A Path Home / Conair Siar E-Book

Garry Bannister

• Herausgeber: New Island
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Who am I? Am I this human body that is born and dies? Or am I something else? Although we cannot truly know the answer to such questions, we can be guided on a path that will eventually lead us home, to whomever and whatever we really are. Koans are a means to discover this path. Koans have been used in Zen practice for hundreds of years, to stoke the mind and test the development of Buddhist students. Often counterintuitive in order to challenge our established patterns of thought, koans are teachers, messengers and, above all, powerful portals to experiences that transcend any intellectual enquiry, logic or reason. Garry Bannister presents readers with the first comprehensive translation of Zen koans in both English and Irish, and provides an intriguing investigation into the hidden messages of these foundational texts in the study of Zen Buddhism. As Alan Titley writes in his illuminating foreword, 'Garry Bannister's readings are ingenious, provocative, particular and always insightful.' Cé mise? An mise an cholainn dhaonna seo a rugadh, a éiríonn sean, tinn agus a fhaigheann bás? An mise é seo? Nó an mise, b'fhéidir, rud éigin eile? Cé nach féidir freagraí a sholáthar do cheisteanna dá leithéid, is féidir treorú a fháil i gcomhair aistir phearsanta. Is teagascóirí, teachtairí, agus níos mó ná aon rud eile, is tairseacha teanntásacha iad na cóáin a tharchéimníonn aon fhiosrú intleachtach, loighic nó limistéir theoranta an réasúin. Tugtar tráchtaireachtaí mar aon le gluaiseanna cuimsitheacha sa bhailiúchán álainn seo de 41 chóán ar shaíocht agus dhúrúin na gcóán Zen mar a dhearbhaíonn Alan Titley ina réamhrá don leabhar seo: 'Tá an léamh a dhéanann Garry Bannister ar na cóáin seo istigh íogair, éagsúil, samhlaitheach, uathúil ach léaspairteach gan stad.'

Leseprobe

A Path Home Conair Siar

A Path Home Conair Siar

41 Zen Koans in English and Irish

Garry Bannister

A Path Home / Conair Siar

First published in 2018 by

New Island Books

16 Priory Hall Office Park

Stillorgan

County Dublin

Republic of Ireland

www.newisland.ie

The poem ‘Nuacht’ from the collection Bláth an Fhéir has been reprinted with the kind permission of Seán Ó Leocháin and Cló Iar-Chonnacht. A section from the preface of Seán Ó Ríordáin's collection Eireaball Spideoige has been reproduced with thanks to Sáirséal agus Dill.

Copyright © Garry Bannister, 2018

Foreword © Alan Titley, 2018

Illustrations © Tania Stokes, 2018

The author asserts his moral rights in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright and Related Rights Act, 2000.

Print ISBN: 978-1-84840-693-3

Epub ISBN: 978-1-84840-683-4

Mobi ISBN: 978-1-84840-684-1

All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted, rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

British Library Cataloguing Data.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

New Island Books is a member of Publishing Ireland.

When you’re feeling sad and blue,

Remember I am here for you,

To make you laugh and make you see,

That life is like a cup of tea.

Nuair a bhíonn tú faoi bheann,

Le cabhrú leat, beidh mise ann,

Go bhfeice tú, le gáire glé,

Go bhfuil an saol mar chupán tae

– Sandra Bent

Do m’iníon dhil Sandra

Contents

Clár

Foreword by Alan Titley

Réamhrá le Alan Titley

Preface

Brollach

Introduction

Emptiness

Beginner’s Mind

Authenticity

Skillful Means

Non-Attachment

Impermanence

Enlightenment

Nirvana

Compassion

Karma and Suffering

Zazen

Final Word

Intreoir

Foilmhe

Intinn Thosaitheora

Barántúlacht

Modhanna Oilte

Neamhcheangal

Neamhbhuaine

Léargas

Nirbeána

Comhbhá

Karma agus Fulaingt

Zazen

Focal scoir

1. A Professor Seeking Wisdom

Ollamh ar lorg Saíochta

2. A False Accusation

Cúiseamh Bréagach

3. A Present of the Moon

An Ghealach mar Bhronntanas

4. Hoshin Predicts His Own Death

Tairngríonn Hóisin a Bhás Féin

5. Insulted by a Compliment

Maslaithe de bharr Focail Mholta

6. The Woman in the White Kimono

An Bhean sa Chimeonó Bán

7. Strawberry Feels Forever

Saol Sú Talún go Síoraí

8. The Sound of One Hand Clapping

Fuaim na Boise Amháin ag Bualadh

9. A Fiery End

Críoch Lasánta

10. An Urgent Matter

Ceist Phráinneach

11. Chiyona Carries the Moon

Tíojóna ag Iompar na Gealaí

12. The Elephant’s Footprints

Loirg Chrúba na hEilifinte

13. The Governor of Kyoto

Gobharnóir Kyoto

14. All the Meat Is the Best

An Fheoil Uile ina Feoil is Fearr

15. Flower Power

Cumhacht na mBláthanna

16. How to Get Rid of Nothing?

Conas Fáil Réidh le Faic?

17. This Man Is Not a Thief

Ní Gadaí an Fear Seo

18. Who Will Teach Him if I Do Not?

Cé a Bheidh á Mhúineadh Mura Mé?

19. The Path of No Coming and No Going

Conair Gan Teacht agus Gan Imeacht

20. Where Are Heaven and Hell?

Cá Bhfuil Neamh agus Ifreann?

21. What Is Moving?

Cad Tá ag Bogadh?

22. Bring Me the Rhinoceros!

Tabhair Chugam an Srónbheannach!

23. Subjectivity and Objectivity

Suibiachtúlacht agus Oibiachtúlacht

24. Ordinary Mind – That Is the Way

Gnáthintinn – Sin an tSlí

25. A Mirror from a Brick

Scáthán ó Bhríce

26. The Other Side of the River

An Taobh Thall den Abhainn

27. An Angry Student Seeks Wisdom

Lorgaíonn Dalta Feargach Gaois

28. Explaining Death and Dying

Míniú ar Bhás agus ar Dhul in Éag

29. Let Me Finish Then Kill Me

Lig Dom Críochnú ansin Maraigh Mé

30. I Am Awake!

Táim i Mo Dhúiseacht!

31. The Flower Sermon

Seanmóir an Bhlátha

32. Too Old to Tie Laces

Róshean le hIallacha a Cheangal

33. A Quick-Tempered Pupil

Dalta Teasaí

34. Insulted by a Blessing

Maslaithe ag Beannacht

35. Cutting the Strings

Gearradh na dTéad

36. It Was Time for Your Cup to Die

Tráth Báis do Do Chupáin

37. Gasan Stands Firm

Seasann Gasan an Fód

38. Does a Dog Have Buddha Nature?

An Bhfuil Nádúr an Bhúda ag Madra?

