Study Session 5: Opening the Hand of Thought
Photo by Laurenz Kleinheider
In this study session, Zuisei and the sangha relate their daily lives and practice to Kosho Uchiyama’s Opening the Hand of Thought, a contemporary Zen text that speaks about the importance of zazen and letting go of thoughts in order to see the nature of the self.
In the words of Uchiyama Roshi: You are within me. I'm just facing myself. In other words, you exist within myself, and it is to that you that I direct myself.
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.
Study Session 5: Opening the Hand of Thought
I would like to speak about Virōpama, the Buddha of the Ten Directions. I have been interested in him for a long time because he is very often depicted with a large, round belly and a joyful expression. He is often shown with a bowl in his left hand and a staff in his right. He is very cheerful, very happy, very joyful, and somehow always connected to all beings.
I want to start with a story. In one of my favorite commentaries on the Avatamsaka Sutra, the Avatamsaka-manjushri commentary, there is a story about a monk named Virōpama. Virōpama was practicing in a very remote area and had reached a very high level of concentration and meditation. One day, a king came to visit him and said, “I have heard of your great wisdom and virtue. Please tell me, what is the most important thing for a person to know?”
Virōpama replied, “To know yourself.”
The king said, “I already know myself. What else?”
Virōpama said, “Then know all beings as yourself.”
The king was very pleased with this answer. He said, “That is wonderful. How do you practice that?”
Virōpama said, “I practice by serving all beings with joy, without distinction, and without seeking reward.”
The king said, “That is extraordinary. Tell me, what is the essence of your teaching?”
Virōpama said, “The essence of my teaching is joy.”
The king said, “Joy?”
Virōpama said, “Yes. Joy arises from understanding the true nature of reality. When you understand that all things are empty of a separate self, you see that there is nothing to grasp and nothing to reject. When you let go of clinging and aversion, what remains is joy.”
The king said, “Then how can one attain this joy?”
Virōpama said, “By practicing generosity, morality, patience, diligence, meditation, and wisdom—the six paramitas—and by dedicating all merit to the liberation of all beings.”
The king said, “That seems very difficult.”
Virōpama said, “It is not difficult when you see that there is no one who gives, no one who receives, and nothing that is given. When you truly understand this, you can practice joyfully.”
The king bowed deeply and said, “I understand. From now on, I will strive to serve all beings with joy.” Virōpama said, “Excellent, Your Majesty. Remember, joy is not something you create. It is your true nature. When you stop obstructing it with thoughts of self and other, it shines forth naturally.” The king thanked him and returned to his palace. From that day on, he ruled his kingdom with compassion and joy, treating all beings as himself.
Experience Joy, Cultivate Trust
When I read this story, I was struck by how simple and profound it is. To know yourself, to know all beings as yourself, and to serve all beings with joy—this is the essence of the practice. And yet, as we all know, this is not easy to do. Because we live in a world of self and other. We live in a world of comparison, of competition, of judgment, of fear. We live in a world of scarcity, of wanting, of “not enough.” And so, it can be very difficult to experience joy.
But joy is not something that depends on circumstances. It’s not the result of things going our way. It is, as Virōpama said, our true nature. It is what arises when we stop clinging, when we stop rejecting, when we stop trying to control reality. And I think that’s why Virōpama is often depicted laughing, with his belly exposed, because he’s at ease with things as they are. He’s not holding on to anything. He’s not protecting anything. He’s not trying to be someone or to get somewhere. He’s simply expressing life as it is.
When I was on pilgrimage a few years ago, I remember visiting a temple in Japan that had a large statue of Virōpama right by the entrance. It was the kind of temple where you could hear the monks chanting inside, and the smell of incense drifted through the air. People would stop before entering and rub the statue’s belly for good luck. I remember standing there for a while, watching people come and go, and feeling this sense of quiet happiness. It wasn’t that anything extraordinary was happening. It was simply that everything was complete in that moment—the sound of chanting, the smell of incense, the sight of people bowing and laughing softly as they rubbed the statue’s belly.
I think that’s what Virōpama represents. Not a joy that depends on pleasure or success, but a joy that comes from being fully present, fully awake, and fully yourself. A joy that arises when there is no resistance. In the Mahayana teachings, this is called ananda—bliss or joy that is the natural expression of enlightenment. It doesn’t mean you’re always smiling or that nothing ever hurts. It means that beneath whatever is happening, there is a deep trust in life itself.
When we practice zazen, we are cultivating that same quality of trust. We’re learning to sit in the middle of whatever is happening—whether it’s pain or peace, fear or joy—and to experience it fully, without needing to change it. Over time, this practice reveals the joy that’s already there, the joy that doesn’t depend on conditions.
