windows. Arrange your cushions, bench or chair in front of a wall, as well as any other items you may need. If you sit on a zafu or bench and don’t have a zabuton or carpeting, it’s fine to fold up one or more blankets to provide some padding under you. Take regular care of your sitting space, sweeping or vacuuming the floor, brushing or cleaning your cushions and arranging any other items you may have there. Be sure to fluff up your zafu each time you get up to keep the filling from bunching or breaking down. Your practice space may begin to feel different from the rest of your home, just as a sodo or zendo feels different from other buildings. You use and care for it in a particular way, and it becomes stronger as a practice place over time–an unexcelled sanctuary–both because you’re refining its physical characteristics to support your particular practice and because your body and mind begin to recognize what your aspiration is bringing you there to do. Next time: WHEN SETTING OUT A SEAT, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO CAUSE GOOD PRINCIPLES TO BLOOM, AND SEE THEIR TRUE CHARACTER. [1] Translations are based upon Thomas Cleary’s translation of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and have been recast by Hoko in the form of standard Sōtōshū gāthās. [2] Tsugen Narasaki, Practices at a Zen Monastery, 2011th ed., trans. Tomoe Katagiri (Zuioji Senmon Sodo, 2011), p.147–48.  RECEIVING THE FULL SET OF PRECEPTS
VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO FULFILL ALL MEANS OF LIBERATION AND MASTER THE SUPREME TEACHING. Early Buddhists received five precepts as laypeople and many more as ordained sangha. It was the receipt of the full 10 major and 48 minor bodhisattva precepts that was said to lead to the accomplishment of awakening. In the Sōtō Zen tradition, when we receive precepts either as laypeople or novices, we receive sixteen of them. The first three are known as the Three Pure Precepts:
The second three are the Three Refuges: Buddha, dharma, and sangha. Finally, there are the Ten Major Precepts:
Each of these precepts is a gateway into understanding the nature of liberation and embodying awakening. Imagine the supreme teachings or supreme dharma in the center of a space, with all sixteen precepts arrayed and pointing toward it, serving as doorways. Now we can look at each of these elements and see the whole picture. This thing that the gāthā is calling the supreme teaching is the dharma of nonattachment, which is another name for emptiness, the reality that nothing has a fixed self-nature. Because of the impermanence of causes and conditions, whatever arises from those causes and conditions must also be constantly changing. In the face of impermanence, grasping and clinging stop making sense, because there’s nothing we can grab and hold onto. It’s the craving and attachment that are at the basis of suffering, so we can see why emptiness and nonattachment are considered supreme teachings. Solving the problem of suffering is at the core of Buddhist practice, and nonattachment is the key element of that solution. Non-attachment doesn’t mean that we turn our backs on our family and friends, that we can’t appreciate a lovely piece of art, or that we’re to have no opinions. Those things are necessary for living a life as humans in the world. They aren’t problems until we refuse to acknowledge that the things we value will come and go and change—that we can’t use them to create a solid self that persists through time, and that they, and we, are empty. Noticing our craving and aversion is the practice of a lifetime, because as we become more awake and aware, we frequently discover that our attachments are increasingly subtle. In that moment, we repent by recognizing that our practice will always be incomplete, and we vow to carry on with it anyway. We can form some intellectual ideas about emptiness, because we know what the words mean and the argument is logical and makes sense. However, when we try to take action based only on our intellects, we probably find that it’s a challenge because our understanding is incomplete. Unless we experience emptiness with both body and mind, it remains simply our fabrication. Wisdom in Sōtō Zen is the direct understanding and experience of emptiness, which clarifies all the foundational teachings that go with it. Our practice helps develop this wisdom, which forms the basis of bodhisattva life and from which our skillful and wholesome actions arise. Seeing emptiness as the nature of reality, we can also see that impermanence and the lack of a permanent self are the nature of reality, as is interconnection. Interconnection is the basis of our morality, and precepts are the handrails that help us to live moral lives until such time as we can see the truth for ourselves and unwholesome impulses stop arising. After that point, precepts are the description of our lives as bodhisattvas. The Three Pure Precepts We could say that the first pure precept, avoiding evil, is the basis or origin for all the others. It’s not so much the conscious act of not doing unwholesome things which is most important, though of course that’s wonderful. It’s that if we don’t feel moved to do these things, it’s because we’ve developed the wisdom necessary to deeply understand interconnectedness, and to know that perpetuating suffering in the world increases our own suffering. The first pure precept is thus not a regulation or a rule, but a foundation for everything we do. The second pure precept, doing good acts, is said to be both the way we ourselves should live and the way in which we should lead others. As bodhisattvas, we serve as examples or inspirations for others. When we do good in the world, acting from our understanding of non-attachment and emptiness, others are pulled along by our quiet example to live in a wholesome way. Thus our own good acts are leveraged into good acts by others around us. Carrying out the third pure precept, embracing and benefiting beings, requires that we not make distinctions between those who “deserve” our help and those who don’t. We have to have the wisdom to be able to let go of our judgments and agendas and just do what needs to be done for others. In other words, we have to be able to practice the emptiness of non-attachment. The Three Refuges There are three kinds of each of the three treasures in which we take refuge, for a total of nine. Each of these is an opportunity to let go of whatever we’re clinging to and enter into emptiness. The Absolute Three Treasures are also known as the “one body.” Buddha, dharma, and sangha are three aspects of the one reality in which we live. Awakening is not separate from universal functioning and the beings that are carrying out that activity. The Manifesting Three Treasures are the physical manifestation of the absolute version that arose in the world. Our tradition includes a human being called Shakyamuni who shared the teachings he understood with a community of practitioners. The Maintaining Three Treasures are the teachers, practitioners and teachings of today, keeping the three treasures alive. While it’s fairly clear that clinging to the Absolute Three Treasures is impossible, and that we don’t have direct contact with Shakyamuni the man and the people he taught 2600 years ago, we have myriad opportunities to create attachments to various elements of our practice. “My” zazen, “my” rakusu, “my” awakening, even my relation to “my” teacher all have the potential to become sticky. When we truly take precepts and refuge in the three treasures, we give up our self-involved grasping. Seeing how the manifesting and Maintaining Three Treasures are manifestations of the Absolute Three Treasures is a gateway to emptiness. The Ten Major Precepts These precepts work in several directions simultaneously. On one hand, they can function as a set of top-down guidelines or reminders that help us avoid making mistakes that create suffering for ourselves and others. It’s helpful to bear these precepts in mind when we’re being challenged by situations in our lives and liable to do something we’ll regret later. On the other hand, they also work from underneath in that they describe how a wise and awakening bodhisattva moves through the world, not restraining unwholesome impulses