39. Your Original Face

D’Aghaidh Bhunaidh

40. Letter to a Dying Man

Litir chuig Fear Atá Ag Fáil Bháis

41. Inside or Outside the Gates

Laistigh nó Lasmuigh de na Geataí

Glossary

Gluais

References / Tagairtí

Acknowledgements / Buíochas

Foreword by Alan Titley

Amongst the many categories of literature there is a genre generally known as ‘wisdom literature’. This may seem like a strange appellation as all literature contains some wisdom, or so we would like to think. Certainly, the ways of our kind have traditionally set out in stories and in poems events of pith and years with the added notion that we may learn something from them. The great epics of our cultures, the Mahābhārata, the Odyssey, War and Peace, do not dictate what we think, but they do show us people, both ordinary and extraordinary, in our cultural dilemmas and seem to point to the never-ending paradoxes of what we should or should not do. Story always gives us a context, brings us into the wood of the world, but does not always show the way out.

In the blooming buzzing confusion of today’s social media we hardly read long stories or epics anymore. The idea that wisdom or knowledge might be embedded in the practice of the everyday is an alien one. We are bombarded with ‘stuff’, most of it without context, even more floating on the air of the here and now. There is no time to stop and think, never mind to stop and stare. The imperialism of the ever-present crushes all.

In our previous eretime, if you could not listen to an epic or indulge yourself in the folds of a long story, you had at hand the pithy wisdom of a wise saying. A saw, or a proverb, or a seanfhocal. They did not pretend to be definitive, or even not to be contradictory. So too many cooks spoil the broth, but many hands make light work. Thus, all things come to him who waits, but a stitch in time saves nine. The point is that all of these may well be true, but that they are without context. A story or a tale provides the human surrounding that helps us to judge the appositeness of this or that or the other. In this our time and age, when we do not have the luxury of epics and when proverbs are seen as smart refutable statements, it might just be that what we need are stories that contain the wisdom of the ages with just enough circumambient air to let the meaning breathe through. But, tales, nonetheless, that hit us in the solar plexus and take our breath up short.

The practice of koan is one of these. As with all great art, we have no idea about its origin. The backstory of all art is human, and that is enough. There are Chinese, Korean and Japanese antecedents but the basic impulse is Buddhist. It revels in paradox, complication, irresolution, all that seems to be against the grain of our modern western philosophy hewn out of the so-called enlightenment with its imperialist and dogmatic baggage. Because the koan strives to banish the preconceived from our minds and to return to an unwashed brain, it is fit and proper that not much should be said about these tales and this poetry apart from an urging to read them.

Any kind of academic setting would be anathema to what the koan sets out to do. Like all genres, it has a history, but there is a powerful sense in which that history is entirely irrelevant. There is a very proper appropriateness, then, that Garry Bannister should present his own versions of these timeless tales and poems without clutter, devoid of baggage. There is also a kind of justice in presenting them in two languages, in both prose and verse. This in itself is a reminder that these are not definitive versions, and the door that we encounter has many knockers. The invitation is to read them in several versions, or maybe just in one, or a bit of both, but it is always an invitation to open our minds and our sensibilities, which just may be the same thing anyway.

This is, of course, a book to be read slowly. Wisdom cannot be forced or stuffed or crammed. In fact, I would recommend that it be read entirely in its own spirit. Start anywhere, turn back, take a poem, then a different story, jump forward, land where you like, taste some of the meditations, go for a walk, put the book away, dig the garden, open again at random, try to think of a different interpretation, argue with the author, answer back, give in, think and think again, but also forget and let go. If you meet the Buddha on the road and kill him, even if you bury him under tons of the concrete of our times, dig him up again and listen to some of what he has to say.

Garry Bannister’s readings are ingenious, provocative, particular and always insightful. But they are entirely his own. There were times when I said to myself ‘No! That’s not what this story is about at all! It is about this other …’ And then I would go on to give my own different, maybe perverse reading. Maybe this is entirely the point. We swim in ‘a subtle flow of concepts’ but why we dip into this pool or that of the flow might well be outside our control. I always thought that ‘The Woman in the White Kimono’ (koan 6) was always about people rabbitting on and on and on and on after a cause or argument or issue had been flogged to death, but maybe this only suits my own narrow view of the sense of a lovely story. And, of course, ‘The Flower’ (koan 31) could deliver a Heideggerian onslaught of interpretation, or open for any aesthetic philosopher a Qomolangma of words.

We are constantly led to be shown that understanding is beyond words; and yet words alone are what we have to show what we don’t have. I once coined the word ‘supplusions’ for all we have to go on. These koans do not close on anything, they open and bloom. They are little punctures of colour in the grey world of consecutive argument, small plants that delay the gunge of clunking philosophy, tiny unexpected unnamed growths that sprout in our ordered gardens. It is therefore all the more helpful that Garry Bannister delivers them using many angles and approaches.

The very fact of doing them in Irish as well as in English is itself a statement of difference, of tolerance, of listening again. It is often difficult to tell which is the original, if there is one. The versions are similar but subtly different. It took a certain amount of courage to do them both in verse without making them either clumsy or twee. The idea of verse was often associated with remembering, an easy way to retain a memorable story or event. He chose a most felicitous verse form in order to do this, that of a loose kind of rhyming couplet which already exists in both languages. Some of these are readily memorisable and should help in fixing them in the imagination.

Similarly, the meditations take us beyond the stories and the verses themselves and bring us the thoughts of the famous, not so famous, and even infamous. They are a statement that the main body of the text is only a beginning, and you better shape up, because there is much more to be said. What is wondrous is that they are plucked from everywhere, from the bright, the best, and maybe even the foolish and unwise, those who can throw out a thought of ‘crazy wisdom’ with the best. Ah yes, we might expect Spinoza or Wittgenstein or Aesop, and Dostoyevski and Lao Tzu and Bach, but Marilyn Monroe and Angelina Jolie and Billy Joel take us up short, which they are meant to do. Even an old windbag like Christopher Hitchens finds a place here, but just because he says it, it doesn’t mean that it is necessarily foolish.