And I think that’s one of the reasons Dōgen says that practice and realization are one. Because when you’re really practicing, you’re not trying to get somewhere else. You’re not trying to fix or improve yourself. You’re simply expressing the completeness that’s already here. And in that expression, there is joy.
Sometimes people think joy is something that comes at the end of the path, after you’ve worked through all your delusions and done all your practice and somehow achieved enlightenment. But actually, joy is both the path and the fruit of the path. It’s both the cause and the result. When you act joyfully, when you serve joyfully, when you sit joyfully—even if you don’t feel joyful—you are aligning yourself with that deep current of life that is always flowing.
…the moment we relax our tight grip, the moment we stop trying to force life into a mold, something shifts.
There’s a story about a monk who came to study with a Zen master. The monk said, “I’m not happy. I’m not peaceful. I’ve been practicing for many years, but I still feel restless and dissatisfied. What should I do?” The master said, “Eat when you’re hungry, sleep when you’re tired.” The monk said, “That’s what everyone does. How can that be practice?” The master said, “Not everyone eats when they’re hungry and sleeps when they’re tired. Most people are thinking a hundred thoughts while they eat and another hundred while they try to sleep.”
I love that story because it points directly to this simple truth: joy arises when we’re present. When we stop fighting with reality, when we stop trying to make things different, joy is right there. It’s not something we have to find or earn. It’s what’s left when the struggle stops.
Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s easy. The mind is very clever at creating struggle. We get caught in our stories—what should be, what shouldn’t be, who’s right, who’s wrong. We think that if only things were different, then we could relax. But practice is about realizing that this, right here, is it. This is our life. This is where we find freedom, or not at all.
And so, joy isn’t a reward for practice; it’s the practice itself. Every time you sit down on the cushion, every time you take a breath with awareness, every time you respond to someone with kindness instead of irritation, you are expressing joy. Even if you don’t feel joyful, that expression is joy in action.
Sometimes I think joy can actually be a form of courage. Because to be joyful in this world—to really allow yourself to feel joy—requires that you open yourself fully to life. And that means also opening yourself to pain, to loss, to change, to uncertainty. Joy and sorrow are not separate. They arise together. When you close yourself off to one, you close yourself off to the other.
So, when we sit, we are training ourselves to stay open. We’re training ourselves to feel everything—the joy and the sorrow, the light and the dark—without collapsing into either. And that takes courage. It takes faith. Because the mind will tell you, “If you open to this, it will destroy you. If you feel this pain, you won’t survive.” But when you actually allow yourself to feel it, you realize that what destroys you is not the pain—it’s the resistance to it.
I think this is what Dōgen means when he says that to study the self is to forget the self. To study the self is to see all the ways you create separation—between self and other, between joy and sorrow, between good and bad—and then to let that go. To let go of the idea that there’s someone here who needs to be protected or improved or perfected. When that idea drops away, what’s left is life itself. And life is joyful, even when it hurts.
Virōpama knew that. That’s why he could say that joy is the essence of his teaching. Because when you understand the true nature of things, joy is not something extra. It’s not an emotion that comes and goes. It’s the natural expression of awakening.
There’s a saying in the Zen tradition that enlightenment is like the moon reflected in water. The moon doesn’t get wet, and the water isn’t broken. The moon and the water are not two, and yet they don’t interfere with each other. Joy is like that. It reflects everything without holding on to anything. It doesn’t depend on the conditions of the water—whether it’s calm or turbulent, muddy or clear. The reflection is always there, even if we can’t see it.
When I was living at the monastery, I remember times when I was struggling with something—maybe I was tired, or I was feeling irritated or lonely—and I would go out at night and look up at the moon. And somehow, just seeing that light would remind me that everything was okay. Not that everything was easy or pleasant, but that everything was whole. That even my confusion and pain were part of something vast and luminous. That’s joy.
It’s not a denial of suffering; it’s a deeper understanding of it. Joy doesn’t cancel out sorrow. It holds it. It makes room for it. That’s why Virōpama’s joy is so powerful—it’s not fragile. It’s not dependent on circumstances. It’s vast enough to contain everything.
And so, when we talk about serving all beings with joy, we’re not talking about being cheerful all the time or pretending that everything is fine. We’re talking about meeting life wholeheartedly, with nothing left out. We’re talking about saying yes to the whole thing—to the beauty and the pain, to the gain and the loss, to the birth and the death—and trusting that none of it is outside the Dharma.
Opening to Life
When we do that, when we open to life in that way, something shifts. The separation between self and other, between joy and sorrow, begins to dissolve. And what’s left is this deep sense of intimacy with everything. You realize that the tree outside your window, the person sitting next to you, the sound of the rain—all of it is you. And that’s not a mystical statement; it’s a simple fact of interdependence. Nothing exists on its own. Everything is part of everything else.