because those impulses are not arising. Rather than actively deciding not to kill, the bodhisattva doesn’t feel drawn to killing. Rather than choosing not to gossip, the bodhisattva has no interest in gossip. This is a high level of awakening, one vital aspect of which is selfless non-attachment. Fulfilling all means of liberation means carrying out these precepts as completely and sincerely as we can. Perhaps one or two of them are particularly challenging for you. Maybe you have a tendency toward indulging your anger or making snarky comments about your neighbors. Those impulses are great opportunities to do some discernment about where clinging is happening and let go of whatever is obscuring your vision and getting in the way of exercising your bodhisattva wisdom. Thus we can see that we can enter into the supreme dharma (emptiness or non-attachment) through the doorways of the precepts, and also that the observing of precepts is nothing other than the manifesting of this reality. We’ve also seen that the development of wisdom allows us to carry out these bodhisattva precepts, and the good news is that the engine of that wisdom never runs down. The Perfection of Wisdom in Eight Thousand Lines assures us, “As many different kinds of shrubs, trees, fruits, and flowers there are, they have all come out of the earth and have all originated from it. And yet the earth does not get exhausted, it does not get tired, does not dwindle away, nor does it increase itself, making no discrimination. The Buddha’s offspring, and the dharmas—as many as there are, they have all been issued from wisdom, the foremost perfection, and yet wisdom does not ever get exhausted, nor does it increase. . . . As many roots of skillful devices there are, of doors, paths and methods to proper understanding, they all have been issued from wisdom, the foremost perfection.” The rakusu we receive in North America when taking precepts is also known as the antarvāsa robe. Antarvāsa (Skt.) means something spiritual that’s deep within or inside, so the rakusu symbolizes a sense of connection or intersection between physical and divine. Our effort is to ensure that our outward deportment is in alignment with our wisdom and deep understanding of the supreme dharma. Each of the precepts carried out with this very body expresses the totality of Buddha nature. Awakening is realized right here and now, and backsliding or revocation are impossible because there is nowhere and no time the precepts do not reach. Next time: WHEN ENTERING A HALL, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO ASCEND TO THE UNEXCELLED SANCTUARY AND REST THERE SECURE AND UNSHAKABLE.  RECEIVING A TEACHER’S GUIDANCE,
I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO ENTER THE KNOWLEDGE OF BIRTHLESSNESS AND REACH THE STATE OF INDEPENDENCE.[1] The gāthās in the section of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra we’re exploring outline the path of the practitioner who encounters the dharma, reflects on its validity and meaningfulness, and decides to make a commitment to practice. At this point, our practitioner has joined a sangha, learned how to function within the community, taken refuge in the three treasures, learned some things about forms and general behavior, and is studying the precepts in preparation for the next stage of commitment. The word used for “teacher” in the gāthā above is oshō 和尚, which can mean preceptor, and “guidance” here is kyō 教, which usually means teaching, faith or doctrine. It’s kyō that forms the -ism in Buddhism (仏教 bukkyō), Hinduism (インド教 indokyō), etc. Thus our practitioner is now beginning to receive the tenets of the religion from a dharma teacher qualified to give the precepts. One of the most important teachings is that of dependent origination, which helps us to understand cause and effect, also a central element of the tradition. Shakyamuni emphasized that everything depends on everything else. There is no one fixed underlying element from which everything derives or arises. That means nothing is permanent and everything is always changing. It also means that nothing is random. We may not understand the causes and conditions, but they’re there. Things don’t happen because a force outside of nature is somehow making them happen on a whim. Reality works the way it works; there’s a reason for things. Birth happens because the causes and conditions come together in a particular way, whether we’re considering human birth or the arising of any object, condition, or phenomenon. Cause is like a seed; there’s the potential for something to arise. Conditions are like the soil; certain elements have to be in place for the arising to happen. You can plant a seed on a rock, but it won’t grow; you can have a patch of lovely soil, but without a seed, nothing will happen. There’s a direct and important relation here to the four noble truths: desire and suffering create one another. They are causes and conditions for each other, making them mutually dependent. Desire gives rise to suffering and suffering gives rise to desire. The eightfold path breaks this cycle. The important thing that Buddha discovered under the bodhi tree is that suffering has a cause: it’s dependent on something (desire). It’s not random and it’s not entirely unpredictable. We have agency when it comes to desire and suffering, and that’s where our practice comes in. There’s something we can do. Dependent arising is often pictured as a twelve-fold chain or a wheel of life. One condition leads to the arising of the next, and this is how our lives in samsara are created.
As we can see, birth happens once a lot of various causes and conditions are in place. Traditionally, birth into this samsaric world wasn’t an entirely happy event, because taking on a body meant taking on the suffering of illness, aging, and death as well as the consequences of greed, anger, and ignorance. However, it’s only in the human realm that practice is possible. Liberating oneself from suffering meant leaping free from the wheel of birth and rebirth and from transmigration through the six realms of samsara:
Thus we can understand the aspiration for seeing how to end the cycle of birth and rebirth and break free from the chain of dependence. Knowledge about what leads to birth gives us the chance to avoid doing the things that perpetuate the cycle and keep us trapped in samsara. Interestingly, in the gāthā’s phrase “reaching the state of independence,” the word translated here as “state” is 處 (tokoro), a place, site, or locale. Rather than pointing us toward something amorphous and abstract, it brings the activity of freeing ourselves from the suffering that can come with dependent arising down to a concrete level. The previous gāthā encouraged us to manifest our awakening through dignified deportment, using the body skillfully and recognizing that it’s through the body that we directly experience reality. This verse continues to remind us that the body into which we were born and the physical places in which we find ourselves are the ground of our practice. There’s nowhere else we can really go. The challenge is that we create karma through all of our actions of body, speech, and mind. The good news is that we can also manage that karma through all of our actions of body, speech, and mind. We have choice and agency, and we need not be at the mercy of whatever tsunami comes along. If we want to do deep discernment about the four noble truths and see for ourselves whether Buddha was right, we need look no further than what we ourselves are doing with this body and mind in this moment and what causes and conditions we may be setting up that will lead to the birth or arising of the next thing. The enormity of birth and becoming can feel overwhelming. How can I possibly control all the unfolding that’s happening within and around me? Is that really the project at hand here? I can hardly control my impulse to eat too many potato chips. What hope have I got for stopping something bigger and more uncomfortable or dangerous from arising? Like all the rest of our practice as bodhisattvas, we’ll never come to the end of this effort, and we’ll never be able to say that we’ve completely accomplished liberation of ourselves and others. That doesn’t make the effort meaningless. Every small activity we do inclines us in a certain direction. Every unwholesome, ignorant, and unkind action makes it more likely that we’ll repeat that mistake. Every wholesome, wise, and compassionate action makes it more likely that we’ll do another good action in the future. You might say that we’re giving birth to ourselves all the time, building ourselves and our character in every moment, making it more or less likely that we’ll adhere to the three pure precepts as we go through life. We can choose to develop the traits and habits of the person who is morally aware, courageous, just, moderate, humane, wise, and connected to the larger universe beyond the small self. It will take a lifetime, but that’s OK. It’s never too early and it’s never too late to get started. NEXT TIME: RECEIVING THE FULL SET OF PRECEPTS I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO FULFILL ALL MEANS OF LIBERATION AND MASTER THE SUPREME TEACHING. [1] Translations are based upon Thomas Cleary’s translation of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and have been recast by Hoko in the form of standard Sōtōshū gāthās.  RECEIVING A MENTOR’S INSTRUCTION,