Garry Bannister is one of those special scholar-writers who never tramples the well-trodden paths. His wide reading across many kinds of literature means he is not likely to fall into the easy come-hither of Fashionism. This is all the more remarkable as much of his reading is done in the original languages. This facility helps him not only to see around corners but to get a sense and a feel of what is lurking there. One is tempted to make a link between his broad knowledge of the Irish tradition and his passion for wisdom literature. And yes, of course, a great deal of Irish literature contains poems of a pithy and aphoristic nature, especially from its early period when monks had to think for themselves without the noise of their own modernity. And yes, even more, there are short Irish folk tales in the great sump of béaloideas that invite us to think for ourselves, no matter the evidence to the contrary.

But he is beholden to none of these. As a citizen of the world he can choose and pick from wherever and whenever. More importantly, he doesn’t have to. Any writer or editor sifts what he can according to his own lights and wonders, and we get a real sense in these stories and poems, commentaries and reflections of a person who has engaged with the world as he feels it. Thus, there is a personal delivery behind the range of subject matter that is widely available for those who seek it out. It could not have been otherwise. Even the greatest of Zen masters speak in a personal voice, no matter how much they wish to mute it.

This then, is a book of the ages for the ages. It does not harangue or persuade or blast the message home. It is not a primer of debate which sets us up with ‘yea’ or ‘nay’. It calls not for easy answers nor for a vote for this cliché or its opposite. In this age when educationalists call for ‘critical thinking’, by which they usually mean a dousing of Western philosophy, they might open their occidental minds to those other millions who see things differently.

This is a book which does just that. Don’t just read it. Think on what you read.

Réamhrá ag Alan Titley

I measc a bhfuil de genríocha litríochta go ginearálta ann, aithnítear go minic go bhfuil a leithéid d’earra agus ‘litríocht feasa’ air. Ráineodh gurb ait le rá é a leithéid de rangú a chur os ard, óir, ba chóir go gcuirfeadh gach cineál litríochta lenár gcuid feasa agus go ndoimhneodh sé ár gcuid gaoise. Go deimhin, is chuige ár gcuid scéalaíochta agus ár gcuid seanchais ar fad ní hamháin ar son caitheamh aimsire agus fóillíochta, ach d’fhonn is go bhfoghaimeoimis rud éigin astu. Eipicí móra ár gcuid litríochta, an Maharabhata, Agallamh na Seanórach, An Choiméide Dhiaga ní méara ar eolas go cruinndíreach iad, teagasc ar féidir é a phiocadh go deas réamhdhéanta as bosca, seachas go léiríonn siad dúinn daoine i ngleic le cora an tsaoil agus a ndéanann siad faoi na toscaí seo nó na dálaí siúd faoi seach. Bronnann an scéal comhthéacs de shaghas éigin orainn i gcónaí, tugann ar láimh linn isteach i scrobarnach na coille, ach níor ghá go nochtfadh aon bhóthar díreach amháin as.

De thoisc a bhfuil d’ábhar ag gabháil steallaidh orainn inniu ar na meáin shóisialta maguaird gan stad, ar éigean go dtugtar aird ar bith ar na scéalta fada ná ar na heipicí filíochta níos mó. Tuairim bhaoth, dar le daoine, go bhfuil an ghaois nó an treoir neadaithe sa ghnáthshaol. Tá ‘ábhar’ agus ‘stuif’ ag teacht ina dtulcaí tolgacha tréana anuas orainn ina slaoda, an chuid is mó de gan cheangal, gan chomhthéacs, ag snámh ar bhruscar an lae ar nós cleití gé a scaipfí gan choinne. Níl d’uain againn seasamh siar agus an fhairsinge a mheas. Is é bró impiriúlachas na móiminte seo atá dár meilt.

Sa chás is nach raibh cothrom agat fadó dul chun cónaithe sa scéal fada nó scíth a ligean ag seoladh leat i gclupaidí na heipice, bhí ar fáil duit gontacht i gcnó an tseanfhocail istigh. D’fhuascail nathannacht an rá ghairid fadhbanna an lae. Ní raibh aon éileamh acu ar an bhfocal deireanach, ná clabhsúr a chur ar mhachnamh. Is mó sin seanfhocal nár réitigh lena chompánach: ‘Duine nach eol dó labhairt, ní heol dó éisteacht’, seachas, ‘Is binn béal ina thost.’ B’fhéidir gur fíor gach ceann díobh ar a urlár féin, ach scaoiltear chugainn iad gan aeráid, gan timpeallacht. Is é an scéal nó an seanchas a chuireann an aeráid agus an timpeallacht sin ar fáil ina ndálaí daonna, agus is iad a ligeann dúinn dul amach orthu ina lánsaibhreas. Ar thalamh lom na haoise seo nuair nach bhfuil saoirse na heipice againn agus amhras ar chaiteacht an tseanfhocail, ráineodh gurb é an scéal an áis iompair is fearr d’fhonn an duine agus a bhfuil ag gabháil dó a chiallú dúinn. Is fearrde an scéal a bhaineann an cloigeann dínn, áfach, má tá cead agam casadh a bhaint as friotail Sheosaimh Mhic Grianna.

Scéal den tsaghas sin is ea an cóán. Ar chuma gach aon rud tábhachtach eile sa tsaol táimid dall ar fad ar a bhunús. Is den daonnacht foinse gach ealaíne, agus is leor linn sin. Tá réamhtheachtaí againn a thagann anoir chugainn ón tSín, ón gCoiré agus ón tSeapáin, ach is comáint de chuid an Bhúdachais atá laistiar de ar deireadh. Is iad an paradacsa, an aimpléis, an ghuagacht ghnáith a bhranar dúchais, ciútaí machnaimh a ghabhann i gcoinne stuif fhealsúnacht choiteann an Iarthair, fealsúnacht a iompraíonn go leor de mhíthuiscintí an inlightinmint lena leathbhróg chinnte agus a leathbhróg choncais. De thoisc go gcuireann an cóán roimhe, mar sin, ár n-intinn a sciúradh is a sciomaradh den dramhaíl agus den scudal atá dár bplúchadh is ceart agus is cóir nár cheart mórán tráchta a dhéanamh mar gheall ar na scéalta agus na duanta seo seachas go díreach iad a léamh.

Ba bhréagach aon trealamh acadúil ná léirmhínithe a chur de bhreis ar a bhfuil á rá iontu mar chóáin. Tá, is fíor, stair agus ginealach acu, ach is róchuma fúthu. Is mó is cuí, mar sin, go soláthródh Garry Bannister é féin a chuid leaganacha féin de na scéalta agus de na duanta seo de cheal aon bhagáiste eile a bheith ina sliobarna astu. Den cheart agus den chóir chéanna iad a thabhairt dúinn faoi chló dhá theanga, idir phrós agus fhilíocht. Meabhrú dúinn an méid sin féin nach leaganacha deifnídeacha críochnaithe siar amach iad seo, ach cosáin éagsúla ar féidir linn siúl orthu. Taibhsítear dúinn gur cuireadh é seo iad a léamh ar iliomad slí, dul chucu le chéile nó ina n-aonar, nó a mhalairt seach má seach, ach is gabh-i-leith i gcónaí iad ár meabhair agus ár n-anam a oscailt is a leathnú is léim gach bruaich a thógáil.

