One Mind, Two States
by Kalu Rinpoche


Mind has two faces, two facets, which are two aspects of one reality. These are enlightenment and illusion.

Enlightenment is the state of pure mind. It is nondualistic knowing and is called primordial wisdom. Its experiences are authentic; that is, they are without illusion. Pure mind is free and endowed with numerous qualities.

Illusion is the state of impure mind. Its mode of knowledge is dichotomous or dualistic; it is the “conditioned consciousness.” Its experiences are tainted by illusions. Impure mind is conditioned and endowed with much suffering.

Ordinary beings experience this state of impure, deluded mind as their habitual state. Pure, enlightened mind is a state in which mind realises its own nature as free of habitual conditions and the suffering associated with them. This is the enlightened state of a Buddha.

When our mind is in its impure, deluded state, we are ordinary beings who move through different realms of conditioned consciousness. The transmigration of the mind within these realms make up their indefinite rounds in conditioned, cyclic existence, or the cycle of lives – samsara in Sanskrit.

When it is purified of all samsaric illusion, the mind no longer transmigrates. This is the enlightened state of a Buddha, which is experience of the essential purity of our own mind, of our Buddha nature. All beings, whatever they happen to be, have Buddha nature. This is the reason we can all realise Buddha nature. It is because we each possess Buddha nature that it is possible to attain enlightenment. If we did not already have Buddha nature, we would never be able to realise it.

So, the ordinary state and the enlightened state are distinguished only by the impurity or purity of mind, by the presence or absence of illusions. Our present mind already has the qualities of buddhahood; those qualities abide in mind; they are mind’s pure nature. Unfortunately, our enlightened qualities are invisible to us because they are masked by different shrouds, veils, and other kinds of stains.

Buddha Sakyamuni taught:

Buddha nature is present in all beings,
But shrouded by adventitious illusions.
Purified, they are truly Buddha.

The distance between the ordinary state and the “enlightened” state is what separates ignorance from knowledge of this pure nature of mind. In the ordinary state, it is unknown. In the enlightened state, it is fully realised. The situation in which mind is ignorant of its actual nature is what we call fundamental ignorance. In realising its profound nature, mind is liberated from this ignorance, from the illusions and conditioning that ignorance creates, and so enters the unconditioned enlightened state called liberation.

All Buddhadharma and its practices involve purifying, “disillusioning” this ·mind, and proceeding from a tainted to an untainted state, from illusion to enlightenment.

Kalu Rinpoche 14.

The Truth is realised in an instant; the Act is practised step by step.

— Zen Master Seung Sahn

Zen Master Seung Sahn 8.

Unless we practice the teachings through study, reflection, and meditation, we are stuck in the rut of being controlled by our thoughts and habits. The way we think of and perceive the world is mistaken. Our consciousness is structured such that no matter how carefully we may think, no matter how hard we may try to grasp the world around us, the conclusion we arrive at is always different from what things are actually like, and it is our acting upon this mistaken perception that leads to suffering.

— Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche

Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche 24.

Samsāra is nothing but imagination — the lack of imagination is liberation.

— Nāgārjuna

Nagarjuna (龙树菩萨) 62.

No Teacher of Zen
by Norman Fischer

One of my favourite Zen stories is about teachers. The great Zen teacher Huangbo strides into the hall and says to the assembled monastics, “You people are all dreg-slurpers! If you go on like this, when will you ever see today? Don’t you know that in all of China, there are no teachers of Zen?”

A monastic comes forward and says to him, “Then what about all those people like you who set up Zen places that students flock to like birds?” Huangbo replies, “I don’t say there is no Zen, only that there are no teachers.”

As an independent-minded (some would say stubborn) person, I find this story appealing. I have never been attracted to Zen masters or gurus, powerful and charismatic spiritual guides. There may or may not actually be such special people, but in any case, I have never been interested in them. I assume that I know what I need to know for living my life and that when I need to know more I will find it out for myself. No wisdom or experience that isn’t my own is worthwhile.

So I have asked myself, what’s the point of spiritual teachers? What benefit could possibly be gained from hanging around some supposed sage if somebody else’s enlightenment is never going to rub off on me?

When I began my Zen study, I wanted to learn how to do zazen so I could find out firsthand what Zen was all about. I was happy to listen to talks and instructions that might help orient me to the practice. But the idea that following a Zen teacher and hanging on his every word and deed (in those days, Zen teachers were men) would somehow help me become enlightened seemed not only unappealing but also wrong.

