Chan Master Gaofeng Miao first studied under Monk Duanqiao Lun, who instructed him to investigate the huatou: “Where does birth come from, and where does death go?” Thereupon he exerted himself day and night without slackening, neither sleeping nor resting. Later he studied under Monk Xueyan Qin. Qin asked, “Who is it that drags this corpse here for you?” Before the Master could answer, he was driven out with blows. Though this happened who knows how many times, the Master not only felt no resentment, but investigated and sought instruction with even greater sincerity.

(People today need not be beaten repeatedly; if someone merely speaks to them a little severely, they become dissatisfied and show you the soles of their feet. From this, one can see how earnest and sincere the ancients were in their practice! With such single-minded, wholehearted effort, how could one fail to awaken and realize the Way? Can we younger students fail to feel ashamed and stirred to vigorous practice?)

While investigating the huatou, the Master happened to recall in a dream the question raised in Duanqiao Lun’s room: “The myriad dharmas return to the One; where does the One return?” A sense of doubt suddenly arose, and for three days and nights he did not close his eyes. (In investigating Chan, it is vital to arouse a sense of doubt. Once it arises, it envelops the whole body and congeals into a single mass; good news will soon arrive.)

One day, which happened to be the anniversary of Patriarch Bodhidharma’s death, he went with the assembly to the Three Stupas to chant sūtras. He happened to look up and saw on the wall a portrait of Chan Master Wuzu Yan—successor to Chan Master Baiyun Duan of the Yangqi branch of the Linji school, and teacher of Chan Master Yuanwu Qin. The inscription on the portrait read: “In a hundred years there are thirty-six thousand mornings and evenings; through all the changes, it is this fellow after all.” He suddenly awakened and broke through the huatou of dragging a corpse.

After his awakening, he went to Nanming and again paid respects to Monk Qin. As soon as Qin saw him, he asked, “Who is it that drags this corpse here for you?” The Master immediately gave a shout! (After awakening, one’s bearing is indeed extraordinary.) Qin raised his staff (to test him once more). The Master seized it and said, “Today you cannot strike me.” (Truly, this one is worthy.) Qin said, “Why can I not strike you?” (Heavens, heavens—he has let him off one move.) The Master flicked his sleeves and left. (Fortunately, there was this move.)

The next day, Qin asked, “The myriad dharmas return to the One; where does the One return?” (The heart of a compassionate father to all under heaven.) The Master said, “A dog licks a hot oil cauldron.” (You know well that you can neither advance nor retreat.) Qin said, “Where did you learn this empty affectation?” (Whom are you asking? It was made burdensome by the monk.) The Master said, “I want precisely to make you doubt.” (Having reason on his side, he yields to no one.) Qin let the matter drop. (What could he do with him? He could only swallow his anger in silence.) From then on, their Chan exchanges yielded to neither. (Above heaven and below heaven, I alone am honored.)

One day, Qin asked in the ordinary course of conversation, “When you are wide awake during the day, can you be your own master?” (Though the fishing line hangs a thousand feet, its intent is the golden fish; why make a sore by cutting into sound flesh?) The Master replied, “I can be my own master.” (So I thought, so I thought—but it turns out, it turns out. Sure enough, he has lost his compass.)

Qin pressed on, asking, “Can you be your own master in dreams?” (To add frost to snow—another offense that cannot be tolerated!) The Master answered, “I can be my own master.” (Still not fully awake; how deep is the mud beneath his heels!) Qin asked further, “When you are sound asleep, without dreams or thoughts, seeing or hearing, where is the master of the self at that very moment?” (Please ask the monk.)

No harm in giving him another blow! How could it be elsewhere?) The Master was speechless. (The ancient Buddha has long passed away; he has already exposed his defeat.) Qin instructed him: “From this day onward, I do not want you to study Buddha or study Dharma, nor to exhaust the ancient and modern. Just eat when hungry and sleep when tired. But when you awaken from sleep, rouse your spirit and ask: Where does the master of this awakening establish himself and live?” (Do not conceal from others the good qualities of their sons and daughters; treat a living horse as though it were a dead one.)