Leabhar é seo nach foláir a léamh go mall. Ní fhónann stuáil ná pulcadh don ghaois. Gluaiseann de réir a cuid solais agus gátair féin. Mholfainn é a léamh leis an spiorad agus leis an sprid sin. Tosnaigh leat pé áit a n-oireann, gabh siar, tabhair léim ruthaig, siúl timpeall arís, blais de dhán agus cuir uait é, téir chun troda leis an údar, easaontaigh agus géill ina n-uainibh féin, beir greim ar smut, déan a chogan, agus scaoil uait arís. Má chasann an Búda leat fan na slí agus má dhéanann tú é a mharú agus a chur faoi chlocha an tsléibhe, déan é a thochailt aníos arís agus tabhair cluas dó, mar ní bheadh a fhios agat riamh.

Tá an léamh a dhéanann Garry Bannister orthu seo istigh íogair, éagsúil, samhlaitheach, uathúil ach léaspairteach gan stad. Is leis féin iad go smúsach. Ó am go chéile, liginn uaill amach á rá liom féin: ‘Ní hea in aon chor! Ní hí sin éirim an scéil beag ná mór! Rud eile ar fad a bhí i gceist aige…’Agus b’eo liom ag cromadh ar léamh eile ar fad a dhéanamh, léamh cam níos minice ná a chéile. B’fhéidir gurb é seo is brí leo. Táimid ar fad ag gluaiseacht ar mhuir mhór na tuairimíochta nach ngabhann stad ná staonadh uirthi ach ag síorbhualadh agus ag búiríl ar thrá ár n-intinne, agus n’fheadar aon duine againn cad ina thaobh a gcaitear suas ar an duirling seo ná siúd sinn. Shíleas riamh gur bhain an scéal ‘An Bhean sa Chimeonó Bán’ (cóán 6) le daoine a leanann orthu ag cabaireacht agus ag clabaireacht agus dár gcrá nuair atá an t-ábhar idir chamáin phléite sniugtha go héag; ach tharlódh nach bhfuil sa mhéid sin ach míniú a oiriúnaíonn dom féin. Agus d’fhéadfadh ‘An Bláth’ (cóán 31) cnoc mór Mangartúil nó sluaisteáil fhocal Zizekiúil a thál orainn gan chríoch.

Cibé rud is tuiscint ann, ní féidir í a ghabháil go hiomlán le focail; agus ina choinne sin thall ‘words alone are certain good,’ mar adúirt Yeats, nó ar a laghad is orthu is mó atá ár mbrath. Ní ‘conclúidí’ is dual dúinn, ach cluiche is cosúla le ‘ligimis orainn,’ nó ‘cuir i gcás,’ nó ‘abraimis’, nó go deimhin ‘n’fheadarclúidí’ féin. Níl aon chlabhsúr ag na Cóáin seo, is é a ndúchas fás agus craobhú. Pollann siad léithe leamh na hintinne dírí, pléascann siad bulgóidí beaga ar an mbáinté uisce, péacann fiailí áille astu sa cheapóig néata bláth. Is mór mar chúnamh é, mar sin, go scaoileann Garry Bannister chugainn iad le hiliomad cleas agus le hiolra éagsúlachta.

Iad a bheith sa Ghaeilge agus sa Bhéarla astu féin, ráiteas é ar oscailteacht agus ar iléisteacht. Téann dínn a mheas cé acu de na leaganacha an bhuninsint, sa chás is go bhfuil buninsint ann in aon chor. Is dealraitheach lena chéile iad na leaganacha sa dá theanga, dealraitheach ach ag leithriú óna chéile go caolchúiseach. Ba mhisniúil an mhaise gach cóán a thabhairt dúinn faoi chraiceann filíochta faoi dhó gan titim isteach in abar an ghliogair ná i ngaiste na rannaireachta simplí. Ba chuid den fhilíocht riamh í an chuimhne, áis ba ea í d’fhonn breithe ar eachtra nó ar scéal. Roghnaigh sé chuige foirm véarsaíochta ar a shon seo, foirm a bhí réimiúil sa Bhéarla is sa Ghaeilge araon. Is inchuimhnte agus is inmheabhraithe go leor de na ranna seo mar is dual.

Ar an gcuma chéanna seolann gach ‘plé’ nó ‘machnamh’ sinn níos sia amach ná na scéalta ná na véarsaí féin. Is iontu atá smaointe agus rinnfheitheamh na saoithe, idir dhaoine aithnidiúla agus amadáin bhaotha agus eile. Is é atá á fhógairt acu ná nach bhfuil sna téacsanna féin, dá fheabhas iad, agus tá siad ar fheabhas, nach bhfuil iontu ach tús an tosaigh. Is é is iontaí ina dtaobh ná gur rogha gach éadóchúlachta iad, go bhfuil an ráiteas tuisceanach soiléir ann ar aon leathanach leis an ngealt a bhfuil gaois na baoise aige.

Sea, is ea leis, tá Wittgenstein na léirstinte againn a raibh cónaí in Éirinn aige, agus Spinoza na bhfuinneoga dalla, agus Aesop na scéalaíochta a cuireadh chun báis, agus Dostoievski nár mharaigh aon duine riamh ach a chruthaigh Raskolnikov, agus Lao Tzu nach bhfeadair aon duine againn pioc ina thaobh, ach is mó is ionadh linn Marilyn Monroe agus Angelina Jolie agus Billy Joel, agus cad ina thaobh nach mbeadh rud éigin le rá acu siúd ach an oiread le haon duine eile? Tá, go fiú, an seanghaotaire péiceallach doighreapach smearachánach caibirlíneach leastaireach sin Christopher Hitchens inár lúba, ach ní leor a áiteamh de thoisc gur uaidh an smaoineamh ó dhuine eile nach bhféadfadh ciall éigin a bheith leis.

Scoláire agus scríbhneoir é Garry Bannister nach siúlann na bealaí a shiúlann gach duine eile. Cosaint is ea an léann atá aige, agus go deimhin a chuid eolais fhairsing ar theangacha éagsúla, cosaint í i gcoinne ‘gabh-i-leith’ simplí an Fhaiseanachais. Tá de chumas aige féachaint timpeall agus maguaird ar na bobghaistí a leagann machaire méith na gclíchés amach dúinn.

