The Contemplative Life
Photo by Camden & Haley George
What would life be like if our self-imposed limits were not barriers but gates of liberation? What if freedom wasn’t found in having more but in needing less, not in looking for something better but in truly seeing what is? In this talk, Zuisei explores what it means to live a contemplative life—not apart from the world but immersed in its fullness, with clarity, presence, and a spirit of inquiry that allows us to see with fresh eyes. Drawing on teachings from the Samaññaphala Sutta, the Stoics, and Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, Zuisei points to a way of living that, in paring away what we don’t need, gives us everything.
This talk was given by Zuisei Goddard.
Transcript
This transcript is based on Zuisei's talk notes and may differ slightly from the final talk.
The Contemplative Life
Good evening. Tonight I’d like to offer a few reflections on the contemplative life. Recently I referred to our practice of zazen as a contemplative practice. To contemplate means to “observe, to gaze attentively, to ponder.” It means to look deeply and to reflect upon that which is being seen. So it is curious—and a little unfortunate—that to this day, new people think meditation is about not thinking. That it’s about pushing away or stopping thoughts so that your mind is blank (that is almost a direct quote from someone I spoke with not long ago).
The mind isn’t blank during meditation—not at all. The mind is full but stable. The mind is full but clear.
Sitting in a room in absolute silence
Mind source unmoved, filled like still water
This is one of our miscellaneous koans. Filled and unmoved is the mind during meditation, gazing attentively at thoughts, at mind itself, and pondering what is this? What is a thought? What is mind? What is the thinker, the creator of thought? Or could it be that the thought creates the thinker?
Zazen is a contemplative practice because it doesn’t nest in the familiar. It doesn’t let us take for granted what we think we know. It doesn’t let us take for granted anything, in fact. Instead it encourages us to investigate, to wonder, to study, again and again, trusting that there’s no limit to what the mind can apprehend. This is important: If we don’t put a limit on our seeing, then a limit doesn’t come up. It doesn’t function. We’re the ones who set all sorts of limits on ourselves, and then believe them to be real. But the problem isn’t that we set limits, but that we don’t do it skillfully. We don’t do it in such a way to help us realize that we’re limitless at heart. So, my argument tonight is that there is a way of limiting ourselves that is useful, that is helpful, that is conducive to the enjoyment of the holy life, to use a phrase from the sutras. And that this skillful limit-setting is what the contemplative life is all about.
There is a sutra called the Samaññaphala Sutta: “The Fruits of the Contemplative Life,” in which King Ajatasattu of Magadha, son of King Bimbisara, one of the Buddha’s earliest followers, is looking at the full moon one night and he says, “How wonderful this moonlit night, how beautiful, how inspiring, how auspicious. Who should we go see tonight who might enlighten us and bring us peace of mind?”
Notice how the sutra begins. This great king, who has everything he could possibly have, looks at the moon and is enchanted. But instead of enjoying the night, delighting in the moment and all he has, he turns to his court and says, who can help us tonight? Who can offer us some peace? And one of his ministers says, you can go see So and So, he’s a renowned teacher. But the king stays silent. Someone else offers another name, again the king stays silent. Then someone mentions the Buddha, and the king says let’s go. But he’s a king, and so he decides to go with five hundred women riding five hundred elephants, and arrive before the Buddha in state. And as he’s approaching the grove where the Buddha is teaching, he suddenly gets scared. Because his minister told him there were 1250 monks with the Buddha, yet when he gets close to the grove, the king can’t hear a sound—no sneezing, no coughing, no voices, and he thinks, “This is a trap.” And he turns to his minister and says, “Jivaka, you’re not deceiving me, are you? You’re not leading me to my enemy’s lair?” “No, no,” the minister says, “Don’t be afraid. I’m not betraying you. Go ahead. You’ll see the Buddha surrounded by his monks.”