The Master then resolved to investigate with determination. He vowed: “Even if I must spend my whole life as a monk sustained by gruel and rice, I shall certainly understand this matter clearly.” (A true man indeed—what worthy man would be content to decay together with grass and trees?) One day, while taking a midday nap, a fellow monk lodging with him carelessly shoved his pillow onto the floor. At the sound of its thud, the Master attained great and thorough awakening. (Eight beats too late! Could this monk have been an embodiment of the Great Compassionate Bodhisattva?)

(Note: The remarks in parentheses are the author’s comments.)

Having read this koan, in addition to sincerely venerating Patriarch Gaofeng’s unwavering spirit of earnest investigation and his profound awakening, we may also gain the following precious insights:

First, if we truly wish to transcend saṃsāra and be liberated from birth and death, then in investigating Chan we must relinquish everything and wholeheartedly hold fast to a single huatou devoid of conceptual meaning. We must attend to it morning and evening, in displacement and adversity, investigating it diligently and steadfastly day and night. Only then can we open up our original nature and directly realize true reality.

It is absolutely not the case that understanding a few literary or doctrinal meanings, exchanging a couple of sharp Chan retorts, offering a few turning words, or writing a few verses with literary flair constitutes awakening. Still less is it awakening merely to be physically healthy, materially comfortable, relaxed, happy, peaceful, and at ease.

Second, in investigating Chan one must arouse a sense of doubt. Only when doubt arises can it cut off deluded thoughts and gather explosive force. Once the time and conditions mature, it is like gunpowder meeting a spark: it explodes at once, and one immediately opens the mysterious gate and breaks the lock of consciousness, directly seeing one’s true reality. Otherwise, deluded thoughts continue without interruption, no explosive force can arise, and one merely wastes one’s time. Thus the ancient worthies said, “Great doubt, great awakening; small doubt, small awakening; no doubt, no awakening.” These are not empty words.

Third, those who engage in mere verbal Chan or literary display may, for a time, seem not entirely without Chan flavor. Yet this is only a temporary false appearance. Their minds are not truly emptied and open through and through; some thing always remains before them. Even if they reluctantly quiet their minds and sit in meditation, some thing still faintly remains within. Their luminosity can never break through completely. How, then, could they dissolve body, mind, and world,

and directly realize their original nature? Since they have not directly realized their original nature, how could they quiet the monkey mind and horse-like will and attain calm, stable samādhi? Thus, once adverse circumstances arise, the peaceful and joyful state of mind of which they ordinarily speak disappears without a trace.

Such people cannot be their own masters in dreams; indeed, they cannot be their own masters even in the ordinary activities of daytime. Not only can they not remain calmly unmoved and wholly unaltered amid the less readily noticed favorable circumstances; when the more obvious adverse circumstances arise, they cannot avoid being carried along by them into anger and resentment. Especially when illness attacks, they are even more unable to resist it, groaning in pain and utterly helpless.

Chan Master Dahui Gao rebuked such Chan followers as being like medicinal mercury: when it meets fire, it immediately flies away. They have no genuine benefit from practice; how, then, could they be liberated from birth and death and leave saṃsāra? Therefore, he admonished us later students of Chan that we must investigate truly and practice earnestly, and must not seek tidings merely in words and doctrinal meanings.

Fourth, Chan Master Gaofeng’s first two replies, “I can be my own master,” truly showed fine practice. They are a model and example for us later students in our own cultivation. We study Buddhism and cultivate the Way in order to be our own masters at the brink of birth and death, rather than being dragged down by karmic obstacles and sinking into the sea of suffering.

