Eight Realizations of Great Beings (I): Impermanence
Photo by Solen Feyissa
In this talk Zuisei returns to the reality of impermanence, drawing from the Buddha’s last teaching before his death as it’s presented both in the Mahaparinirvana Sutra and the Eight Realizations of Great Beings.
How do we use this teaching of impermanence to remember the wonder and uniqueness of each moment? Instead of seeing impermanence as a negative teaching, how do we let it inspire us into making the most of every aspect of our lives?
This talk was given by Zuisei Goddard. See below for transcript.
Transcript
Transcript has been lightly edited for clarity.
A couple of weeks ago you provided in our threaded talk your stories, reflections, and questions on the first of the eight realizations of great beings. So, I wanted to go back and give a little bit more grounding, a little bit more dharma scaffolding. I’m trying not to repeat, but I’ve been reflecting on the fact that in one sense, we are covering the same ground over and over again, sometimes from slightly different angles—but the teachings are generally the same. I’ve been attending some Zoom teachings with other teachers, and after a while I realized, we really are all saying the same thing. Slightly different schools, slightly different lineages, slightly different perspectives, sometimes slightly different emphasis–or very different emphasis–but the heart of what we’re speaking of is the same. Hopefully, that repetition only helps, or mostly helps, in the learning.
I remember reading a book years ago on learning. It said there were eight stages of learning: explanation, demonstration, imitation, repetition, repetition, repetition, repetition, repetition [smiles]. One of you brought that up during the class on Saturday, saying that you appreciated hearing things again. [laughs] I didn’t know if that was your polite way of saying “You are repeating yourself.” But I am repeating myself. Think of what happens in the moment where a phrase, a word, shakes us awake. The thing that you’ve heard over and over and over again, all of a sudden, you hear it. You actually really hear it and something shifts.
I was reading an interview this morning with Bhikkhu Bodhi who recently wrote a paper to defend the word enlightenment. Bhikkhu Bodhi is an American Budhhist teacher, author, translator, and editor of many of the Buddhist sutras. I didn’t know this, but it seems that there’s actually a concerted effort by teachers and scholars to translate the sanskrit word bodhi, instead, as awakening. I’ve used awakening quite a bit in fact; though, I wasn’t doing it on purpose. He said that perhaps it’s because it’s more accessible. It doesn’t bring up an association with Reason, with the European Enlightenment. But Bhikkhu Bodhi was arguing that nowhere in the sutras does the Buddha allude to the image of “waking up.” Many times the Buddha uses similes, but he never says, “I awakened to the truth of things,” as someone wakes up from sleep. Instead, he said, his “ignorance was dispelled, like a light that dispels the darkness.”
In our own lives and practice I think calling it awakening versus enlightenment may not make that much of a difference. Sometimes we’re just trying to get to the cushion. We’re just trying to be present in a moment and not be so angry, not be so distracted, not be so impatient. At the same time, we can’t ignore the power of words to shape our thoughts, to shape our views, and therefore, our actions.
A couple of years ago, I was reading one of Elaine Pagels’s books called Beyond Belief. She was very clearly outlining how the shift from portraying Jesus as a prophet and a wise teacher to the Son of God was a concerted effort, a deliberate effort, which had a profound effect on the largest religion in the world. Words matter. What we do with them matters. I’m definitely not suggesting that we split hairs but that we listen, investigate, and apply. Especially when we hear these teachings, to continually ask ourselves: What am I hearing? How am I hearing? How do I apply this? So, think Applied Buddhism which, as far as I’m concerned, is the only Buddhism worth talking about. In my view, any spiritual or religious tradition, in order to be effective or skillful, should show us how to better live as human beings. And, ultimately, the most skillful teaching is the one that you actually remember. Right? The one that you can actually do.
I mentioned a sutra a couple of weeks ago that was translated into Chinese by a Parthian monk. Parthia was in what would now be Iraq. The monk’s name was An Shigao (安世高). This was the second century of our common era, some 700 years after the Buddha’s death. And this sutra—The Eight Realizations of Great Beings—is actually a compendium of several sutras which set down the Buddha’s last teaching. But there’s actually two versions of the Buddha’s last days: one is from the Pali Canon and one from the Mahayana literature. The Theravada version, the Great Discourse on the Final Nirvana, is the longest sutra in the entire Pali Canon. The Nirvana Sutra, the Mahayana version, is also quite long, and it essentially contains a review of all the Buddha’s teachings–“the best of.” He didn’t compile these teachings himself, of course. Somebody else did, probably more than one somebody, after his death. And I think it’s helpful to keep in mind that these were composites that were put together by a number of people with different views and often different agendas. Because sometimes we find these teachings and we wonder why they aren’t consistent, even within the views of the tradition itself. For example, if the Buddha was so enlightened, why did he essentially say to his mother—and by extension all women—You cannot become ordained? Maybe he said that, or maybe somebody else did and attributed it to the Buddha.