The king isn’t protected from his fear, from his insecurity, from his craving. His position, his power, his many possessions—if he wanted these to build a refuge, they’ve all just turned to dust. And in some way, he knows this. But he still has doubts, because the question he asks the Buddha is, “Look, horse trainers and elephant trainers and charioteers, and warriors and heroes, they all live off the fruit of their labors. They have families, they give offerings, and they’re happy—they look happy. Is there a similar fruit that you can point to as reward for the contemplative life?” I see all you monks practicing hard, but what are you getting out of it? He still thinks happiness is a thing you get.
The Buddha says, “Mmh. And did you ask this question of anyone else?” “I did,” said the king. “Purana said there’s no merit. Makkhali told me I’ll have to transmigrate through 1,406,600 births, 500 kinds of karma, 62 pathways, six great classes of birth, eight classes of men, 4,900 modes of livelihood, 4,900 kinds of wanderers, 4,900 Naga-abodes, 2,000 faculties, 3,000 hells, 36 dust-realms, 700 major precipices, 700 minor precipices, 700 major dreams, 700 minor dreams, 84,000 great aeons (and that’s not even the full list)—once I get through all that, I’ll be free.” And on it went with a few other ascetics, but the king wasn’t satisfied. So now he asks the Buddha his question, and the Buddha says, very simply, “Household life is cramped and dusty; the life gone forth is like the open air.” Life in the world is busy and it can be burdensome. But the life of a home leaver, the life of a contemplative? That’s like open air, the Buddha says. But then, right after that, he describes how a monk, having gone forth, lives that contemplative life.
And just to be clear—when I say monks I refer to both men and women. In Zen we use the term monastic to refer to both, and we use monks for short, so it’s clear there’s no distinction, no hierarchy between monks and nuns. Since the time of the Buddha, and still in the Theravada School or School of the Elders, monks follow the eight monastic precepts:
Not killing, not stealing, not engaging in sexual conduct, not telling lies, not taking intoxicants, not eating after noon, not wearing adornments, and not resting in high, luxurious beds. Actually, in one of the sutras, the precept on intoxicants is replaced by one which forbids monks from storing things for later use. So, for example, since Theravada monks do not eat after midday, if someone were to give a monk a banana, she couldn’t store it in her room to eat the next day. And this is actually a relatively serious offense, on the level of lying or using divisive speech. Wait, what? Eating a banana? Why? That, to most of us, would appear as terribly constricting. And what about all these other things monks cannot do? How is living like that like open air? How is that a life that leads to freedom and contentment? It isn’t, if we take freedom to mean doing what we want when we want. It isn’t, if we believe contentment comes from what we have. But this is a good place to slow down and again ponder what the teachings are saying. Because we hear it so often that it’d be easy to just let it flow through—in one ear and out the other. Yes, yes, happiness doesn’t come from outside. Yes, it’s true that I can’t buy me love nor peace nor even a basic sense of calm. We’re agreed on that. But then why do I keep trying? Why do I still expend so much time and effort on all sorts of external things. Eating things I like, worrying about what others think of me, obsessing about how I look, trying to make more money… and on and on? And why does limiting that pursuit in any way feel like a limitation?
I think some of it has to do with the way the original precepts were worded: Do not kill, do not steal do not lie. It sounds restrictive. If we look at it on the surface, it is, Don’t do this, don’t do that, don’t, don’t don’t. But here the Buddha’s saying, No, no, it’s doing whatever you want whenever you want that’s constraining. Following these apparent limitations is what will lead you to a life free as air. How is that?
We have no problem giving up things for goals that we can see. We understand that giving up some things in favor of others will help us attain a goal: some people live incredibly disciplined lives in order to be Olympic swimmers or professional musicians or prima ballerinas. But the fruits of the contemplative life are harder to see, impossible to measure, so unless we’re very clear that what we want is our own and everyone’s happiness and freedom, that what we want is true, lasting peace, then these precepts will feel like restrictions, like impositions. Until we can see them from the inside out—not as the path to liberation but the expression of that liberation, that freedom.
It’s like what I said about goodness recently. When we think we’re deluded, then practicing good is hard work. When we know we’re enlightened, then goodness is who we are. Goodness is what we offer the world when we get out of our own way. Same thing with the precepts. One who realizes the nature of all life as their own, will be very cautious about taking it, will be very respectful.