I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO BEAR MYSELF WITH DIGNITY AND BE TRUTHFUL IN MY ACTIONS. [1] The elements of this gāthā point us back to one of the most central doctrines of the Sōtō Zen school: that both what we do and the way in which we do it are important. This is igi soku buppō, sahō kore shūshi 威儀即仏法, 作法是宗旨 (Dignified deportment is the Buddhadharma, and etiquette is the principle of our school). The two kanji used here in the gāthā for deportment 威儀 are the same igi, which has a sense of majesty. This is deportment that’s not just concerned with politeness and propriety, but with embodying an attitude that’s worthy of respect, upholding and carrying the dharma and the tradition in the world. One of the two things Dōgen wanted to bring back to Japan from China was the monastic container (the other was the dharma he learned from his teacher, Tendō Nyojō), so he had some things to say about deportment, both from the point of view of daily specifics and from the point of view of absolute reality. We need to remember the context for his writings about deportment; he was pretty unimpressed by the laxity he saw around him in other temples that were full of men who had become monks looking for free food and an easy life. In his own temple he established high standards for moral behavior and serious dedication to practice, the goal being that his temple would actually able to embody the practice he learned in China, to carry it out and pass it on. Dōgen wrote detailed instructions on how to carry out daily tasks and practices such as brushing your teeth, using the toilet, cooking and eating meals, and chanting sutras, as well as how to behave in various situations with various people, like seniors, visitors, or tradespeople. How we conduct ourselves when walking down the hall or washing our hands is just as important as how we conduct ourselves during zazen. The teaching is not that the world will end if we don’t do these things exactly right, if we don’t fold the hand towel over the left arm and use one half to wipe the face and the other half to wipe the hands. It’s that each of our daily activities is nothing other than zazen and a complete manifestation of buddha-nature. Dōgen says that awakening is nothing other than eating rice and drinking tea. Thus the content of our deportment, if you will—what we’re actually doing or saying or creating—is not more important than the enactment of buddha-nature itself. It’s the unhindered way that universal functioning goes on rather than the specifics or outcome of the activity. It’s enactment rather than attainment: the conduct of the dharma talk or the chanting as well as what gets said, the cooking as well as the meal, the washing as well as the clean dishes. By emulating the conduct of buddhas and ancestors and senior practitioners, we learn with the body, a way of entering into that space of awakening with them by taking on the characteristics of an awakened being. At first, we might be intentionally copying them, but at some point, our deportment becomes an expression of our own awakening. Behaving like buddhas and ancestors means whether we’re sitting, standing, walking, or lying down, we’re acting skillfully, promoting wholesomeness and discouraging unwholesomeness. However, Dōgen tells us several times in the Zuimonki that if we want to practice the Way, we should conduct ourselves the way they do without any expectation of gain or reward. This returns us to “practice and awakening are not two.” We’re not practicing to get something later that isn’t here now, and we’re not minding our manners in order to avoid showing disrespect. Our deportment is completely the Buddha living out the life of the Buddha, not something we do for the sake of anything. “The way for the sake of the way” is why late in his life Dōgen favored monasticism over lay life, not that laypeople in themselves are incapable. The temple container reinforces our commitment to deportment, and all our energy goes into practice rather than being diverted to family, work, and home responsibilities. It’s not a comment on the people but on the practice circumstance: temple life is the ideal because there are expectations for our conduct that are reflected back to us by the sangha. This is a teaching that encourages us to ask ourselves who it is that’s practicing dignified deportment. Is there a “me” in here that’s sitting up straight and keeping my robes off the floor and not chewing gum in the zendo? If you are already buddha, if you’re not trying to get something, then how do you act? How do you function in this moment—not in the abstract, but with what you’re doing with your body and mind right now? How you walk through a room, handle objects, talk to people—how does a buddha do that? Am I just doing things to go through the motions, without really investigating what’s happening? Or to shore up my ego? Going through the motions is not Dōgen’s kind of practice. If awakening is continuous functioning and encountering the suchness of each thing with our most authentic self, then no wonder he tells us to practice as though our heads were on fire. We need to know what we’re doing and why, and that’s still alive here at Sanshin, where we keep forms simple so that we understand our practice and practice our understanding rather than going through the motions of ceremonies or activities as a performance just because they’re expected. If we’re paying attention, we’re conducting ourselves as buddha in each moment. Every moment is an opportunity to manifest buddha-nature with some intention, so carelessly slouching along with our robes on crooked and a toothpick hanging out of the mouth really misses the mark. It’s not the dignified practice conduct of buddhas and ancestors. Deportment is a two-way gate. Paying attention to the actions of this body and mind is a great way to study the dharma and experience the reality of this moment. We can directly see the impermanence of thoughts and sensations, the unpleasantness of feelings in the body that we’d rather avoid, how our attachments lead to both the feelings themselves and our continuing unhappy responses to the feelings, and the complete lack of anything we can grab onto as a tangible and unchanging self. Facing inward, we can investigate the real things that are occurring in our own bodies and minds rather than ignoring them or turning them into something more appealing or acceptable. Facing outward, the actions of our bodies and minds bring our awakening, wisdom, and compassion into the world for others to experience. Deportment shows others how we understand the dharma. To begin investigating deportment, we need look no further than our daily zazen posture. When we hear our teachers and ancestors say that taking the posture is itself awakening, what does that really mean? The zazen posture can bring us closer and closer to truth if we execute it carefully. Zazen appears to be a simple matter; we do only four things: take the posture, keep the eyes open, breathe deeply through the nose, and let go of thoughts. We probably assume that we’re aware of everything that’s going on in our