Ultimately, I ask myself, “What is this saying to me?” It does require a bit more work. We have to step forward and meet the dharma where it lives. It’s a bit more work than the quotable sayings we get in our inbox, in our feeds. Because the dharma is everywhere. In order for it to actually really work, we have to go beyond the surface of things.
I very much doubt we’ll ever read a koan that says that someone realized themselves by reading a quote on Facebook, Goodreads, or The New York Times. Well, [smiles] maybe The New York Times, I don’t know. I mention this only because the dharma is everywhere now. It is in our inbox, and it is on social media feeds. That’s great. It’s better than it not being there. But what happens to it in the process? I think it’s part of what Bhikkhu Bodhi is fighting for, and what he’s always fought to preserve: the integrity of the original teachings of Buddhism. Whether you agree or disagree with him, I really feel that his love for the dharma is true and worth supporting.
So, towards the end of his life the Buddha gets sick, but he doesn’t die; he recovers. Then Ananda, a devoted and “beloved disciple” of his, begs him to give a final teaching. And in the sutra the Buddha sounds kind of cranky when he gives his response. He says, “What else do the monks want from me?” I’m paraphrasing slightly but not very much, “I’ve offered them everything I know. Now I’m old. I’m frail. I’m tired like an old cart that’s held together with supports.” When I read this, I thought of Daido Roshi because he said something very similar. As he was dying, the last talk that he gave was on a koan called, “Guishan’s [溈山靈祐], I’ve Already Exhausted Myself for You.” Isn’t that interesting? What else can I say to you? I’ve already said it all and now it’s your turn. That’s essentially what the Buddha says to Ananda in that very famous line: “Be islands unto yourselves, refuges unto yourselves, seeking no external refuge.” He’s basically saying, It’s not about me, the Buddha. It’s not even about the Dharma, per se, in the sense of it being Buddhist. It’s about the truth. It’s about reality. So, go and practice it.
And then the sutra continues, actually for quite a long time. There’s a whole other set of teachings. They’re going to this or that village. They’re meeting this or that brahman. But then, the Buddha gets sick again, and he decides to give Ananda the chance to ask him to stay. I don’t know what happens–Ananda gets distracted or he gets shy–I don’t know. He doesn’t ask the Buddha to stay. Three times the Buddha insinuates: you could ask me to stay, you know. I actually have the power to do this. And Ananda just misses the boat. So, the Buddha finally says, “Well, this is it. I’m just going to die.” In one version of the sutra, he does say to Ananda, “You missed it! You missed your chance.” When Ananda finally realizes the Buddha is really dying, then he begs him to stay. The Buddha says, “It’s too late; you had three chances and you missed them.” Then right before he dies he offers these teachings: the Thirty-seven Factors of Enlightenment; the Four Foundations of Mindfulness; the Four Right Efforts; the Four Psychic Powers; the Five Faculties; the Five Powers; the Seven Factors of Enlightenment; and the Noble Eightfold Path. Then he looks around. He looks at the other monks, and he looks at Ananda. He says, “Does anybody have any questions?” And no one says anything. I know how he feels. [laughter] Then he says, “If you’re shy that’s okay. Tell your question to one of your friends or to one of the other monks and they can ask it for you.” Still, no one answers. He asks three times, as he usually does, and no one answers. Which is kind of amazing, if you think about it. Here’s the Buddha. Here’s their teacher: the World Honored One, the Fully Enlightened One. He’s about to die, and nobody can think of a single question to ask him. Maybe they don’t want to look ignorant. Maybe they are shy, as many of us are, in groups. You know, everyone else seems so eloquent, so thoughtful, so “with it.”