My thoughts resonated with Huangbo’s: there is Zen, but there are no teachers of Zen. Of course, people with credentials set up shop and welcome students. We all need some structure and a place to practice. But the teacher can’t teach you. Your practice is up to you. Good old American individualism. I believed it so much that I had no interest whatsoever in encountering teachers, though at the time there were several storied Asian Buddhist teachers in America. Though I first came to San Francisco Zen Centre in the summer of 1970, about a year and a half before the passing of the centre’s great founder, Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, I made no effort to hear him speak, never saw him, and was not interested in attending his funeral nor the installation of his successor, the first American Zen master, that preceded it. Looking back at this now, I see it as a missed opportunity. But that’s how I was at the time.

All this might imply that I was a rebellious Zen student. But I wasn’t. I had no problem respecting my teachers, listening to their talks, going for regularly scheduled interviews. To reflexively rebel, challenge, or deny a teacher is to set up a teacher in your mind who fulfils the ideal requirements the teacher in front of you is failing to fulfil. If you feel compelled to rebel, it is probably because you actually do believe in an idealised almighty Zen master. I had no such belief and no such compulsion. I was at the Zen Centre to study Zen. I had my reasons for wanting to do that. Since the teachers were in charge, I would cooperate with them. But whatever benefit or understanding or enlightenment I got was my own affair. No one else could give it to me or even lead me to it.

I recount all this not because I entirely agree with it now, but to give a sense of how I was thinking about teachers and Zen practice in my early years. I certainly did not think that I would become a Zen teacher myself. My thought was simply to get what I needed from the practice and move on with my vague life as a poet, surviving somehow. My wife, Kathie, and I were ordained as Zen priests in 1980 because our teacher required us to either do that and continue to practice at the centre full-time or move on and get a life (we had two children by then). We weren’t ready to go, so we agreed to ordain, a step Kathie was much more ready for than I was, but I managed.

In 1988, when my teacher offered me shiho (dharma transmission), which would give me full ordination as a Soto Zen priest, I was surprised. In those days in American Zen, shiho was rare (though it was not rare in Japan). People presumed that only deeply enlightened people could receive it, which is why I was surprised. Nevertheless, I went ahead with the process and became a Zen teacher, a role I found at first disturbing, being so ill-prepared and ill-suited for it. But eventually, thinking of Huangbo, I came to accept the social designation “Zen priest” or “Zen teacher,” and since then I have done my best to try to help people practice.

There is more to “no teachers of Zen” than meets the eye. I still believe that students are responsible for their own practice and their own awakening. No one can communicate a truth worth knowing; the only worthwhile truth is the one you find uniquely, for your own life. On the other hand, Zen is not Lone Ranger practice. Zen teachers are important to the practice, as the tradition certainly indicates and experience proves. Yes, there are no Zen teachers because Zen isn’t a teachable subject matter or skill. There are things to be learned, such as Zen liturgy, how to comport one’s self in a zendo, and how to strike a proper bell at a proper time, but it is clear that Zen itself, while not exactly something other than these things, isn’t the same as them. Zen is much more slippery than that. The Heart Sutra says, “All dharmas are empty.” Zen is empty — empty of content, empty of doctrine, style, or faith that can be codified and defined. So what is there to teach?

But yes, there are Zen teachers because Zen practice is not nothing: real transformation occurs. Zen teachers can’t show you how to effect this transformation, they cannot cause it to happen in you, and they are not “masters” of it (no one could be a master of an indefinable, empty feeling for living). But they do play an essential role.

In the ordinary educational model, there are teachers who teach, students who learn, subject matter, standards of knowledge, and an educational institution that contains and certifies the educational process. While in some ways Zen might look like this, in fact, Zen is not an educational process but rather a transformational one in which both teacher and student fully engage, each playing his or her proper role. The process itself affects the transformation.

Think of it as a machine with many moving parts that interact in a complex system, each part affecting every other part. No one part “teaches” while another “learns.” Yet run the machine for a while and something happens: a product is produced, in this case, a seasoned Zen practitioner who embodies, in his or her own unique way, the values, the commitments, and, mostly, the feeling and vision of a life of practice. So it’s just as Huangbo says: there is Zen but, strictly speaking, no teachers, although yes, the machine won’t turn unless all the parts function fully in their proper places. The teacher, not actually teaching anything, must occupy his or her place in the process. Another analogy might be a mandala: each element has its crucial place in the overall design, but no element is sovereign. Only the overall design matters. So yes, in just this way, teachers are important.