bodies because we should be able to feel what’s happening. Actually, to a greater or lesser degree, there’s a lot we choose to ignore, either because we’re focusing on one sensation to the exclusion of another, or because feeling what’s happening is painful. The zazen posture encourages us to be aware of the entirety of the truth or reality of this moment, because if we’re numb to some aspect of our bodily functioning, we’re neither experiencing nor manifesting the whole story. The first thing we watch is our alignment. The head should sit on top of the spine in such a way that the body is not fighting gravity. Leaning off-center in any direction results in your muscles having to tighten to hold you up. The strain and fatigue you feel, and the resulting inner dialogue, is a mark of the struggle against gravity, and an indication that you’re moving away from truth and clarity. It’s time to make the necessary microadjustments to bring your head, spine and pelvis back into alignment, and your view back into alignment with reality. The second thing we watch is our level of relaxation. If our alignment is correct, we should be able to relax without falling over because gravity is pulling us straight down. Otherwise, we’re forcing ourselves into position and holding it unsustainably through brute strength, and that’s nothing more than making up a story about how things should be. We’re off in a fantasy world, and something has come between ourselves and the reality of this moment. Nothing about practice is forced or manipulated. As soon as we notice such things, we know we’ve wandered away from truth again. It’s easy to see how what’s going on in the body is reflected in what’s going on in the mind. We often hear that thoughts lead to speech and action, and on that basis we need to “purify the mind” in order to keep our actions wholesome. However, it’s also true that a body that’s out of alignment with truth can lead to delusive thoughts. Being truthful in our actions comes from the body as well as the mind. When we hear the phrase “open the hand of thought,” we’re likely to conclude that it’s a mental exercise—but the reality is that the physical action of relaxing the hand (and body) is key to both dignified deportment and manifesting our awakening. Next time: RECEIVING A TEACHER’S GUIDANCE, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO ENTER THE KNOWLEDGE OF BIRTHLESSNESS AND REACH THE STATE OF INDEPENDENCE. — • -- [1] Translations are based upon Thomas Cleary’s translation of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and have been recast by Hoko in the form of standard Sōtōshū gāthās.  WHEN RECEIVING THE LEARNERS’ PRECEPTS,
I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO LEARN SELF-CONTROL WELL, AND NOT DO ANY WRONG.[1] While the complete set of precepts in the Sōtō Zen tradition today numbers sixteen, and they’re received by both ordained and lay practitioners, the first five of the ten grave precepts are sometimes thought of as a set of guidelines for laypeople who want to establish ethical, harmonious lives. Those five precepts are:
The precepts have been called our guidelines for our basic attitude toward life. They help us establish ourselves as practitioners of the dharma. In Shōbōgenzō Jukai 正法眼蔵 授戒 (Receiving precepts), Dōgen writes, In India and China, where [the buddha-dharma] has been transmitted by buddhas and ancestors, in order to enter the dharma we must receive the precepts. Unless we receive precepts we cannot be disciples of buddhas or descendants of ancestors. Avoiding misdeeds and misconduct is itself studying Zen and inquiring into dharma. The true treasure of the dharma eye is identical with the primary importance of precepts.[2] This is his teaching of zenkai ichinyo 禅戒一如, Zen and the precepts are one. On the assumption that the more intensive practice and training of monks or clergy was not possible for most laypeople, householders took five precepts rather than the ten or more required for homeleavers. The responsibilities of the laity included raising families, farming, running businesses, and engagement with the functioning of society; these left little time for meditation or sutra study. These five precepts are the same as the first of the ten taken by monks, but the third was modified to discourage improper sexual activity rather than all sexual activity, as was required of homeleavers in the early days of Buddhism. Breaking any of the first four would be grounds for expulsion from the sangha for ordained practitioners; these were clearly considered some of the most important guidelines for anyone taking up the practice. Edo period (1603–1867) Japanese Buddhist leaders concluded that while the training and education required of clergy made it possible for them to understand more complex teachings, laypeople who did not have this specialized background—or the time to devote to intensive practice—would struggle with them. Thus it seemed necessary to create additional paths and practices that would allow and encourage everyone to engage in Sōtō Zen, not only scholars and clergy. Laypeople mainly received simple teachings about ethics and morality that were based on jūzen 十善, a set of ten kinds of wholesome behavior popularized by the Shingon cleric Jiun Onkō 慈雲飮光 (1718–1804). (You may recall that Jiun Onkō was deeply involved in the study of nyohō robe sewing and was an inspiration for Kōdō Sawaki; read more here.) In the Meiji era (1868–1912), the Sōtō sect published a document called Sōtō kyōkai shushōgi 曹洞教会修証議 (The Meaning of Practice and Verification for the Sōtō Laity), commonly known as the Shushōgi. It presents four practices for householders: repenting and eliminating bad karma (zange metsuzai), receiving precepts and joining the ranks (jukai nyūi), making the vow to benefit beings (hotsugan rishō), and practicing Buddhism and repaying blessings (gyōji hōon). There have certainly been objections over the years to this apparently simplified approach to practice for laity; Westerners who may not have encountered the context for the Shushōgi sometimes react with dismay that zazen and study are not included, particularly if these are the central elements of their own lay practice. It’s important to know that laypeople have not been prevented or discouraged from undertaking more intensive practice; they have simply been offered alternatives that are still meaningful and potentially more manageable. Interested readers can peruse the Shushōgi (still read during lay funerals today) for themselves and look up the various discussions and arguments that led to its creation and adoption. For our purposes here, the relevant element is the emphasis on receiving the precepts, becoming a buddha, and, as the gāthā suggests, shoring up our capacity for self-control in order to avoid doing wrong. However, we need to look more closely at what we mean by “self-control” and what we mean by “doing wrong.” In the beginning of our practice, keeping precepts seems to require restraint, actively choosing not to do something unfortunate that we would otherwise do out of habit or attachment because we think we can get away with it. It may feel like we’re giving up something we might want in the service of some higher good or later reward, and thus practicing with precepts can become an exercise in self-control. We might even have taken up practice in the first place as a weapon we can use against the suffering wrought by our bad habits, and we may judge our “progress” as practitioners by the degree of self-control we believe we’re developing. However, we soon learn that our suffering is caused by our desires, and the way to loosen the grip of those desires is to practice the eightfold path and begin to see ourselves and our world more clearly. We start to understand that the “self” we’ve been assuming is permanent and solid is really nothing more than an impermanent collection of five skandhas (form, feeling, perception, formation, and consciousness). How are we going to “control” a “self” made up of constantly shifting heaps of aggregates? If the self isn’t a thing that can be grasped, how can it direct and manage itself? Even as we consider those questions, we may realize that as we practice, we’re naturally and gradually becoming less inclined to do things that break precepts. If we’re functioning in accordance with impermanence and interconnectedness, our first response to whatever we’re encountering is less likely to be unskillful or unwholesome. In other words, “learning self-control well” is not just a matter of blocking or suppressing our impulses to do things we’ll regret later. Keeping the precepts starts even before the impulse comes up in the first place. When we clearly see the nature of this one unified reality, and when we clearly understand the nature of self, the three poisons of greed, anger, and ignorance that press us to make mistakes don’t arise. When I know for myself that all beings are interconnected, then the desire to take my neighbors’ belongings or cause them harm doesn’t make sense. Harming others and causing them suffering also harms me. As for doing wrong, the “wrong” here in this gāthā is aku 悪, the same word that appears in Dōgen’s Shōbōgenzō Shoaku makusa 正法眼蔵諸悪莫作 (Not doing evil). He opens the text with this “gāthā of the ancient buddhas”: Refraining from committing various evils Carrying out all sorts of good actions Personally clarifying the mind This is the essential teaching of all the buddhas.