I remember taking a class in college on Chaucer, the fourteenth century English poet and author. I have no idea what prompted me to do that; maybe it was a requirement. I would go to class and look around. Everyone was nodding, smiling, and offering very thoughtful comments as we read a passage out loud. I’m thinking that I have no idea what they’re talking about. I mean this is English. I’m reasonably intelligent, and I have no idea what is being said. It’s like listening to a koan talk. It’s like it’s a different language. Because it is, it actually is. It takes time to learn it. You have to be patient. You have to be exposed to it over and over again. Until slowly, you begin to understand. So, maybe the monks did feel shy, or maybe they were just overwhelmed. What do you ask the Buddha right before he dies? How do you make it count? My answer would be: by being yourself, by asking the question that’s on your mind.
I’ve shared the story before that I went through a long period at the beginning of my practice where I didn’t ask very many questions. I would go to face-to-face teaching. I don’t remember what would happen. If I wasn’t asking questions, I’m not sure what was happening. Finally, Daido turns to me one day and says, “Vanessa, this is like a tennis game. I don’t have anything to hit if you don’t throw the ball to me. So, just ask.” I think what finally got me going is I thought I don’t want to regret this time. I definitely didn’t want to look like I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t want to look ignorant. And then I thought, but this is your chance. Here is this buddha sitting in front of you. So, I’m just going to ask. I’m just going to trust.
But, the monks don’t say anything, and so the Buddha concludes that they’ve all understood his teaching perfectly. Then, he says, “Behold now friends, all compounded things are subject to vanish. Strive with earnestness.” That’s his last teaching. All created things will pass, so practice hard. Impermanence.
Someone asked Suzuki Roshi, “I’ve been listening to your lectures for years, and I just don’t understand them. Can you just condense them, reduce them to just a single sentence?” Everyone laughed. Suzuki laughed and he said, “Everything changes. Next question.”
In the Nirvana Sutra, the setting is much more elaborate, as is true of many of the sutras. What does it feel like to you or mean to you, when you hear or read some of these sutras? They are really this kind of magical universe. There’s millions upon millions of Buddhas spread out through thousands upon thousands of lands. They’re all in crystal palaces sitting in mile-high thrones, and they’re all emanating light from their foreheads. They all smell really nice. When they speak, their voices are like music. Sometimes this goes on for pages. Why? What is the point? Because again, in the early years of Buddhism, the Buddha was a man, perfectly enlightened, but a man. Then the Mahayana school of Buddhism comes along, and he becomes more than human. It seems we really can’t help ourselves. We love our miracles. We love divinity. Why?
I think of it this way. The Pali Canon it’s so methodical. We have these somewhat dry lists of qualities, requisites, characteristics. Do this. Be this. Practice this. Renounce this. Analyze. Note. Let go. In the Mahayana universe that method and that linearity gets exploded completely. But always, the question is, how does this help me to live a more fulfilling life?
In the nineties, Shambhala Publications released a book called Letters to Vanessa. I was at the monastery at the time, and I inhaled it. It’s by Jeremy Hayward, a scientist and, at least at the time, a Shambhala practitioner. Hayward wrote a series of letters to his daughter, Vanessa, to counter the effects of what he called “the dead world, the world of reason and matter, of facts and figures.” He was arguing that there was another world. A world that’s alive and bursting with energy and awareness.
It’s interesting that now neuroscientists are arguing, many of them, for a consciousness that is beyond what we recognize as human consciousness. More and more we’re finding that animals have more consciousness, more awareness than we have given them credit for. But they’re arguing for the consciousness of plants and things, even. Back then Hayward was, I believe, a physicist. He was talking about the world in a number of religious traditions that’s inhabited by fairies, angels, demons, divas, buddhas, and bodhisattvas. A world in which every grain of sand, every speck of dust, contains the whole universe. So, there’s no such thing as dead matter there. This is what these sutras say to me: there’s nothing in this world that doesn’t deserve my attention or my care because it’s sacred; there’s nothing in this world that is not important. The tea in my cup [picks up cup]. The rose petals that somebody harvested and dried and packed so carefully, so that I could have this sip of heaven. The cup that my friend, Phil, made before his stroke which he gave me as a wedding gift. The computer with which I wrote this talk and with which I’m able to be with you, now. I would rather live in a sacred world, or as Hayward calls it “an enchanted world.” It doesn’t exclude paying the bills. It doesn’t negate how difficult it is some days just to put one foot in front of the other. It doesn’t pink wash our very real feelings of overwhelm or despair, listlessness, or languishing. It’s saying, there’s more. Or it’s saying, because of those feelings, turn to this enchanted world.