In order to effectively take his or her place in the pattern, the teacher, ideally, has certain capacities. Faith in the practice, especially. And not just enthusiastic faith, but faith grounded in experience over time — faith that is not only spoken of but also demonstrated in action. Experience in the lived reality of the practice is the source of this kind of faith, that certain knowing, to the very bones, that the practice is the truest way to live. “Practice” doesn’t mean only formal practice that happens in temples and meditation halls. It means understanding and living a human life among others. Meditation is fairly new in Western culture, and naturally, we have over emphasised it, romanticising the mystical experiences intensive meditation can produce. Such experiences are just a matter of course. They are among the least important things for a teacher to have experienced, but any Zen teacher will have experienced many such things. Sit there long enough and everything is bound to occur. But it isn’t the experiences that matter as much as the folding of them into a whole life and a whole view.

But even this depth of faith, though essential and basic, is not sufficient. Ideally, a Zen teacher is also willing and able to share life completely with others. This takes a wide and deep acceptance of and interest in the many wily and wild manifestations of the human heart that arise in the course of practice over time. Practice with people for a while and you will bear witness to births, deaths, marriages, divorces, love affairs, enlightenment experiences, endless tears, tragic illnesses, angry feuds, breaches, collapses, and surprises of all sorts. A Zen teacher will eventually live through with others almost everything human beings perpetrate, so he or she needs long patience, deep forbearance and forgiveness, and a healthy sense of the immense tragedy and beauty of human life. The more the teacher has an idea of “Zen” that students must conform to, the more everyone (teacher included) will suffer, if not at first, then later on as people who were initially inspired by that idea come to feel oppressed or even betrayed by it. No doubt there are many important skills people would like their Zen teachers to have, but deep faith and a willingness to share your life honestly are the core of what I have come to feel is most important after having been in this business a long time. But I have also seen Zen teachers who seem seriously lacking in these capacities still be of benefit to others. There seem to be no universal prescriptions in Zen or in life.

Zen practice is dialogic, interactive. Compared to other forms of Buddhism it is, classically, “together practice.” In a formal Zen meal, for instance, everyone starts and ends together. In Zen walking meditation, everyone walks together in single file, evenly spaced. Meditation is done side by side, in a hall, with each period of meditation starting and ending with everyone together. The form of the characteristic literature is also dialogic, with short verbal or nonverbal encounters between teachers and disciples, or disciples and disciples, presenting rough-and-tumble back-and-forth conversations in which the teachings are explored not so much discursively but dynamically, using as few words as possible. And one of the characteristic and essential Zen practices is the one-on-one meeting with the teacher, which is viewed not as reporting in or asking for advice but as “dharma encounter” — a chance to meet oneself by meeting another.

Given this radical “together” style, it’s clear that a Zen teacher has to be ready, all the time, to let go of his life and enter the life of the other. This deep mutuality is the essence of the Zen process. It’s been wonderful training for a stubborn person like myself, softening me considerably over the years and expanding my horizons. But it took me a while to be ready for this or even to know that it was required. Soon after my shiho ceremony in 1988, I read a line in one of Thich Nhat Hanh’s books to the effect that “if you can’t find a true teacher, it is best not to study.” This tangled me up for a while in the net of my unacknowledged preconceptions about Zen teachers. I found it very upsetting because it seemed to imply some exalted state of being a “true teacher,” a state unknown to me.

Yet here I was, one of the few American Zen people in those days with full dharma transmission, and what did I think I was doing? It took me a few uncomfortable years to finally catch up with Thich Nhat Hanh to ask him about this, and he told me something like, “Don’t worry, we all help each other. The one-day person helps the one who just came in the door. The five-year person helps the one-year person. Each one helps according to his experience.” That made me feel much better.

Still, it took me years to feel comfortable in the teacher’s seat. (And being a so-called Zen teacher is, in many ways, literally that, feeling comfortable in the seat you are sitting in, facing the altar, at the front of the zendo.) For a while, I was unconsciously caught by the idea that I was supposed to be someone that others expected me to be, and I couldn’t help but strain a bit to be that person. But the truth is, there was no one in particular I needed to be.