[3] Keeping the precepts gives us a framework for recognizing which of our actions may be skillful, promoting peace and harmony, and which may be unskillful, creating suffering for ourselves and others. Uchiyama Rōshi pointed out that keeping a precept immediately liberates us from the suffering that comes with not keeping it. However, there’s also a broader way to consider the precepts and the “evil” we assume they’re designed to prevent. In the world of the absolute, there is no discrimination between things; the bodhisattva sees everything with the eye of impartiality. There’s no picking and choosing, no friends or enemies, no likes and dislikes. Duality is transcended, in part because the bodhisattva realizes that there is no fixed and permanent separate self that needs to cling to such preferences. There is only the complete functioning of the universe in this moment, about which we don’t need to have a personal opinion. In that situation, we refrain from doing wrong because there is no “wrong” we can do. However, we need to understand that reality clearly. It’s all too easy to engage in spiritual bypassing and decide that whatever we do is fine regardless of the suffering or unwholesomeness that results, because ultimately there is no good or evil. Okumura Rōshi has written that: Sometimes people believe that since Zen transcends good and bad, no ethics are necessary. Our sense of ethics or morality is based on discrimination between good and bad. These precepts are also about what is good and we should do, and what is bad and we should avoid. But the fundamental understanding of bodhisattva precepts is that they arise naturally when one awakens to the reality of interdependent origination.[4] When we come to practice, we have little or no understanding of interconnectedness or ability to manifest our awakening. We need handrails so we don’t fall over a cliff into a hell realm of delusion. Eventually we become able to let go of the handrails and walk in Buddha’s way on our own, because we have some insight into the nature of self, precepts, and universal functioning, but in the meantime, the precepts describe the way a bodhisattva moves through the world, not killing, stealing, misusing relationships, speaking falsely, or indulging in intoxicants. The precepts help us to manifest our awakening, and are also carried out because of our awakening. The Shushōgi explains, Those who receive the precepts verify the unsurpassed, complete, perfect enlightenment verified by all the buddhas of the three times, the fruit of buddhahood, adamantine and indestructible. Is there any wise person who would not gladly seek this goal? The World-Honored One has clearly shown to all living beings that when they receive the buddha’s precepts, they join the ranks of the buddhas, the rank equal to the great awakening; truly they are the children of the buddhas. We can work with the precepts as a way to clarify our aspiration and to study cause and effect. Certain actions result in peace and harmony, and others result in agitation and conflict. Where does the impulse to engage in unskillful actions come from? Most likely it arises when the small self believes it needs something in order to keep from being annihilated: belongings, power, a particular image or reputation. Somehow, having these things will solve my problems and make me feel safe and whole and valid. Yet we know that the self is not actually protected by any of these things. They can’t make me better than or different from you in a universe where we’re all actually non-separate. The moment in which we truly and directly experience this non-separation is the moment when the precepts are actualized and our desires to break them dissolve. Self-control becomes effortless, rather than a continuous battle with temptation. Next time: RECEIVING A MENTOR’S INSTRUCTION, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO BEAR MYSELF WITH DIGNITY AND BE TRUTHFUL IN MY ACTIONS. — • -- [1] Translations are based upon Thomas Cleary’s translation of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and have been recast by Hoko in the form of standard Sōtōshū gāthās. [2] Sōtō Zen, p. 58–59. [3] Deepest Practice, Deepest Wisdom: Three Fascicles from Shōbōgenzō with Commentary. (2018). United States: Wisdom Publications, p. 63. [4] Sōtō Zen, p. 63.  TAKING REFUGE IN THE COMMUNITY,
I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO ORDER THE MASSES, ALL BECOMING FREE FROM OBSTRUCTION.[1] This gāthā is the third of three that we know elsewhere collectively as the Verse of the Three Refuges (San kirai mon三歸禮文). In Japanese, this text is: jikie so 自歸依僧 to gan shujō 當願衆生 tōri daishū 統理大衆 is-sai muge 一切無礙 Sōtōshū’s translation in the Gyōjikihan reads: I take refuge in sangha, with the prayer that living beings may ensure that the great assembly is entirely free from hindrances. The translation used here at Sanshin (from Sōtōshū’s chant book) reads: I take refuge in sangha May all living beings Support harmony in the community Free from hindrance. The kanji used here for community (僧 sō) is a sort of abbreviation of 僧伽 (sōgya), a transliteration of the Sanskrit saṃgha or sangha. 僧 can mean a Buddhist monk or the sangha as a whole. By itself, 伽 is pronounced togi and it means nursing or attending, but when it’s given its Chinese pronunciation, ga or gya, it means a large temple. It’s likely that these words were used for transliteration simply because they sound similar to the original Sanskrit, but nonetheless, it’s clear that we’re talking about a collection of people doing something together rather than individuals doing something on their own. In fact, the original technical meaning of sangha was a group of more than three monks, but throughout the tradition, sometimes it refers only to ordained people and sometimes it includes laypeople, particularly those who have taken the precepts. Here at Sanshin, we consider anyone practicing with us to be part of the sangha since we all come together in the common effort of practicing shikantaza and realizing awakening. The line in our gāthā about “ordering the masses” may feel a little strange, but makes a bit more sense when we understand that 統理 (tōri) means administering or managing. Although we might think of administration as a dull slog through red tape, administration is actually a wise and compassionate practice. The Latin ad minister means service toward (someone or something). Ministry is a big part of many religious traditions. Administering a sangha is serving and caring for the community. Dōgen understood the importance of administration as practice, and his Chiji Shingi (Pure Standards for Temple Administrators) is as much about maintaining an attitude of practice and attention as it is about the tasks to be carried out. He focuses particularly on the practice of the director, ino, tenzo and work leader. These are leadership roles taken on not as a means of aggrandizing oneself but as an opportunity to take care of the sangha and put one’s understanding into a tangible form. Because these are positions of dharma leadership, he says, “The temple