So, in the Nirvana Sutra all of these buddhas and bodhisattvas, millions of them, have gathered together because the Buddha’s about to die. It says:
They were unlimited in mind and could act as they willed. They saw through all illusions and their sense organs were subdued. Like great naga rulers they were perfect in great virtue. They were accomplished in the wisdom of emptiness and perfect in their own attainments. They were like the sandalwood forest with sandalwood all around, or like a lion king surrounded by lions. They were the true sons and daughters of the Buddha. Early in the morning when the sun had just risen, they were up from their beds in the places where they lived and were about to use their toothbrushes.
It really says this. [smiles]
When they encounter the light that arose from the Buddha’s person. They said to one another, ’hurry up bathing and gargling and be clean.’
This is the sutra describing the last moments of the Buddha, and here they are, these buddhas and bodhisattvas, bathing and gargling, brushing their teeth. I love that. [laughs] This means a person wrote this. Then it says, Their hair stood on end. They were all red.. Because they’re upset that the Buddha is about to die. Tears filled their eyes. They fell at the Buddha’s feet and they touched them with their hands. They walked around him a hundred-thousand times, folded their hands, paid homage, stepped back and then sat on one side.
So, in this version of the sutra the sadness and the grief is in full display. The Pali Canon is very subdued. It reminds me of Protestantism versus Catholicism. We Catholics love it bloody and sweaty and dramatic, no-holds-barred. But if you think about it, in all of this magic or metaphysics—however you want to call it–there’s something that is actually very real to me, very human. “Hurry up with your toiletries because the Buddha’s about to die.” It reminds me of when my brother died. By that point I had been practicing for a number of years, and so I could really watch my mind as I was moving through the grieving process. I noticed how changeable the mind is and how impermanent my thoughts and my feelings are. One moment I was curled up with grief. The next moment I was thinking about potato chips. It was really like that. I realized the mind can hold it all and it does, if we let it.
Here, the assembly is upset. The Buddha calms them down, and he gives them the Eight Realizations of Great Beings. “The world is impermanent,” that’s how it begins. And because we talked about it, I don’t want to beat it into the ground, but let me quote a phrase that I’ve used before: “Just as matter cannot move at the speed of light, the self cannot move at the speed of impermanence.”
Einstein said that even a small object, a small amount of matter, will require enormous amounts of energy to move. As the object moves faster, its energy increases. The faster it goes; the more its mass increases because energy and mass are equivalent. So, the mass keeps growing until it becomes infinite. The self, too, is like this. The more energy we give it, the heavier it becomes. Just take that in for a moment. The more energy we give the self, the weightier it becomes. When we talk to ourselves. When we compare. When we judge. When we put ourselves up and bring ourselves down. When we center the “I” and make it solid. I will. I can’t. I should. I want. Then the harder it is to move at the speed of impermanence. So, things are changing; they’re happening constantly, but we can’t change with them. The self is a necessary but heavy burden.
The other day I read an interview with Michelle Williams, the actor. She had this most amazing line. She said, “I want to be like water. I want to slip through fingers but hold up a ship.” How amazing. I think this perfectly describes someone who wants to be free. I want to flow and trickle and rush in a torrent if that’s what’s needed–not fixed, not static–because that’s not the way of things. I want to be strong, too, mighty even, with the ability to hold up a ship. Why limit yourself? Let me hold up an island, a continent or two. That is the strength and fluidity of being able to move with impermanence.
This is a poem by my favorite poet, Wisława Szymborska. It’s called “View with a Grain of Sand”:
We call it a grain of sand,
but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does just fine, without a name,
whether general, particular,
permanent, passing,
incorrect, or apt.
Our glance, our touch means nothing to it.
It doesn’t feel itself seen and touched.
And that it fell on the windowsill
is only our experience, not its.
For it, it is not different from falling on anything else
with no assurance that it has finished falling
or that it is falling still.
The window has a wonderful view of a lake,
but the view doesn’t view itself.
It exists in this world
colorless, shapeless,
soundless, odorless, and painless.
The lake’s floor exists floorlessly,
and its shore exists shorelessly.
The water feels itself neither wet nor dry
and its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural.
They splash deaf to their own noise
on pebbles neither large nor small.
And all this beneath a sky by nature skyless
in which the sun sets without setting at all
and hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.
The wind ruffles it, its only reason being
that it blows.
A second passes.
A second second.
A third.
But they’re three seconds only for us.
Time has passed like a courier with urgent news.
But that’s just our simile.
The character is inverted, his haste is make believe,
his news inhuman.