So when we say, “May all beings be happy,” it’s not just a wish; it’s a recognition of reality. Because when you awaken to the truth of interbeing, you see that your happiness and the happiness of others are not separate. To serve others is to serve yourself, and to serve yourself is to serve others. That’s why joy is essential to the path. It’s not self-indulgent; it’s selfless. It’s the natural expression of a heart that’s free.
Virōpama understood this. His joy wasn’t about pleasure or comfort; it was about freedom. Freedom from clinging, from fear, from the endless cycle of wanting things to be different. He knew that the world is already complete, just as it is. And when you know that—really know it—how can you not be joyful?
So maybe the question for us is, what is joy for me? What is joy when I’m tired, or when things aren’t going the way I want? What is joy when I’m in pain, or when someone I love is suffering? Can I find joy even there—not by denying the pain, but by seeing the vastness that holds it all?
Sometimes, when I sit and think about how we live our lives, it seems like we’re constantly caught in doing and achieving. We measure ourselves by results, by what we can accumulate or show, and in that process, we often forget the subtle, quiet presence that is always there. This presence is not something you make or earn; it’s not a project or a goal. It’s simply the way things are, the way life is unfolding at every moment, whether we notice it or not. When we try to grab onto it, control it, or force it into a shape that we like, we actually miss it entirely.
In Zen practice, there’s this constant invitation to come back to the present, to notice the ordinary, to let go of the habit of pushing forward and striving. Sitting meditation is one of the ways we practice this: just sitting, breathing, noticing the body and mind as they are, not as we wish them to be. The mind will wander, of course; that is its nature. But each time we notice it wandering and return to the breath, we are practicing the letting go of control, the opening to what is here now. This is not a technique to achieve something; it’s an actual experience of being alive.
I think about how this relates to our daily lives. We carry so many expectations, so many judgments of ourselves and others. And yet, the moment we relax our tight grip, the moment we stop trying to force life into a mold, something shifts. There’s a kind of intelligence in the way life unfolds that we can’t predict or manufacture. We can participate in it, respond to it, be with it—but we can’t own it. This is a subtle teaching that shows up in the way we breathe, in the way we sit, in the way we interact with the world around us. It’s always here, and yet we are often blind to it.
Being present in this way is not passive. It requires courage, honesty, and patience. Courage to face what is actually here without retreating into distraction, honesty to see ourselves as we are, and patience to sit with the flow of life without demanding instant results. In this practice, there is a deepening trust, a softening of the heart, and a growing clarity about what is meaningful. It’s not about escaping the world or avoiding responsibility, but about inhabiting life fully, moment by moment, with awareness and care.
When we start to pay attention in this way, we may notice something surprising: that life is not a series of separate events to manage or fix, but a continuous unfolding that we are always part of. Even in moments that feel difficult, chaotic, or painful, there is a rhythm, a movement, a presence that we can connect with. This does not mean that suffering disappears or that we should ignore challenges. It simply means that we learn to meet whatever arises with clarity and openness, rather than being swept away by fear, frustration, or resistance.
One of the ways this shows up in practice is through our relationships. When we stop trying to impose our expectations or control outcomes, we can see others more clearly. We listen more deeply, respond with greater care, and allow space for life to move in its own way. This is a subtle but profound shift: it changes the quality of connection, and it changes the quality of our own experience. Presence is not something that happens outside of life; it is woven into the texture of everything we do, everything we touch, everything we are.
In the Moment
In our ordinary daily routines, this practice can be as simple as noticing the breath while washing dishes, feeling the ground beneath our feet while walking, or fully attending to a conversation with someone we care about. These are not small moments; they are the actual fabric of life. By bringing awareness and attention to these moments, we begin to cultivate a steadiness and depth that cannot be rushed or forced. It grows slowly, naturally, through repeated engagement and mindful attention, like a tree taking root and slowly reaching toward the sky.
Ultimately, the teaching invites us to trust what is already present. We do not have to become someone different or achieve some ideal state. We are invited to notice, to breathe, to sit, to move through life with eyes open, heart open, and a willingness to be fully here. This is the essence of practice: simple, direct, and always available, no matter the circumstances. It is a way of meeting life as it is, moment by moment, without clinging, without resistance, with patience, courage, and care.
As we continue in this way, it becomes clear that practice is not about achieving some particular state or reaching a final goal. There is no finish line, no certificate of mastery, no moment when everything is “perfect.” What unfolds instead is a deepening familiarity with life as it is, a growing recognition of the patterns of thought, emotion, and sensation that shape our experience. We begin to see where we habitually tighten, cling, or resist, and we can gradually allow ourselves to relax into a more fluid, open way of being. This is not always easy; old habits are strong, and the mind can be very persistent in its stories and judgments. Yet even in the struggle, there is a teaching: the struggle itself is part of the path, revealing the very places where attention and care are needed.