A formal Zen talk isn’t conceived of as a lecture on Zen; it’s called “presenting the shout” — that is, expressing the teaching just by speaking in your own voice. I have always appreciated the fact that when you give a Zen talk, you make three prostrations to the Buddha before and after the talk. These bows are meant to indicate that it isn’t exactly you giving the talk. The Buddha is giving the talk using your body and voice. Bowing is praying to Buddha to help you do as good a job at channelling him as you possibly can, with the faith that whatever you say, right or wrong, will be of some use if you are sincere and try your best. After some years I came to see that this applied to anything I did as a Zen teacher: if I was honest, tried my best, followed precepts, and didn’t pretend to be anyone, everything would be okay. This sounds simple-minded enough, and it is, but it is actually not so easy to do.

And what does “everything would be okay” actually mean? It certainly doesn’t mean that things won’t ever go wrong. In fact, things will certainly go wrong. Maybe another capacity a Zen teacher should develop is the resilience and breadth of view that will enable her to live with the fact that she is going to fail. At least, this has been my experience. Occupying the teacher gear in the whirling Zen machine requires that you receive everything with an open heart and have the willingness and stamina to take full responsibility for each and every relationship you enter, which means to care and try your best to help.

People come to Zen practice, as they do to any spiritual practice, with plenty of human needs. They come with trust, mistrust, and hidden expectations. Of course, the Zen teacher, an imperfect human being, is going to disappoint a fair number of them. Some will be disappointed on the first day, others only after many decades. You, the teacher, will misunderstand them and they will misunderstand you. You will say and do things that are hurtful, even if you never intended to. Meaning to straighten someone out (always a dubious proposition), you will completely botch the job, reinforcing the behaviour or view you were trying to soften. Students who have practised faithfully with you for years will realise it has all been wrong and leave, creating confusion and dissension. Your public words and actions will, in being variously understood and misunderstood, create confusion among sangha members who will act out their confusion in sometimes painful ways. You will have all kinds of complicated and contradictory feelings about people who come to practice with you — loving them, worrying about them, dreading them, seeing them make terrible mistakes you can’t prevent, watching as they manipulate you and set you up for all sorts of falls. In the end, you will realise you can’t help them at all and will have to watch them suffer or watch them make you suffer, and maintain your composure even so.

I have spoken to many Zen teachers who are trying hard to get better at what they do — to see where they make mistakes and to correct those mistakes, maybe even to get some psychological or other training so they can understand the various twisted ways students sometimes present themselves. I have learned from commiserating with other teachers (something I think is essential) and from my many mistakes. Ultimately, I think Zen teachers can no more learn than teach. Each situation, each person, is unique, and one’s own response, at that time, to that person, must and will inevitably be unique. I always trust my response and am, of course, willing to change or be corrected when proven wrong. But in the end, I know I’ll never get it right. Sometimes getting it wrong is the best thing anyway.

It’s true that everything always turns out okay. When you really trust the process of the practice more than you trust your limited self, the limited sangha, or what happens in the short run, you realise that the magic of the practice is much stronger than you thought. It is not limited to what you or anyone says or does; it is not limited to meditation or what takes place in meditation halls or on temple grounds.

I have seen how after leaving a place of practice in a huff or not in a huff, students’ lives miraculously turn around, sometimes five, ten, or twenty years later, because of unexpected circumstances that Buddha somehow placed in the middle of their lives long after they left. Sometimes the perfect priest you thought you were ordaining needs to fall apart, leave, and go through many ups and downs for decades before she finally emerges as the Buddha you always knew she was. Or the wreck of a human being who was so disruptive and annoying and hopeless comes back to visit you decades later shining with love. And the crazy mixed-up young woman who seemed headed for certain doom returns with her three lovely children, grateful for the practice she seemed to have resisted mightily at the time.

Seeing things like this happen over and over again, you do come round, finally, to trusting the practice — and life. This helps you trust yourself and the basic goodness of everyone you practice with. The secret ingredient in teaching Zen, it turns out, is the brilliant spark of human goodness in each person. Practice awakens it, and it does the rest on its own eventually. You, the teacher, just have to be willing to be there and be surprised.

Norman Fischer 20.

The Red Coat and the Teaching of Impermanence
by Reginald A. Ray

The Buddhist teachings on impermanence are usually considered primarily as an antidote to our attachment to samsara. But, as the following story suggests, when impermanence is deeply experienced it can give rise to genuine love for others and a sense of sacredness in our human existence.

Many years ago I knew a young woman who loved beauty. She was a quiet and shy person, perhaps because of much suffering in her childhood. But as a result, she had a tender regard for all those in pain and exceptional awareness, so that she could see exactly what was going on in other people, even if buried under layers of conditioning and pretence. She was so simple and unpretentious that most people who met her had no idea of the depth of her inner life.