administrator positions are esteemed and honorable, so they must be filled by experienced, virtuous people of the Way.” Clearly, administrators are not simply bureaucrats trying to impose order upon chaos—they’re preventing and removing hindrances that may impede the sangha’s practice. Then we come to 大衆 (daishū). This can indeed mean the masses or the general public, but within the Sōtō Zen tradition this is a respectful term for the sangha, usually translated “the great assembly.” It’s a good reminder that there are three kinds of sangha: the original historical sangha that gathered around Shakyamuni; the sanghas that still meet today to carry out practice; and the absolute sangha made up of all beings. Thus, another way to consider tōri daishū is as caring for the sangha in such a way as to clear obstacles to the harmonious practice of the great assembly. Harmony is frequently mentioned in connection with sangha, though it doesn’t actually appear in the kanji of this verse. In the Kyōjukaimon, peace and harmony are themselves considered to be the absolute sangha treasure. Wherever there is smooth functioning between and among beings, there’s a sangha in the largest sense. The dharma as reality is doing what it does without impediment. That requires unity and wholeness, and that’s the sense of 一切 (issai), which means the entirety, or everything. 無礙 (muge) is without hindrance, obstacle or obstruction. 礙 (ge) in this case is something disturbing or hampering our practice because of our attachment to our mistaken assumptions about the nature of reality. When we put all this together, we have a sangha in which each person aspires to take care of fellow practitioners and the community as a whole such that activities are carried out smoothly with the least amount of distraction and distress. This is exactly what Uchiyama Rōshi asked us to do in his final lecture at Antaiji: “Cooperate with one another and aim to create a place where sincere practitioners can practice without trouble.” He reminded us that the sangha is where we cultivate our awakening. “A place of practice is as important to the practitioner as soil is to the farmer,” he said. “A good practice place must neither be a place for carrying on religious intrigues, nor a place to try to clamber up the pseudo-spiritual ladder. To be practicing and to get caught up in sexual affairs, money, or fame—or even to be blinded by your own practice—is a terrible waste of time.”[2] Uchiyama Rōshi knew that it takes the commitment of everyone to maintain a healthy practice community, because it’s so easy to cooperate not only in zazen, study, work and ritual, but also in diverting our attention from what we’re really coming together to do. We can see that for ourselves when a few people start chatting during sesshin; pretty soon more and more people are talking and the container is broken. It really is a matter of ministering to others and caring for the sangha when we keep silence ourselves during sesshin and don’t tempt our fellow practitioners to join us in distraction. “It is important that every one of us cooperate with each other to protect and maintain an atmosphere conducive to practicing together,” Uchiyama Rōshi concludes. “There is no one who can claim to always embody bodhi-mind, the mind that aspires to practice and attain enlightenment. Each of us gathers and contributes his or her own little bodhi-mind to the general effort. . . . [E]very one of us should contribute a little bodhi-mind and thus enable our sangha to thrive.” How can we as individuals contribute a little bodhi-mind as a means of removing hindrances for the entire community? Sometimes it’s a matter of doing something, and sometimes it’s a matter of not doing something. Obstacles can be things that are missing or things that are present. Disharmony and dysfunction can happen when we forget to come to the zendo to carry out our assigned role or task; they can also happen when we arrive with a lot of ideas about what we should be getting out of that activity. Practice can be impeded when someone takes artifacts or tools away and doesn’t bring them back; it can also be impeded when someone leaves a pile of personal belongings in sangha spaces for everyone to trip over. Not cooking enough food for breakfast is a problem; cooking too much and wasting sangha resources is also a problem. All of these things are hindrances for the entire community, born of small individual actions taken without engaging bodhi-mind. Buddha’s metaphor for the harmonious activity of the sangha was the blending together of milk and water. In the Cūḷagosiṅgasutta Sutta, he asks practitioners how they live together in this way. They reply that they treat each other with kindness and set aside their self-clinging in order to get along with each other. Then they describe their functioning in quite a concrete way: [W]hoever returns first from almsround prepares the seats, and puts out the drinking water and the rubbish bin. If there’s anything left over, whoever returns last eats it if they like. Otherwise they throw it out where there is little that grows, or drop it into water that has no living creatures. Then they put away the seats, drinking water, and rubbish bin, and sweep the refectory. If someone sees that the pot of water for washing, drinking, or the toilet is empty they set it up. If he can’t do it, he summons another with a wave of the hand, and they set it up by lending each other a hand to lift. But we don’t break into speech for that reason. When you pour water and milk into the same container, you can no longer differentiate between them. Without disturbing the quiet practice of others, Buddha’s sangha simply noticed and removed obstacles as a matter of course, without being asked or assigned to do so or seeking personal recognition. Whoever saw something that needed to be done just took care of it; today that might be one person and the next day it might be another. Harmonious sangha functioning happens concretely as well as abstractly. One place in which we really notice this harmonious functioning is during sesshin. Most practitioners don’t live in the temple all the time, so participating in sesshin is a precious opportunity to fully enter into this kind of concentrated experience. Sesshin is first and foremost an experience of completely selfless and seamless immersion in community. It’s a deeply intimate activity and not a room full of individuals doing their own thing, even though we’re each minding our own practice and no one can practice for anyone else. We come to sesshin to practice selflessness, not by devaluing or denying our personal existence but by rejoining it to the personal existences of all the others in the zendo and functioning as one being. We sit zazen as one being, eat meals as one being, take care of our cushions as one being, and carry out our work assignments as one being. Our deep experience of selflessness comes not only from sitting zazen with this body and mind but dropping off body and mind and actually living moment by moment in a way that’s completely interconnected with others. The sangha needs to be a place where we willingly take refuge, a place where we can be confident that we are safe, that our practice will be supported, that we’re expected to do our level best and yet mistakes will not result in rejection. With the support of the sangha, we can be free from hindrance no matter what’s actually happening.\ Next time: WHEN RECEIVING THE LEARNERS’ PRECEPTS, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO LEARN SELF-CONTROL WELL, AND NOT DO ANY WRONG — • -- [1] Translations are based upon Thomas Cleary’s translation of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and have been recast by Hoko in the form of standard Sōtōshū gāthās. [2] This and the following quote from: Uchiyama, K. (2005). Opening the Hand of Thought: Foundations of Zen Buddhist Practice. Somerville: Wisdom Publications, p.168.  TAKING REFUGE IN THE TEACHING, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO ENTER DEEPLY INTO THE SCRIPTURES WITH WISDOM AS DEEP AS THE SEA.