I Ask the Way and There Is Nothing to Say: Clouds in the Blue Sky, Water in the Vase
Body trained like a crane's form, beneath a thousand pines, two scrolls of scripture.
I come to ask the Way, and there is nothing to say—clouds in the blue sky, water in the vase.
—Li Ao, Gift to the Great Monk Weiyan of Yaoshan
A great man should stand apart from the dharma and be pure; how could he busy himself with trivialities.
—Master Yaoshan Weiyan
Yaoshan Temple lies in Yaoshan Village, Yaoshan Town, Jinshi City, Hunan. Once named Ciyun Chan Temple, it became famous because Weiyan, patriarch of the Caodong school, once dwelt and taught there.
Times have changed. Today, on the old temple site, little remains but an ancient well, a Song-dynasty stele, and a few old trees. The glory days when Weiyan opened the school and received monks and believers from all directions are gone; the temple is now being rebuilt by its current abbot, Master Mingying.
Master Mingying is detached and sparing of speech, speaking slowly. Of science-and-engineering background, he is a disciple of the old Master Jinghui, former abbot of Sizhu Temple in my home region and founder of Beijing Zhaozhou Tea House. I had seen Yaoshan Temple's introduction at Zhaozhou Tea House and long wanted to visit; this time I finally made it.
The ease and elegance of Weiyan, the founding patriarch, had long drawn me. In Chinese Chan history there are many cases about him, most famously Li Ao's asking the Way.
Song Biographies of Eminent Monks, volume 17, records: "(Li Ao) first met Weiyan, who held a scroll and did not look up. An attendant announced, 'The prefect is here.' Li Ao, impetuous by nature, declared aloud, 'Meeting you is not as good as hearing of you.' Weiyan then called; Li Ao replied. Weiyan said, 'Prefect, why value the ear above the eye?' Li Ao bowed in apology and asked, 'What is the Way?' Weiyan pointed to the sky, then to the water bottle, and said, 'Clouds in the blue sky, water in the vase.' Li Ao thereupon, as in a dark room lit up, had his doubts melt like ice."
Since antiquity, literary men and eminent monks have exchanged verses; Weiyan and Li Ao left a beautiful cultural legacy. This Chan dialogue, fusing Zhuangzi's naturalism, has a distinctly Chinese cultural character.
Since Emperor Ming of Han dreamed of a white horse carrying scriptures and officially sent learners to India and the Western Regions, Buddhism gradually entered China. By the Tang, through the efforts of native monks, it flourished across China and formed many sects, Chan being the most distinctive. Chan later divided into five houses and seven schools; the Caodong school, founded by Weiyan's descendant disciples Dongshan Liangjie and Caoshan Benji, was one.
Caodong is known for its philosophy and its fusion of Confucian and Daoist culture. Caodong and Linji are the two Chan schools with the longest continuous transmission and still strong today. Caodong especially has deeply influenced not only China but Japan, Korea, and Southeast Asia. Since 1986, Japanese groups have visited Yaoshan Temple four times to trace their cultural roots.
Anyone who has visited Kyoto and Nara, upon first seeing the Bamboo Forest Chan Hall Master Mingying built near the old Yaoshan site, may immediately call it Japanese-style. But the monks there may take offense: it is, they say, the style of Han and Tang architecture. Just because the Japanese learned our ancestors' architecture does not mean the Japanese invented it.
Yaoshan has few resident monks and laity, yet the scenery is remarkably fine—a true place for clear cultivation. The mountain has extensive bamboo forests; the Dongchong Lake before the hall and the reservoir on the hillside are clear as jade.
Because it is remote from the city and transport is inconvenient, there are some visitors like me, drawn from afar to Chinese Chan culture, but few overall. Fewer still stay in the guest hall.
The old temple site and the new Bamboo Forest Chan Hall charge no admission. As an open ten-direction sanctuary, lodging and food are free; no one minds whether visitors make offerings or how much, and incense and worship cost nothing.
The temple has taken over farmland from nearby villagers. "Zen and agriculture together" has long been a Chan tradition, so the monks here farm, and their produce is offered in thanks. On the whole, commercialization is light.
But Hunan's rainy climate is not kind to someone like me with rheumatoid arthritis; I cannot stay long. The muggy, damp weather is wearing.
I am very fond of old Master Jinghui, having visited nearly all the temples he and his disciples have led. I like his "Life Chan," but I dislike repetitive daily routine. To spend every day reheating the Buddha's few life teachings would bore me to death.
So though I occasionally enjoy and try "Life Chan," I would never devote my precious life solely to "sitting in meditation and seeking the Way."
On the old Yaoshan site is a small clinic, a doctor's office. They say he often treats the monks, laity, and nearby villagers there. This time I did not meet him or speak with him, and I do not know whether his life here is happy. In one corner I did see an earthen pot for decocting Chinese medicine, which felt strangely familiar.
When will I next come to Yaoshan? Where will the next stop be? I do not know, and do not want to know. The most tedious thing in life is knowing exactly how the rest will look. The future is interesting only when it holds many possibilities.
One of the great purposes of my existence in this world is to create another possibility for some terminally ill patients who turn to me: that with my help they may survive—a possibility that helps them overcome the fear of death.
I come to ask the Way and there is nothing to say: clouds in the blue sky, water in the vase. Natural and spontaneous; come and go as conditions allow.