My friend was striking, in fact, quite beautiful. Her eyes were extraordinary-dark, clear and highly intelligent. She loved clothes that were elegant and well-made, and she always made herself up with care. When she was dressed in one of her few beloved outfits you could-at least I could-feast your eyes on her for hours.

One of her favourite pastimes was leafing through catalogues, finding things of unusual beauty and imagining what it would be like to wear them. As she didn’t have much money, this was generally window-shopping, but it gave her much pleasure nonetheless.

One day, a few years into our friendship, she told me that she had not been feeling well. Fatigue and pains of unknown origin and significance had been growing lately. As was her way, humble, patient and a little too enduring, she waited some time before consulting a physician. But when she did, it turned out that she was very ill with a degenerative disease that at that time was not treatable. She received this news with a combination of acceptance and sorrowful resignation. She was not afraid of dying but she was terribly sad, for she was young and she felt she had only just begun to live her life. How could she so soon leave the beauty she saw all around her? How could she miss the experiences of marriage, children and family?

Still, as her health deteriorated she did not lose her love of beautiful clothes. In her last months in the hospital, she continued to receive her clothing catalogues and roam through them as if through paradise. When I would come to visit, which I did about once a week, there would be a little stack of catalogues on her bedside table. In each one, the corners of certain pages were turned down, marking a dress, a shawl or a jacket that she wanted to show me. She told me that she had been through many more catalogues and had saved “only the best ones” for me to see.

In the beginning, I would look at her prize discoveries somewhat perfunctorily, attempting to feign an interest that I did not feel. But as the weeks wore on, I gradually began to see them through her eyes. I found myself admiring the beautifully scalloped collar of a jacket, the gently flowing lines of a very feminine blouse, the outrageous burst of colour of a certain scarf, the delicacy of a sterling silver pin. I looked forward to leafing through newly arrived catalogues with her, delighting in whatever was perfectly fashioned, stunning and luscious. Together, we imagined how she might look in this or that outfit.

And then one day, we both discovered the red coat. It was in an otherwise unexceptional Bloomingdale’s catalogue. A spring offering, it was calf length, deep red with large black buttons, and made of a light suede. It appeared elegant and beautifully tailored, with a gently moulded collar, soft shoulders, and rounded lines throughout. We could both see that this was her coat. It had been made for her. We admired it, imagined it on her, and talked about what it could be worn with and on what occasions. The next time I came to visit her, she told me that, in spite of her limited funds and medical bills, she had ordered the red coat.

We both awaited its arrival with anticipation. One day I came in to find her sitting up in bed, her eyes glowing with anticipation. There on her bedside table was a box marked “Bloomingdale’s.” She had been waiting for me so that we could open it together. She handed me the scissors she had placed neatly by the box and I cut through the wrapping tape. She lifted out the coat, a deep, elegant Chinese red far more striking and beautiful than the catalogue picture. “Let me try it on for you.”

By this time she had become very weak, and I had to help her out of bed. Young and beautiful a few months before, she now looked like an old woman. Her skin was grey and wrinkled, her hair had lost its sheen, the classical definitions of her face were now puffy and misshapen. There was something heartbreaking in this worn and haggard woman, near death, trying on this new coat so that I could “see how she looked.”

As she shook out the red coat, the physical pride and presence of her former person animated her briefly. Over her wrinkled, sweaty nightgown she slipped the red coat. And I promise you, for one moment, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I know that she felt it too. For a moment, she admired herself in the small hospital mirror and I could now see, perhaps for the first time, that it was the beauty of the red coat that held her attention and that gave her brief joy. I finally understood that all those years it was not her own beauty at all but the beauty of the wonderful clothes she wore that brought her such happiness.

And then the red coat was hung in the closet at the foot of her bed, never to be worn again. Now she got out of bed only to visit the bathroom; the effort was so great it was unthinkable to add the extra step of putting on the coat. But each time I would visit her after that, she would ask me to open the closet door so that we could see the coat hanging there. And then she would ask me to take it out and hold it up for her so that we could admire it together one more time.

Not long after, she died. I was not with her in her final moments, but when I heard that she had died, I thought of her and of the elegant red coat, hanging in the closet at the foot of her bed, which had brought her such happiness in her final days. I remembered how beautiful she had looked when she had put it on for me that one time.