To accomplish this, while alive we must first be our own masters amid the movements and activities of daily life, not being shifted by favorable or adverse conditions, nor turned about by the deluded emotions of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure. Only then can we be our own masters in dreams. If we cannot even accomplish this, how can we speak of liberation from birth and death? For the root of birth and death is that deluded thoughts do not cease and we cling to circumstances!

For practitioners at the present stage, it is already difficult to be one’s own master during the day and not be drawn along by circumstances and conditions; how much more difficult is it to be one’s own master in dreams? Dreams are a state of partial unconsciousness, whereas the dispersal of the four elements at death is a state of profound unconsciousness.

If one cannot be one’s own master in partial unconsciousness, how can one be one’s own master amid profound unconsciousness and be liberated from birth and death? Therefore, to cultivate the mind, realize the Way, and escape the cycle of birth and death, one must first be one’s own master in dreams.

Yet however spirited and bold one may be, even if during the day one has neither attachment nor aversion amid favorable and adverse circumstances, in dreams one is often involuntarily seized by dream-demons and carried along by them. Now Chan Master Gaofeng could be his own master in dreams and was not drawn along by dream-demons. What extraordinary meditative power this was! Without undergoing several bouts of painfully earnest investigation, how could he have reached this point? It is truly not easy for one cultivating the mind to bring one’s practice to such a stage. How could we fail to admire and praise him?

Looking instead at people practicing today, most are unwilling to investigate diligently and steadily with their feet firmly on the ground. Instead, they avoid what is weighty and choose what is easy, treating literary and doctrinal meanings as the Way, or seeking tidings from others’ lips. After grasping a few similar-sounding principles, they write essays and verses, offer turning words, and imagine that they have thoroughly awakened and realized the Way.

In truth, this is merely feeding on others’ leftover, spoiled food; it is not one’s own concern, and at the brink of birth and death one cannot be one’s own master in the slightest. Speech, writing, and verse must flow from the depths of one’s own heart; only then can they encompass heaven and earth.

Some people, while practicing, occasionally experience a minor meditative state—for example, the physical body seeming to become immense or fly through space, the breath stopping and entering the state of embryonic breathing, or the manifestation of some spiritual power—and then believe they have realized the Way and become sages. In fact, these are merely illusory states appearing in meditative absorption and remain far removed from realization of the Way.

In meditative absorption, one must not become attached to any state whatsoever. Once one becomes attached, one stagnates and cannot advance. In particular, if certain spiritual powers manifest, one must not complacently rejoice and think that one has attained something. The moment complacency arises, not only can one not realize the Way, but one is very likely to enter demonic states. The fifty skandha-demons described in the Śūraṅgama Sūtra refer to such illusory processes: they are skandha-demons that obstruct the Way. Cultivators must never become attached to them, lest they mistakenly enter a wrong path and fall into the demonic way.

Some arrogant people cite the Heart Sūtra and the Diamond Sūtra, saying, “Form is emptiness; emptiness is form,” and “All conditioned appearances are illusory.”

Since all appearances are illusory, unreal, and unobtainable, then whether circumstances are favorable or adverse, beautiful or ugly, I need only respond without a clinging mind and not be carried away by them. Why investigate Chan or recite the Buddha’s name? If there were Chan to investigate or a Buddha to recite, would that not be delusion added upon delusion? These words may not appear wrong, but once one encounters adverse circumstances or suffers an unexpected calamity, everything falls apart.

Others mistakenly believe that one awakening settles everything. Having initially broken through the fundamental inquiry, they think they have arrived home, and no longer diligently contemplate or temper the mind through circumstances. Thus their habitual tendencies remain unchanged; they become wild and arrogant and gain no genuine benefit. In the end, they fall into delusion after awakening and still drift along in birth and death. Is this not grievously unjust and painful?

Still others, misled by what they have heard from others, use spiritual powers to verify whether someone has awakened.