Is é a déarfadh daoine go saonta, b’fhéidir, go bhfuil gaol gairid idir an léamh domhain atá déanta aige ar litríocht na Gaeilge agus an dúil mhallaithe a léiríonn sé i litríocht na gaoise. Ní gá an ceangal sin a dhéanamh. Is fíor, gan amhras anonn, gur litríocht nathannach ghonta ghearrfhoclach is ea cuid mhór de litríocht de litríocht na teanga seo againn, go háirithe ó thréimhse sin na seanGhaeilge nuair a chonacathas moiche na maidne agus an tsolais le soiléire gan cheo. Agus fairis sin ar aghaidh, is fíor chomh maith céanna go bhfuil scéalta gearra gairide béaloidis ann ina gcuirtear d’fhiachaibh orainn machnamh a dhéanamh dúinn féin, ina léirítear dúinn nach dogma aonuamach é an saol.

Ní i dtaobh le haon cheann díobh sin é. Saoránach de chuid an domhain é, agus is leis an domhan sin go léir é, fad a ritheann. Cead aige gaois a phiocadh ar ghruaibhín an bhealaigh bhig, mar a thiteann. Fachtar tuiscintí as an aer, mar a nochtann. Tá comáint phearsanta laistiar de na scéalta is de na duanta seo, agus ní healaí dúinn sin a shéanadh. Na máistrí Zen is mó is ina nguth féin a labhraíonn siad, fág gurbh fhearr leo é a chur ar ceal.

Leabhar é seo, mar sin, ba dhóigh leat nach mbaineann leis an aois seo féin seachas le haois ar bith eile. Ní bhuailtear aon teagasc abhaile ann. Ní gá dúinn seasamh ar an droichead dé-náireach a éilíonn ‘sea ’nó ‘ní hea’. San am marfach ina mairimid agus nuair atá lucht oideachais ag blaidhriúch ar son ‘smaoineamh criticiúil’ b’fhéidir nárbh fhearr mar théacs é an leabhar áirithe seo, seachas aon cheann eile a raibh aon rud chomh gránna le ‘conclúid’ luaite leis.

Preface

Fold the paper, put the pen away,

Hapless un-annunciate.

The little thing too huge to say;

Mumble thanks and slink outside.1

The words of the Irish poet and dharma teacher, James Norton, who perhaps sees his artistic creations as ephemeral moments of inspiration or poetic sand-mandalas that, once created, should be left to fade into the silence from which they appeared. And indeed, it’s many the time while I was committing to paper commentaries on the forty-one koans in this book, that I too have wanted ‘to put the pen away … mumble thanks and slink outside’.

But I have never agreed with the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein’s much-vaunted assertion that ‘about what one cannot speak, one must remain silent’. If this were true, then surely this self-enforced silence would mute all forms of art, music, poetry and all tracts on spirituality. The exact opposite, however, seems to be the case; the most worthwhile conversations and meaningful discussions of all are precisely those concerning what is unsayable, unseeable, and ungraspable.

When I was fifteen and in a boarding school on the north side of Dublin city, I used to look forward to going into town on a Wednesday afternoon with my best pal, Johan. We both loved Bewley’s Mary-cakes and the bookshops, of which there were many intriguing and exciting small privately owned premises at the time. Some of these stores offered exotic titles from weird small unknown publishers. Others provided for specialised interests, like The Modern Language Bookshop on Westland Row. For book-lovers, the mid-sixties were indeed an exciting time!

One afternoon, after coffee and Mary-cakes, Johan and myself moseyed up Dawson Street and into the APCK.2 After spending some time wandering around and using the shop more as a public library than a bookstore, we left, and I noticed that Johan had purchased for himself a small Penguin paperback entitled Zen Koans.

Standing outside the Mansion House, Johan read out one of the koans from his new book which I still remember today. It was about two young monks who were arguing as to whether the world in which they lived merely appeared within their minds, or whether it was an objective reality located entirely outside in a physical world. A Zen Master who was passing by overheard their discussion and turned to address one of the monks:

‘Here is a large rock. Do you consider it to be inside or outside your mind?’

‘According to the Buddhist viewpoint, everything is an objectification of mind, and so in my opinion, that stone is inside my own mind,’ replied one of the monks.

‘Alas, your mind must feel very heavy if you have to carry around a rock like that inside your head all day,’ smiled the Zen Master.

That was the very first Zen koan I had ever heard and my very first introduction to Zen Buddhism. It was the humour, the playfulness and the brevity of the koan that most appealed to me as a young boy.

A little further down from where we were, closer to Nassau Street, was an Irish-language bookshop that had just recently been opened: The Celtic Bookshop. This was a place where you could purchase the works of a new generation of young Irish poets such as Gabriel Rosenstock, Michael Davitt and Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. These poets and others like them were writing poems about philosophy, social issues, sexuality and intimacy, and were celebrating life in the modern-day Ireland of that time, especially the lives of younger people living in the larger cities such as Dublin, Cork and Galway.

Amongst these poets there was one that I particularly liked, perhaps because his poetry was sharp and crisp like that of the koan I had just heard read out to me. This poet was Seán Ó Leocháin.

Only a week earlier I had bought a copy of his first (as far as I am aware) published collection of poems, with an intriguing black and white cover and the catchy title Bláth an Fhéir (The Blossom of Grass). It cost ten shillings at the time which was a whole week’s pocket-money, but was worth every penny! Amongst the many beautiful poems in that book, I found one particular verse with the title ‘Nuacht’ (‘News’) that told a tale of a man who carved the name of a girl (presumably his girlfriend) into the bark of a tree. Suddenly, to his horror, he sees blood on his knife and the tree itself bleeding profusely. In the final verse, the tree starts screaming and chases after the man holding the knife.

In a different place

in the wood,

there was a man with a knife

cutting

her name into the tree.

He got startled,

because there was blood

on the knife

and blood

all over the tree.

There was a scream,

Then a weeping voice.

The man fled,

the bloodied oak

hunting him down.3

I remember thinking at the time that the Zen koan and the poem by Ó Leocháin were both referring to something fairly similar. Was the world something inside our minds – something subjective – or was it an objective reality outside of ourselves, something that was there whether or not we, the observers, were in the frame? Were we all somehow one and the same being?

In Ó Leocháin’s poem, the tree and the man seem somehow to be intertwined. The ‘knife-man’ is horrified when he sees the tree bleeding, because like us, he is used to seeing daily life as a differentiated reality. We all divide our experience up between the world of ‘I’ and ‘not-I’, but what if the differentiated world is all made from the one same thing: the big stone and the experience of it by the two young monks, the tree, the blood, and the man with the knife? What if all the diversity that we see around us is only an alternative aspect of one single essence? In other words, what if ‘the other’ is an appearance that arises like a wave amidst other waves on a great measureless sea consisting of one substance?