Later the day she died, a female relative of hers and I were in the hospital room packing up her belongings. When we came to the red coat the relative commented, “What a waste that she spent money on a coat she never even wore!” But she did wear it and perhaps with more elegance and flair, for that one moment, than such a coat has ever been worn. If that is a waste, then it must mean that everything in life is a waste, which in a certain sense it may be.

A few weeks after she died, recalling the moment when she put on the red coat, I realised something about her life. Her beauty, her love of elegant clothes and the devotion with which she made herself up were her generous and selfless gifts to all of us who knew her. I also realised something else, about how brief and fragile, and also daring and fearless, life can be. How bold and brave to put on such a red coat in the face of death, to delight in it even if for only a moment, when everything is slipping away into darkness. But maybe that is what we all do, all the time, without knowing it.

It is said that the Buddha taught 84,000 gates to the dharma, to ultimate reality. For me, the experience of my friend and her red coat was one of those 84,000 gates. As long as my friend was firmly in the land of the living, I took her existence for granted. I didn’t really look at her. Instead, I experienced her through the veil of my own self-satisfied concepts and I was unable to appreciate who she was, in her own right. Yet when I realised that our time together was limited and our friendship would soon meet its end, only then was the veil stripped away.

In that moment, I saw my friend with a new and shocking nakedness. I discovered a love and appreciation for her that had nothing to do with my own personal values and preconceptions. Somehow the experience of impermanence momentarily shattered my habitual grasp on things and I was able to experience the beauty of what she was, of what is, and its sacredness. I came to a deeper understanding of why Buddhism, in every school and orientation, has always placed such a premium on realising impermanence: while it is the thing we human beings most dread, it is the most compassionate gift life has given us and our greatest resource. For, as is said in another context, only those who are fortunate enough to find their life slipping away, have any hope of finding it.

Reginald Ray 11.

If your fears are never
faced and transformed,
they will always haunt you.

Paradoxically, you continue
to attract what you fear
by retaining aversion to it.

— Shilashanti

Lotus 261.



「言」者:尋思言語乃至書寫之篇章也。不論古今、貴賤、凡聖,皆須假名句文身,以發自意、達己思;藉眾名言語辭以為溝通傳達。「之」者:因緣和合生法;即當抒言時,所緣之境也。「無物」:依所發出名句文身之所詮表,錯以為真、為實,縱萬馬千軍亦不動;依諸聖言,乃知一切皆出自虛妄分別耳。 於日日生活之際,人人莫不依以名言活動行事,今依聖教取揀名言義理之實貌,以警自他勿墜名言霧中,徒入教人生死相許之歧路。於昔未值三寶、未學聖言,聞「風」即思「雨」,沉陷於言語戲論,普遍計執,無智慧眼,愚因果、昧正理,以無始來受累至今;尚稱有幸,雖時稍晚總還入列,亦願依聖開制,好自習學亦兼通有緣。祈不唐捐!











「名與事體不稱」者:如上引《攝大乘論》之第一及《瑜伽師地論》之第三、第四;總謂為一。「不稱」含義有二:凡立言發表之前,定先依於緣生事,方能言說。 例如,世間極成所立之種種物名,若未有彼物,定不能言出彼物之名;若不者,當諸法、諸事未現之前,而能言稱彼名,則犯妄言胡語之失,故云「不稱」。另意指,當能緣心觸對緣境,所生之影像,非即如緣生事性之境體,彼影像唯是相似境界顯現而已;此亦有不稱之義。





(二)、 名義無決定論










《攝大乘論》頌示:「名事互為客,其性應尋思;於二亦當推,唯量及唯假。實智觀無義,唯有分別三;彼無故此無,是即入三性。」即明名事二者都無決定之義。又如《瑜伽師地論》(T30.501a) 云:「名為先故想,想為先故說。」吾等能起言說,必以名句文身為依,再藉虛妄分別增上力,方現種種差別事義。實則,名之於義、或義之於名,絲毫無決定性可言。






於契經中佛又云:「人為道亦苦;不為道亦苦……」避苦絕非究竟,何以求道之心,還忌憚苦?引此「高寒」,具二深意:主敘名義唯假, 兼弘道上見、法上會之用。名義唯假,業用還具;今依此假,遙以寄真。世人關係,有依法門成眷、有依血緣成族者;今祈統以智而成朋,以慧而更屬。願同梵行者,委以慧揀!






Lotus 105.

The difference between the two bodhichittas is like wanting to take a journey and actually being on a journey.

— Shantideva

Shantideva (寂天菩萨) 8..













Ven Da Zhao (达照法师 ) 12.