One of the most remarkable aspects of this practice is the subtle transformation it brings. It is not dramatic or flashy, but it is pervasive. Our actions, speech, and even thoughts begin to shift in a natural way, without effort. We may find ourselves more patient, more compassionate, more attuned to the people and situations around us. We notice that the moments we once rushed through or dismissed as insignificant are rich with meaning and presence. Ordinary life becomes a canvas for practice, each interaction and experience an opportunity to engage fully, to be awake, and to act with clarity and kindness.
Another aspect of this path is learning to let go—not in the sense of abandoning responsibility or care, but in the sense of releasing the tight grip of expectation, judgment, or fear. Letting go allows us to meet life as it is, to respond with wisdom and sensitivity rather than reaction. It opens a space for creativity, spontaneity, and authentic connection. In this space, the boundary between self and world begins to feel less rigid; we begin to sense a more intimate participation in the flow of life itself.
Finally, what we are encouraged to see is that practice and daily life are not separate. There is no special compartment where practice happens; it happens in every breath, every step, every word, and every encounter. The path is not elsewhere; it is always here, woven into the very fabric of our existence. The invitation is simple, yet profound: to wake up, to attend, and to live fully, moment by moment. Each day becomes a classroom, each experience a teacher, each breath a doorway to presence and understanding.
As we move further along this path, it becomes evident that the work of practice is never finished. Even as we develop greater awareness and ease, new challenges arise, new patterns emerge, and life continues to present situations that test our patience, understanding, and clarity. The point is not to eliminate difficulty or to achieve some permanent state of calm, but to learn how to meet whatever arises with presence and integrity. Each moment, whether comfortable or uncomfortable, carries the opportunity to practice—to observe, to respond wisely, and to act with care. In this sense, life itself is the teacher, and our very engagement with it is the curriculum.
A key insight in this journey is recognizing that our struggles and our insights are inseparable. Moments of confusion, doubt, or resistance are as much a part of practice as moments of clarity, joy, or ease. We begin to see that both are expressions of the same unfolding process, reflections of the mind’s movement and life’s inherent complexity. By embracing this, rather than clinging to the pleasant or rejecting the unpleasant, we cultivate a steadiness and resilience that allows us to meet reality as it is, not as we wish it to be.
Ultimately, the path calls us to a kind of intimacy with our own lives, an attentiveness that encompasses all that we encounter. It asks us to bring awareness, compassion, and authenticity to every moment, understanding that these qualities are not acquired from outside but arise naturally when we engage fully with the present. There is no separate “practice time” or “real life” time; the distinction dissolves. What we learn in meditation, in reflection, or in silence, we bring into the world, and what we experience in the world becomes the substance of our practice.
In this way, practice is not a tool or a technique but a way of being. It is an unfolding, moment-by-moment participation in life itself. Each breath, each encounter, each choice becomes an opportunity to express clarity, care, and presence. We are invited to let go of expectation, to release the need for perfection, and to embrace the path with openness and courage. And in doing so, we discover that the path has always been here, waiting, and that the simplest acts—breathing, listening, noticing—carry the deepest wisdom.
Closing Thoughts
As we bring this reflection to a close, it is worth remembering that the invitation of practice is always present. It does not depend on a particular place, teacher, or formal setting. The invitation is here in every breath, every step, every encounter. We are asked only to show up, to notice, and to respond with awareness and care. This simplicity can be deceiving; it may seem too small or ordinary, yet it is precisely in these ordinary moments that the deepest transformation unfolds. The path is not about adding something to ourselves, but about uncovering what has always been present, beneath our habits, assumptions, and distractions.
The teaching asks for patience—not the impatience of waiting for results, but the patience of fully engaging with what is, without judgment or haste. In this patience, insight arises naturally. We come to understand that life, in all its complexity, is not a problem to be solved but a reality to be met with clarity and compassion. Our practice becomes inseparable from our living, and our living becomes the expression of our practice. This integration is subtle, gradual, and ongoing, but it is profoundly sustaining.
Finally, let us hold a sense of gratitude for this opportunity—to practice, to learn, to be present. Whether we encounter ease or difficulty, clarity or confusion, the moment itself is a teacher, and we are students and participants all at once. By cultivating awareness, kindness, and openness, we discover that the path is not elsewhere but right here. Every ordinary action, every quiet observation, every breath taken with attention, carries the fullness of practice.
Study Session 5: Opening the Hand of Thought, a dharma talk by Zen Buddhist teacher Zuisei Goddard. Audio podcast, video, and transcript available.
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