Someone reminded me recently of the story of Suzuki Roshi going into a grocery store in his neighborhood and buying all the crooked, wilted vegetables that no one wanted. He even ran into the street one time when a truck spilled a crate of cabbage. And as cars were speeding by, Suzuki Roshi would rush in, save a few cabbages, and run back onto the sidewalk. “The fresh ones will be bought,” he’d say, his arms filled with flattened cabbage. “I feel sorry for these.”
One who understands that peace comes from honest living, from having nothing to hide, will not feel the need to lie. And it’s not just the precepts, it’s also our zazen, our liturgy, our study. When the contemplative life is the life we’re living, then every bit of that life is an expression of the ease I already have with myself and with the world. That’s the difference.
It’s not a matter of being disciplined and working hard. It’s a matter of realizing our mind, our being has always been filled, unmoved. It doesn’t need something else to complete it. It doesn’t hunger after what it doesn’t have, it doesn’t use things to numb itself, it doesn’t need to. It’s fine just the way it is, as it is.
The Stoics called this state apatheia or dispassion. Not indifference, but equanimity, a state of calm, balanced being. A state free of fear or craving, and aversion. Yet filled with what they called “discretion,” which opposes fear, “wishing,” as in wishing for virtue and a life well lived, and “delight” or joy, instead of sensual pleasure which leads to craving. And here too, there is a parallel with Buddhism. Because as he’s describing the precepts to the king, the Buddha lists in great detail all the many ways in which even contemplatives get caught: They’re addicted to their stored-up food and drink, they’re addicted to watching shows, to idle games, to luxurious furnishings and large woolen carpets. They’re addicted to talking about lowly topics, to debates, to running messages for kings and ministers of state. It sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Very little has changed in almost 3,000 years. But what it boils down to is, we get addicted to self, to what the self can get. That’s it; it’s so simple, so obvious, it’s painful.
A contemplative, on the other hand, lives simply, just as a bird flies “with its wings as its only burden.” I love that image. A contemplative has few things, few desires. Knows how to be satisfied, and therefore isn’t burdened by what they have or don’t have. A contemplative is mindful, alert, resolute. They understand, through and through, what leads to happiness and what doesn’t. They enjoy, take delight in what they do have: a moonlit night, a good meal, intimate conversation. But they’re not constantly looking for the next hit. They’re not scheming how to get more of a good thing. Instead, they focus their mind, they develop insight and recollection. All of this, the Buddha says, is the reward of the contemplative life. But really, the reward is the life itself. That’s the ultimate treasure, a life of peace.
King Ajatasattu hears this, and he’s moved to confess to the Buddha to killing his father for the sake of the throne (remember that it’s a full moon night, so the King is doing Fusatsu with the Buddha, atoning for his transgression). And the Buddha says, “I accept your confession. Now go do what you have to do.” With great respect, the king bows to the Buddha and takes his leave, and once he’s gone, the Buddha turns to his monks and says, “The king is wounded. He is hurt. If he hadn’t killed his father, he would have woken up right as he sat in this seat.”
Whatever harm you’ve caused will keep you from ultimate peace, from liberation. And so, we come full circle to the practice of contemplation. In order to realize we’ve always been peace, we have to create the conditions to see it. So we set time aside and we cultivate silence, and we practice doing each task with the same care and attention we give our zazen. Monastic life is an excellent container for this, but lay life, established carefully, deliberately, can be just as well. The container has to be more open, more flexible, but the principle behind the way we move through our days is the same. We sit, and do a bit of liturgy, a bit of caretaking each day to care for our space. We do work practice. We prepare a meal with respect, we eat it with reverence. We rest, and we study.
It might not look like much from the outside. But from the inside? From the inside, it’s everything.
Explore further
01 : Signs of the Unseen by Zuisei Goddard
02 : The Call to Contemplation with Zuisei Goddard
03 : The Gift of Contemplation by Zuisei Goddard
The Contemplative Life, a talk by Zen Buddhist teacher Zuisei Goddard.