In a strange way, there is a link between that fine summer’s day outside the Mansion House when Johan read the koan about the fundamental question of ‘I’ and ‘not-I’ and the central issue to which so many of the koans refer – nondualism or Advaita.4 The koans do not attempt to describe a truth that defies description – that would be foolish. This profound truth is a realisation that can only arise from each individual’s personal journey, because it is a profoundly subjective experience. All any koan can possibly do, and indeed does very well, is inspire its audience to take that inward journey upon themselves. The Dalai Lama enunciated this very precisely when he spoke about the science of consciousness in a recent issue of the Buddhist Journal Lion’s Roar:

Given that one of the primary characteristics of consciousness is its subjective and experiential nature, any systematic study of it must adopt a method that will give access to the dimensions of subjectivity and experience.5

This task of conducting a rigorous empirical introspection is one that the Zen koans do exquisitely well, and indeed a lot more effectively than any phenomenological or epistemological study ever could. Clearly, this kind of realisation or enlightenment can never be achieved by relying exclusively on a third-party perspective. We, ourselves, have to make our own personal journey and acquire an authentic experience of our own. This does not require us having to travel to some far distant land – this elephant is in our own backyard (koan 12).

I said at the beginning of this preface that I strongly disagreed with Ludwig Wittgenstein’s premise that ‘about what one cannot speak, one must remain silent’. But the fact of the matter is, from a different perspective, Wittgenstein is absolutely right. Didn’t the Buddha Shākyamuni, in the Flower Sermon, remain absolutely silent about what couldn’t be spoken of, just as Wittgenstein recommends? There are no frozen truths. Everything we know is both true and false, but yet, neither.

This book is an invitation to you, the reader, to make an inward journey, to turn the focus of your attention inwards. Each koan is an opportunity to undertake a beautiful, entertaining and inspiring journey that can be made by any person, at any time, any place or any age. Every journey, of all the infinite number of journeys possible, will always be individual and unique, and for any person who travels the path, it will be an unparalleled, challenging and extraordinary journey of ‘Self’ discovery. Bon voyage!

1 James Norton, ‘Mute Celestial’, The Fragrance of Dust: Haiku Stories Poems, Alba, Uxbridge, 2012.

2 Association for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge.

3 Seán Ó Leocháin, ‘Nuacht’, Bláth an Fhéir, An Clóchomhar TTA, Dublin, 1968, p.19. (translation).

4 Cf. see glossary.

5 Dalai Lama, ‘Mind & Brain, the two sciences’, Lion’s Roar, January 2018, p.60.

Brollach

Fill an páipéar, cuir uait an peann,

Beo bocht ais-tarraing focal.

An frídín beag rómhór le rá;

Mungailt bhuíochais, sleamhnaím as.6

Focail an fhile Éireannaigh agus an oide dharma, James Norton, a fheiceann, de réir dealraimh, na saothair ealaíne úd a chruthaíonn sé mar amhairc sciobtha amháin nó nóiméid ghearrshaolacha a imíonn chomh luath is a bhíonn siad críochnaithe aige. Agus i ndáiríre, tuigim an file go maith mar nach iomaí uair is mé ag scríobh faoi na cóáin sa chnuasach seo, gur theastaigh uaim féin an peann a chur uaim, buíochas a mhungailt agus sleamhnú as go ciúin.

Ach níor aontaigh mé riamh le mana an fhealsaimh, Ludwig Wittgenstein, ar a ndéantar athfhriotal go mion minic ‘An rud nach féidir labhairt faoi, ní mór dúinn fanacht inár dtost faoi.’ Dá mba rud é go raibh a leithéid de dhearbhú fíor, cad a tharlódh le gach cineál de shaothar ealaíne mar sin? Cumtar ceol, scríobhtar filíocht, péinteáiltear pictiúir, múnlaítear dealbha mar teastaíonn ó gach ealaíontóir go díreach an rud nach féidir a rá a chur i bhfocail, i bpíosa ceoil, i bpéint, i gcré, i ndamhsa. Tá an taobh contráilte ar fad den bhata ag Wittgenstein an uair seo mar is iad na rudaí nach féidir linn labhairt fúthu go gcaithfimid i gcónaí bheith á bplé agus á n-iniúchadh go fíneálta.

Nuair a bhí mé cúig bliana déag d’aois agus mé ag freastal ar scoil chónaithe i dtuaisceart Bhaile Átha Cliath, thugtaí cead gach Céadaoin dúinn, ar leathlá scoile, éalú amach chun na cathrach. Chuaigh mise le mo chara is fearr, Johan, le cupán caife agus cúpla Mary cakes a cheannach in Bewleys, agus gan aon amhras, le féachaint ar na siopaí leabhar a bhí bailithe le chéile in aice Coláiste na Tríonóide ar nós ban coimhdeachta a bheadh ag freastal ar riachtanais acadúla a n-áil léinn. Agus bhí neart siopaí lán le leabhair shuimiúla ar fáil i mBaile Átha Cliath sna seascaidí, idir shiopaí príobháideacha le teidil andúchasacha ó fhoilsitheoirí anaithnide agus shiopaí le leabhair i gcomhair ábhar spéise faoi leith, amhail The Modern Languages Bookshop ar bhóthar Rae an Iarthair agus The St Anne’s Bookshop ar shráid Dasain.

Tráthnóna amháin, tar éis caife agus Mary cakes a alpadh siar, rinneamar falaireacht mhall réidh suas sráid Dasain go dtí an APCK.7 Tar éis tamaill fhada shásúil a chaitheamh ag siúl timpeall an tsiopa sin ag léamh leabhar faoi mar a bheimis i leabharlann phoiblí, thángamar amach agus thug mise faoi deara go raibh leabhar beag nua Penguin ceannaithe ag Johan. An t-ainm a bhí ar an leabhar sin ná ‘  Zen Koans’.

Inár seasamh taobh amuigh de Theach an Ardmhéara agus an ghrian ag spalpadh anuas orainn, léigh Johan ceann de na cóáin amach. Bhí scéal an chóáin mar gheall ar bheirt mhanach óg a bhí ag plé na ceiste an raibh an domhan a chonaic siad timpeall orthu i ndáiríre taobh istigh dá n-intinn, nó an raibh sé ina réaltacht oibiachtúil ar an taobh amuigh. Faoin tráth sin, bhí Máistir Zen ag gabháil na slí agus chuala sé na manaigh ag argóint. Chas an máistir timpeall ina dtreo agus chuir sé caint orthu á rá:

‘Féachaigí ar an gcloch mhór os bhur gcomhair amach! An measann sibh go bhfuil sí laistigh nó lasmuigh de bhur n-intinn?’ a fhiafraíonn an Seanmháistir Zen.