When one’s practice gains strength and reaches just the right point, body, mind, and world suddenly dissolve into emptiness and shatter, while luminous awareness remains undimmed and utterly clear. Yet, because one does not behold any marvelous spiritual powers and does not know what this is, one mistakenly thinks it is not one’s own original nature and hurriedly lets it slip by. Is that not regrettable? Having missed this critical opportunity and thereby delayed oneself, one then uses this to deny others. This is truly to bring calamity upon oneself and leave oneself beyond rescue. An ancient worthy once lamented: “Precisely because it is so intimate, realization comes all the more slowly!” How deeply regrettable!

Today, we have recorded this koan for everyone’s reference in the hope that all may learn from it, know how to improve, strive upward, and attain genuine realization, so as not to waste their time and miss the opportunity of a lifetime.

Having studied and admired the protagonist’s sincere devotion to the Way and profound power of practice in this koan, we should further discuss with everyone its subtle points and the crucial elements of pursuing the Way, so that all may thoroughly understand the import of the Chan school, trace it directly to its source, and not be misled by partial attainments along the way. Only then will we not disappoint the deep intention of the ancient worthies.

Patriarch Gaofeng’s first two replies—“I can be master”—indeed reflect fine practice, beyond the reach of ordinary Chan practitioners. Yet, when examined closely from the Chan school’s standpoint of sudden awakening, they inevitably fall short. Their subtler implications are briefly explained below:

The Chan school directly sees one’s true nature, suddenly awakens, and becomes a Buddha; it is not a dharma gate of gradual cultivation in successive stages. Ancient worthies often said: “Even equal enlightenment and wondrous enlightenment are still merely fellows carrying sandals for it.” If even equal enlightenment and wondrous enlightenment are not worth a glance, how much less are stages below them? Therefore, the Chan school permits no intermediate process and allows not the slightest trace of contrived practice.

Chan—the Treasury of the True Dharma Eye, the wondrous mind of nirvāṇa—is utterly bare, unstained by a single speck of dust: pure and naked, bare and open.

Since there is neither an objective realm of external objects nor a subjective person who sees and hears, who is there to be master of whom? After Chan Master Xueyan Qin could not probe through Gaofeng with his first two questions—“Who drags this dead corpse for you?” and “The myriad dharmas return to the One; where does the One return?”—he deliberately spoke in an ordinary manner to bait Gaofeng, to see whether he had already cut off all contrivance and reached the ground of effortless functioning.

But Gaofeng’s footing was not yet secure; at the first lure, he took the bait and silently replied, “I can be master.” Does this not establish a resting place, with subject and object standing in opposition? This does not accord with naked Chan. In the Chan school, such a reply is called “blunting the edge and wounding the hand; not cutting off completely.” In this way, he bound his own hands and feet.

By the time he gave the same reply, “I can be master,” a second time, he had tied himself up completely, unable to move. When the third question came—“When there are no dreams or thoughts, no seeing or hearing, where is the original person?”—he could only fall silent, dying beneath the words.

Later, when the time was ripe and his pillow fell to the ground, he broke free completely. Only then, as though awakening from a dream, did he realize that the original person was not elsewhere. Mountains, rivers, the great earth, grasses, trees, and forests—all are manifestations of the original person; birdsong and flowers’ fragrance, orioles singing and swallows dancing—all are its wondrous functioning. What master or non-master could there be, and what doing or non-doing? Were not his earlier replies an utter mess?

Finally, I shall offer three further replies to Xueyan’s questions, for the benefit of fellow practitioners and as a gift of introduction to Chan Master Gaofeng:

1. Question: Can you be master during the day?

Answer: When hungry, eat; when sleepy, sleep.

2. Question: Can you be master in dreams?

Answer: The morning sun rises; the moon embraces the mountains.

3. Question: When there are no dreams or thoughts, no seeing or hearing, where is the original person?

Answer: The great void drinks the light, dispelling long separation; the wind stirs pale-green willow strands, light and soft.