[1] This gāthā is the second of three that we know elsewhere collectively as the Verse of the Three Refuges (San kirai mon三歸禮文). In Japanese, this text is: jikie ho 自歸依法 to gan shujō 當願衆生 jin nyu kyo zo 深入經藏 chie nyokai 智慧如海 Sōtōshū’s translation in the Gyōjikihan reads: I take refuge in the scriptures, with the prayer that living beings may enter deeply into the canon, that ocean of wisdom. The translation used here at Sanshin (from Sōtōshū’s chant book) reads: I take refuge in dharma May all living beings Deeply enter the sutras Wisdom like an ocean. Across these various translations, we have five words being used to indicate the same thing: teachings, scriptures, canon, dharma and sutras. It’s a reminder that there are three kinds of dharma treasure. The manifesting dharma treasure is the teachings that the Buddha gave during his time in the physical world; these are what are preserved in the scriptures or sutras. In general, scriptures are the sacred texts of a religious tradition. In the case of Buddhism, we call these texts sutras. One meaning of the Sanskrit word “sutra” is sayings or aphorisms, short verses or teachings that provide spiritual guidance. At first, Buddha’s teachings were only memorized rather than written down. Interestingly, “sutra” also means thread. Stringing these sayings together, if you will, into longer texts helped with memorization since they were collected and organized around main ideas. When eventually the sutras were written down, they took the form of palm leaf “books” held together with a cord. The sutras have been preserved not only in Pali and Sanskrit but also in Chinese and Tibetan, and today they’ve been translated into many modern languages and spread around the world. It’s these scriptures that make up a canon, an authoritative collection of texts or rules. According to Sōtōshū, “The canon (kyōzō 經藏, S. sūtra-pitaka) is the collection of sutras that embody the wisdom (chie 智慧, S. prajñā) and teachings (hō 法, S. dharma) of the Buddha, which are said to be vast and deep, “like an ocean” (nyokai 如海).” In the Kyōjukaimon, Dōgen describes the maintaining dharma treasure as “[The truth] that expresses itself [in the form of the Buddha’s teachings stored in] the ocean treasury and [recorded in the scriptures] on the pattara leaves in order to transform animate and inanimate beings.” In Buddhism, we have the Pali canon, the oldest sutras, which were written in Pali and provide the foundation for the Theravada tradition. A canon establishes the standards for teachings and practice in a religion. (Of course, non-canonical texts can be important too, such as commentaries or stories.) These preserved teachings in the forms of sutra, scripture, or canon are known as the maintaining dharma treasure. Although first spoken 2600 years ago, they are still available to us today. The absolute dharma treasure is simply the way things are, or the reality of the functioning of the universe. The Buddha didn’t create this aspect of the dharma treasure himself; it was here before he awakened to it. Since there is more than one dharma treasure, there is more than one way to deeply enter into it. Deeply entering into sutras can mean studying them carefully. Perhaps you’ve encountered the argument that Zen or the dharma are beyond words and letters, and therefore study is useless. It’s true that the dharma cannot be contained in words or language, but we need to use words to go beyond words. Reading texts written by someone who’s farther along this path than we are gives us the chance to share that author’s experience, to be encouraged, and to see things in new ways that may lead to new understanding or insight. Reading and studying alone aren’t enough—we have to put teachings into practice for ourselves—but they can point us in a helpful direction. When undertaking dharma study, we need to approach teachings with an open mind and some flexibility. We might not immediately agree with what’s being said, and that’s OK. We have the chance to investigate where our reactions and resistance are really coming from. Are they about the text or ourselves? Maybe if we accept that this teaching is true, we’d have to change how we see ourselves, or the world, or our own habits. That can be unsettling, but it’s also an opportunity to see where we’re stuck. Study is one of the ways in which we cultivate wisdom, first by seeing and hearing, and then by thinking and reflecting. Learning the basic elements of our tradition, such as the Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path, the Three Treasures, and other things, gives us the basis for further study and discussion, and for our day-to-day investigation of the dharma with body and mind. (See our Buddhist Essentials page for an introduction to eighteen important elements of our Sōtō Zen tradition.) Sometimes folks wonder what particular texts they might study as practitioners of Sōtō Zen. In addition to the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, it can be helpful to be familiar with the Vimalakīrti, Laṅkāvatāra, and Lotus Sutras. These are long and complex texts, so it’s good to find competent commentaries to read alongside the sutras themselves. Given Sanshin’s historical focus on the teachings of Dōgen, those practicing here also frequently take advantage of the offerings from our Dōgen Institute, including our Introduction to Dōgen series. Delving into the works of our immediate three 20th century ancestors—Kōdō Sawaki, Kōshō Uchiyama and Shohaku Okumura—gives a sense of what we’ve centralized in this dharma family and why. When it comes to deeply entering into the absolute dharma treasure, all we need to do is let go of the separation between ourselves and the rest of the universe, or, as Dōgen encourages us, to drop off body and mind. Like all of the verses in this series of essays, our gāthā comes from the eleventh chapter of the Avatamsaka (Flower Ornament) Sutra, “Purifying Practice.” The preface to this sutra is where we find Buddha’s wisdom being compared to the ocean: “The pellucid waves of his deep, sea-like wisdom are empty, yet hold myriad reflections.” The text goes on to give several more examples of the connection between form and emptiness, or the individual and the universal. Here, the ocean represents something that appears still, deep, and clear, without boundaries, and it’s likened to the wisdom of complete awakening. Yet the ocean also has waves, and beneath the waves are myriad sea creatures, as well as the geologic features of the ocean floor. The waves are manifestations of the ocean’s functioning, and they also reflect light back into the world. They’re distinct from the rest of the water’s surface but not separate from the water itself. The water faithfully and completely reflects whatever is above it but is not disturbed or changed by that reflection. Okumura Rōshi explains, The phrase “wisdom like the sea” refers to an unlimited and boundless perspective. We are like a frog in a well that can see only a patch of sky. Our view is limited, yet we think we are the center of the world and know everything. We base our actions on our conditioned understanding, perspectives and opinions. The beginning of wisdom is to see that our view is limited. The view we have at sea is wider than in a well. There is no limitation to something so vast and boundless.By studying the Buddha’s teachings we become free from our limited views and open ourselves to boundless reality.[2] Entering the ocean of wisdom can be a metaphor for our zazen. We sit quietly, letting go of the small self without negating it. As information comes in through our sense gates—the barking of the neighbor’s dog, the smell of lunch being prepared, the sight of the changing shadows on the wall, the thought that there’s one more thing to add to the shopping list when we get up—we don’t push it away, but we also don’t grab it. Sense data come and go like waves on the ocean, and we sit on, undisturbed. This is the absolute dharma treasure, simply the dynamic functioning of the universe, with nothing left out and nothing extra. Deeply entering the ocean of wisdom that is the dharma is nothing more or less than this. Next time: TAKING REFUGE IN THE COMMUNITY, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO ORDER THE MASSES, ALL BECOMING FREE FROM OBSTRUCTION. [1] Translations are based upon Thomas Cleary’s translation of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and have been recast by Hoko in the form of standard Sōtōshū gāthās.
[2] Okumura, Shohaku. Living by Vow: A Practical Introduction to Eight Essential Zen Chants and Texts. Somerville, MA: Wisdom Publications, 2012. Page 66.  TAKING REFUGE IN THE BUDDHA,
I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO CONTINUE THE LINEAGE OF BUDDHAS, CONCEIVING THE UNEXCELLED ASPIRATION. This gāthā is the first of three that we know elsewhere collectively as the Verse of the Three Refuges (San kirai mon三歸禮文). This first one relates to the Buddha, while the remaining two are about the dharma and the sangha; we’ll consider those in the next two essays. In Japanese, this text is: jikie butsu 自歸依佛 to gan shujō 當願衆生 taige tai do 體解大道 hotsu mujōi 發無上意 Sōtōshū’s official translation reads: I take refuge in buddha, with the prayer that living beings may embody the great way and give rise to the highest aspiration. The translation used here at Sanshin reads: I take refuge in buddha Together with all beings Immersing body and mind deeply in the Way Awakening true mind In the kanji for taking refuge (kie 歸依), the first means to return, with a sense of coming home. The second is about depending or relying on something. When we first encounter Buddhism and learn that taking refuge in the Three Treasures is one of the first steps on the path, it may seem strange that we’re to come home to something that’s new to us. Yet somehow, as we practice, we may feel that this way of being in the world seems comfortable and familiar, like something we’ve been searching for all along. Ah, yes, this is how things really are, in spite of my preconceptions and self-involved ideas. I’m beginning to see that now. That’s where trust begins, and it starts to make sense that what we can really rely on is what’s real, rather than the fabrications in our heads. Buddha may sometimes be a tough taskmaster, reminding us that we can’t ignore what’s right in front of us even if we want to look away, but we know that we can trust him, and the awakening that he embodies, to show us the truth. The three phrases “continuing the lineage of Buddhas,” “embodying the great way,” and “immersing body and mind deeply in the way” are all pointing to engaging in practice, and doing that with our own bodies and minds. Embody is taige 體解. The first kanji refers to the body, but also has a sense of reality itself. The second means to solve or explain. To embody the great way in this gāthā is to directly understand the nature of reality by engaging with it concretely through our physical form, as Shakyamuni did. It’s not a matter of believing something, debating about philosophy or just reading about the dharma in books. Zen is a practice, something we do. As Okumura Rōshi has said, just reading about practice without ever actually engaging in it is like reading a cookbook and never cooking or eating the meal. We carry out Buddha’s practice with our own bodies moment by moment, not just in the temple or the zendo but at all times throughout our daily lives. Elsewhere I’ve discussed the three bodies of Buddha. Of these, the nirmāṇakāya is his form as Shakyamuni, his physical presence in the world 2600 years ago. This is the historical Buddha, who is considered to have founded the lineage when he transmitted his dharma to Mahākāśyapa, and it’s this Buddha who appears on our altars in places where we carry out liturgy. This is the embodiment of awakening, and our aspiration is to emulate Buddha’s practice, wisdom and compassion. By carrying out our practice, we keep Buddha alive and transmit his dharma across space and time, continuing his lineage. I think the intersection of embodying and being immersed in the way is an interesting one. Even though Dōgen reminds us several times in the Shōbōgenzō Zuimonki that we are all vessels of the dharma, it’s not a matter of containing the dharma in the body and carrying it about. That would create an artificial separation between inside and outside. We’re always immersed in the dharma because there is nowhere that Buddha’s way does not reach. Even if we may feel like we’re swimming around in a dharma that’s “out there” beyond our bodies or separate from our physical form and our day-to-day functioning, the reality is that it permeates everything. The Zen tradition uses metaphors like the fragrance of burning incense or an early morning mist to illustrate the way that the dharma interpenetrates all things. We embody Buddha’s practice in that we enact it with our bodies and minds, but we do that as part of the total dynamic functioning of the universe. The second part of the gāthā makes reference to “conceiving the unexcelled aspiration,” “giving rise to the highest aspiration,” or awakening true mind.” The Japanese is hotsu mujō i 發無上意. Interestingly, the first kanji, translated as arousing or awakening, is used in modern Japanese phrases like generating electricity or sending a telegram. It has a sense of emitting or transmitting power. The second two kanji indicate something beyond which there is nothing higher or above. Finally, the fourth is feeling, thought, or meaning, and this kanji contains within it the kanji for heart/mind. Overall, we can see that this phrase is about arousing bodhicitta (bodaishin 菩提心), the thought of awakening, or the intention to attain buddhahood. This aspiration is not for oneself but for the sake of all beings, as we say when we chant the four bodhisattva vows: Beings are numberless; I vow to free them. We might think that aspiration is the beginning of our practice, but Dōgen says they arise together. Where aspiration is present there is already practice; practice is already awakening; practice-awakening is nirvana. Thus “aspiration, practice, awakening, and nirvana” are not sequential stages. Dōgen’s teaching is that Buddha as supreme awakening is the same as aspiration/practice/awakening/nirvana, so it makes sense that Buddha as a refuge appears in this gāthā together with aspiration. Taking refuge in Buddha is already the same as arousing bodhicitta and embodying awakening. Dōgen also says that we take refuge in Buddha as a good teacher. Taking refuge in Buddha means we look to him as our guide for how we live, although the idea of taking refuge goes back to India before Buddha. Originally, it meant declaring allegiance to a powerful person in exchange for receiving protection from various dangers. Early followers of the Buddha adopted the same custom, but they weren’t asking the Buddha to personally to intervene to provide protection. We face dangers from the three poisonous minds and we want freedom from them, but we’re committing to the three refuges and to our practice because we recognize that we create our own suffering. We’re committing to cultivating wisdom and skillful intentions that keep suffering from arising, and following the teachings helps us do that. In taking refuge, we look to Buddha when we lose our way, but he’s not something to worship that’s outside ourselves. We’re simply recognizing that we and Buddha and all of reality are not separate. It’s easy to lose sight of that and to turn to other things for comfort or refuge when we’re fearful. There are lots of things we might look to in order to “save” us from misfortune or suffering, things that only perpetuate suffering for ourselves and others. There are plenty of people and ideologies out there claiming to have the ultimate answers. What are they embodying, and encouraging us to embody? If we’re honest with ourselves, are these characteristics to which we want to come home? Do they feel comfortable in a way that makes us say to ourselves Ah, yes, this is the way things really are? Coming home to Buddha means not only immersing ourselves in a comfortable environment that deeply makes sense to us, but also embodying truth and awakening ourselves, taking them with us when we go back out into the world. Returning to zazen, settling down and letting go of distraction and delusion, we can hit the reset button and regain clarity, not because we want to use zazen to make ourselves feel better but because wisdom arises naturally when we put aside the desires of the small self and just sit in Buddha’s house, wearing Buddha’s robe, doing Buddha’s practice. Buddha is right there, and he is us. Next time: TAKING REFUGE IN THE TEACHING, I VOW WITH ALL BEINGS TO ENTER DEEPLY INTO THE SCRIPTURES WITH WISDOM AS DEEP AS THE SEA. |
In the training temple, there are four-line verses (Skt. gathas, Jp. ge) to be chanted for a variety of daily activities. Everything from waking up in the morning to brushing the teeth to eating a meal is an opportunity to remember to practice what Buddha taught. These gathas are based on teachings from Volume 14 (Purifying Practice) of the Avatamsaka Sutra. Hoko takes a look at these sutra verses to investigate what they’re pointing to and how we can include them in our own daily practice.. GathasPracticing with gathas
When I'm at home Serving my parents Being with my spouse and children Attaining my desires On festive occasions In palace rooms Putting on adornments Climbing up in balconies Giving something In gatherings or crowds In danger and difficulty Giving up home life Entering the training temple Going to teachers Seeking initiation Shedding lay clothing Shaving off hair Putting on robes Formally leaving home Taking refuge in the Buddha Taking refuge in the teachings Taking refuge in the community Receiving a teacher's guidance Receiving a mentor's instruction Receiving the learners' precepts Receiving the precepts |
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