‘De réir dhearcadh an Bhúdachais, is oibiachtú intinne atá i ngach rud. Mar sin i mo thuairimse, tá an chloch sin laistigh de m’intinn féin,’ arsa duine de na manaigh leis an Seanmháistir.

‘Faraor, ní mór ach go bhfuil d’intinn an-trom ar fad agus tusa ag iompar a leithéid de chloch mhór mar í timpeall leat ar feadh an lae,’ arsa an Máistir Hógan le miongháire.

B’in an chéad uair riamh dom cóán ar bith a chloisteáil agus ba é freisin an chéad aithne a chuir mé ar theagasc an Zen-Bhúdachais. Ba iad an deaghiúmar, spraíúlacht, agus an ghontacht na trí rud a chuaigh go mór i bhfeidhm orm den chéad uair sin agus mé i mo ghasúr óg na cianta fada ó shin.

Beagáinín beag níos sia síos an tsráid uainn agus in aice le sráid Nassau, bhí siopa nua oscailte le leabhair Ghaeilge amháin ar díol ann – The Celtic Bookshop – áit inar féidir filíocht de ghlúin nua d’fhilí a cheannach, filí óga tréitheacha amhail Gabriel Rosenstock, Michael Davitt agus Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. Bhí na filí seo agus filí nach iad ag ceiliúradh saoil nua-aoisigh na hÉireann, go háirithe saol aos óg na gcathracha móra. I measc na bhfilí seo, bhí file amháin a thaitin go háirithe liomsa, b’fhéidir mar gur bhreá liom ag an am sin a stíl ghairid ghonta a bhí cosúil leis an gcéad chóán Zen a chuala mé taobh amuigh de Theach an Ardmhéara. Seán Ó Leocháin an t-ainm a bhí ar an bhfile seo.

Seachtain roimhe sin cheannaigh mé sa Celtic Bookshop an chéad chnuasach álainn dá chuid filíochta Bláth an Fhéir agus ba sa chnuasach sin go bhfuair mé dán dar theideal ‘Nuacht’ a d’inis faoi fhear a ghearr ainm mná (ainm a chailín ghrá is dócha) i gcoirt chrainn. Go tobann tagann uafás ar an bhfear scine nuair a fheiceann sé fuil ar a scian agus go bhfuil an crann féin ag cur fola go fras. Sa véarsa deiridh, tosaíonn an crann ag béicíl os ard agus ag rith i ndiaidh an fhir scine.

In áit eile

sa choill,

bhí fear scine

ag gearradh

a hainm san adhmad.

Gheit sé,

mar bhí fuil

ar a scian

agus fuil

ar fud an chrainn.

Scréach,

ansin glór caointeach.

Theith an fear,

an dair

fola ar a thóir.8

Is cuimhin liom gur smaoinigh mé ag an am sin faoin gcóán agus faoi dhán Uí Leocháin nár léigh mé ach an oíche roimhe sin. Chonacthas domsa go raibh an dán agus an cóán ag fiosrú na ceiste céanna – an raibh an domhan laistigh dár n-intinn, ina rud suibiachtúil, nó ar rud é a bhí go hoibiachtúil ar an taobh amuigh más ann nó as sinne, na breathnóirí?

I ndán Uí Leocháin, bhí an crann agus an fear scine fite fuaite lena chéile. Bhí uafás ar an bhfear scine nuair a chonaic sé an crann ag cur fola, mar cosúil linn féin, bíonn sé de nós ag an bhfear seo ina ghnáthshaol laethúil idirdhealú a dhéanamh idir é féin agus gach rud eile. Roinnimid an saol suas chun réaltacht inoibrithe a sholáthar dúinn féin, ach más den stuif céanna gach uile rud – an chloch mhór agus eispéireas na manach, an crann, an fhuil agus an fear scine – ní bheadh san ilchineálacht mórthimpeall orainn ach gné eile den aon eisint amháin chéanna: dealramh ansin a bheadh san ‘eile’ a éiríonn agus a imíonn amhail tonn i measc tonnta eile ar fharraige mhór na haon eisinte.

Ar bhealach ait, tá nasc idir an lá breá samhraidh sin taobh amuigh de Theach an Ardmhéara nuair a léigh Johan an cóán gairid amach faoin cheist bhunúsach mar gheall ar ‘mise’ agus ‘ní mise’ agus príomhcheist dá mbíonn cuid mhór de na cóáin uile ag tagairt – i. an neamhdhéachas nó Advaita.9

Ní dhéanann na cóáin cur síos oibiachtúil ar an bhfírinne seo mar is tuiscint í a éiríonn as eispéireas pearsanta an duine féin é – i. go suibiachtúil. Ní féidir leis na cóáin ach a lucht éisteachta a spreagadh le dea-ghiúmar, le paradacsaí, le héigiall dhealraitheach chun an t-aistear inmheánach seo a thabhairt orthu féin. Leag an Dalai Lama a mhéar go cruinn air seo in eagrán den Lion’s Roar le déanaí:

Má ghlactar leis gurb é ceann den na príomhthréithe a bhaineann le nádúr na comhfhiosachta ná a eispéireasachas agus a shuibiachtúlacht, ní mór go nglacfadh aon staidéar córasach modh oibre chuige féin a sholáthródh slí isteach ar dhiminsin na suibiachtúlachta agus ar eispéiris.10

Seo tasc a dhéanann na cóáin go taibhseach ar fad agus i bhfad níos fearr agus níos éifeachtaí ná mar a dhéanfaí in aon staidéar feiniméineolaíoch nó eipistéimeolaíoch nó in aon saothar acadúil eile ina ndéanfaí an chesit a phlé go hoibiachtúil sa tríú pearsa.

Dhearbhaigh mé ag tús an bhrollaigh seo nár aontaigh mé in aon chor le mana an fhealsaimh, Ludwig Wittgenstein: ‘An rud nach féidir labhairt faoi, ní mór dúinn fanacht inár dtost faoi.’ Ach ar an taobh eile den scéal, tá an ceart iomlán ag an bhfealsamh má táthar ag teacht ó pheirspictíocht pas beag níos difriúla. Nár fhan an Búda féin, Seacamúnaí, ina thost nuair a thug sé an teagasc neamhbhriathartha dá lucht leanúna i Seanmóir an Bhlátha (cóán 31), díreach mar a mholann an fealsamh Wittgenstein ina ráiteas dúinn? Lena rá ar chaoi eile, ní féidir aon fhírinní reoite bheith ann sa saol seo. Bíonn gach rud fíor agus bréagach, agus ag an am céanna, gan bheith fíor ná bréagach ach oiread.

Is cuireadh duit atá sa leabhar seo, a léitheoir, dul sa tóir ar do theach taiscí féin. Tairseach is ea gach cóán – tairseach gur féidir a thrasnú le haistear álainn taiscéalaíochta a oscailt romhatsa ar do chonair inmheánach phearsanta féin. Agus beidh gach uile aistear a dhéanfaidh tú, de na haistir uile gan teorainn gur féidir a dhéanamh, ina aistear indibhidiúil úrnua. Go n-éirí bóthar na Zen-chóán leat!

6 James Norton, ‘Mute Celestial’ The Fragrance of Dust, Alba, Uxbridge, 2012. (aisthrithe)

7 Association for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge.

8 Seán Ó Leocháin, ‘Nuacht’, Bláth an Fhéir, An Clóchomhar TTA, Baile Átha Cliath, 1968, lch.19.

9 Fch. Gluais.

10 Dalai Lama, ‘Mind & Brain, the two sciences’, Lion’s Roar, eagrán Eanáir 2018, lch.60.

Introduction

It is often said, with some confidence, that the purpose of koans is to ‘demolish the walls’11 of complacent thinking and to encourage the reader ‘to make an ally of the unpredictability of the mind’.12 While this may certainly be true, I feel it also important to not only encourage the reader to make a creative leap, but also to realise an underlying truth whose discovery precedes even the teachings of Shākyamuni himself.

The reality that the koans generally point to is primarily addressing the teaching of Emptiness. This teaching also appears in some of the earliest Hindu texts and reveals truths that can be derived from our personal experience alone.

Zen koans are the perfect vehicle to help us embark on a personal journey of spiritual realisation and enlightenment. Koans do not require any belief-system, any mystical revelation, or any zazen practice, pilgrimages or prostrations. They reveal seeable truths that we simply fail to see, like the proverbial elephant in the room. Koan 24 tells us that the true nature of reality can only be discovered through ‘ordinary mind’ and all the koans together lead us to an individual personal experience that awakens us to our true nature.

Along the way, the koans also reflect many other of the key principles of Buddhist practice, such as Beginner’s Mind, Authenticity, Skillful Means, Non-Attachment, Impermanence, Enlightenment (kensho), Nirvana, Compassion, Karma, and Meditation (zazen). Apart from these, there are, of course, many more Buddhist propositions not discussed in this introduction that will most certainly be discovered by those who continually return to these and other koans throughout their lives.

Emptiness

‘Form is emptiness, emptiness is form’ – this quotation from the Heart Sūtra, is one that is very commonly heard in Buddhist circles. What it claims is that the world we see around us – objects, sounds, sensations, feelings, the totality of the world of forms or phenomena – is, in fact, emptiness. Emptiness is not separate from all phenomena. It is all phenomena. But what is this emptiness? In simpler terms, perhaps, the question might be asked: ‘What am I?’ Am I this person in this waking state who is born, gets old, becomes sick and eventually dies? Am I this physical body that is the ‘doer’ and interacts with other ‘doers’ that are in other physical bodies, just like ‘mine’? Is it, perhaps, that we tend to see things and people as separate from ourselves? Does the Buddhist understanding of emptiness allude to the inevitable realisation that nothing exists on its own, separate from everything else? Is everything in reality inextricably connected, and is understanding this the true beginning of enlightenment? Koans are probably one of the very best ways to seek out an answer to this question, because they do not answer it. They say the unsayable by not saying it.

It is in emptiness that the ungraspable, the unsayable, the inconceivable, and the unknowable is transmitted to Mahākāśyapa by Shākyamuni when the Buddha picks up a small white flower and says absolutely nothing. Only when Mahākāśyapa bursts out laughing and has understood the transmission does Shākyamuni speak, saying:

‘What I have said, I have said to you and what cannot be said

I have given to Mahākāśyapa.’

Koans point to the moon, but it is only the reader who can see it (koans 3 & 11). Silence is their voice and yet it is louder than laughter (koan 31), even more still than one hand clapping (koan 8), and more elusive than a shower of flowers (koan 15).

But perhaps ‘emptiness’ out of which all forms arise, are made manifest, and fade, and to which so many of the koans allude, can be identified in earlier Hindu teachings, prior to those of Shākyamuni. The koans seem to direct the listener or reader cryptically and enigmatically back to the ancient teachings of Advaita Vedanta,13 or non-duality. This is a teaching that goes back to the Upanishads and consistently recurs, to varying degrees, throughout many of the classical koans that are represented in this book.14

The teachings on non-duality would appear to be central to any proper understanding of emptiness or the dharma of Shākyamuni. This ancient dharma is embedded in the very fabric of the koans themselves, and it relates directly to fundamental realisations that were celebrated nearly 500 years before the birth of the Buddha Shākyamuni. The later Upanishads may have been composed around the same time as Shākyamuni’s teachings but there is, as yet, no definitive opinion amongst scholars about this.15

The central revelation in the Upanishads is that only Brahman, (turiya, or universal awareness) exists. All other is form or appearances, that come and go. It is only pure awareness – turiya – that has ‘no coming or going’, as Ikkyu informs Ninakawa in koan 19.

12. Brahman, truly, is this immortal,

Brahman is in front, Brahman is behind,

it is to the right and to the left,

it extends below and above.

The whole world is nothing but Brahman, the supreme.16

This Brahman, pure consciousness, this ‘I am’ appears in all states of being. When I am awake, it is I who is awake. When I am dreaming, it is I who is dreaming. When I am in deep sleep, again it is I who is in deep sleep. Turiya, or pure awareness, never changes. It is never born and it never dies. It has no colour, no shape or any form. It can never be seen, heard, tasted or known but it is the knower of all things. As Nansen reminds Joshu in koan 24, ‘it does not belong to knowledge, nor does it belong to non-knowledge. All knowledge is illusion and non-knowledge is beyond discrimination’.

Pure awareness or turiya has three qualities: sat ‘existence’, cit ‘awareness’ or ‘consciousness’ and ānanda ‘bliss or pure joy’. In other words, our true nature is existence that is never born and never dies, and this existence, this ‘I am’, is pure blissful awareness. This is how the waking state, the dreaming state, the sleeping state and turiya are described in the third, fourth and fifth verses of the Mandukya Upanishad: