#gutei

❝  Again!   ❞

The base of the bokken in Hanzo’s hand all but splintered in his grasp, worn and ready for retirement. It would not be the first time the elder Shimada had broken a practice sword in one training session, nor would it be the last. He glanced upward at his brother. The two stood as far away from each other as they possibly could while being within the limits of the sparring area, two dragons braced for combat. And yet, Hanzo grinned.

“ At this rate, brother, you’ll never manage to catch up to me!” Hanzo either did not notice, or was perhaps blatantly ignoring, the trail of blood coming from the left side of his nose, or the bruise slowly forming beneath his right eye. He was too focused on his goal, the one that had be stapled to him on the day of his birth: being the best swordsman the Shimada Clan had ever seen. Genji was good, great even - despite his best attempts, Hanzo could imagine easily being surpassed by brother in the art of sword play. But Hanzo was ruthless, high on the notion of perfection, and  could not stand the idea of being second best.

{{ N E V E R }} second best.

Mumonkan Case #2:

It was just the way Hanzo liked it.

Looking down into his glass, the dragon master swirled his beverage gently, savoring the flavor of his last sip as he did so. He did not go to bars often while on the road. Not many met his high standard of cleanliness, mood, or cover - and when they did, a fine sake never seemed to be on the menu. Thankfully, this location passed with flying colors. After all, there was only so much of her the archer could tolerate without alcohol in his system.

As if on cue, Hanzo felt the hairs on his arm stand up as a gentle surge of electricity jumped between his bones. He sighed through-out the duration of this feeling: it was low and airy, vaguely similar to the sighs his father would exhale when one of his sons did something disappointing.

Whenever anyone asked him about Zen, the great master Gutei would quietly raise one finger into the air.

A boy in the village began to imitate this behavior. Whenever he heard people talking about Gutei’s teachings, he would interrupt the discussion and raise his finger. Gutei heard about the boy’s mischief.

When he saw him in the street, he seized him and cut off his finger. The boy cried and began to run off, but Gutei called out to him. When the boy turned to look, Gutei raised his finger into the air.

Gutei's practice of raising his finger whenever he preached on Zen is inextricably linked to the image of a man pointing at the moon. He could open his mouth. He could explain that a finger can point the way to the moon, but once the moon is realized, the pointing finger becomes irrelevant. But he is splendidly quiet. Perhaps in real life he runs around protesting things and making molehills out of mountains. But this is the internet, and he is decidedly unreal. Maybe that's how he's capable of making clear the quantified value of focusing on externals - and not focusing on them - in the same gesture. Or not.

The story goes that Gutei's young disciple began to imitate him, and whenever friends or family needed a smile, they enjoyed asking the child what his master had been preaching, just to see the boy raise his finger. Gutei hears tell of this, and decides to broaden the teaching in a rather "unorthodox" manner. When he came upon the boy as he was smirkedly raising his finger for an audience one day, he seized the boy, whipped out a knife, cut off his finger, and threw it out into the brush alongside the road.

It's easy to guess that the little boy runs off howling, bleeding; the shocked onlookers preparing for the obligation of some sort of an outcry. But Mr. Gutei shouts, "STOP!" The boy wheels around, clutching his fist, bleeding and sees his master's smiling eyes through his tears. Of course, Gutei was holding up his own finger. The little guy goes to hold up his finger in reply, as is his custom. He's already forgotten the trauma. And when he realizes his finger, his pain, and his trickery are gone, he simply bows in respect. Everyone likes to say that in that instant he became enlightened. Of course they do. It makes them feel like they're enlightened too. But it isn't fair because, well, they still have their finger.

Let's say that Gutei has a friend who tends animals in the Hijaz. This man is an ardent protector of the creatures in his care. On a fortunate day a beautiful gazelle wanders into his flocks and begins to eat among the other animals. The shepherd is gentle and patient. He doesn't rise to greet the animal, to see if he can contain her. He does nothing but rest at the base of a tree until the sun has slid low enough in the sky that he must bring his flocks home to the safety of the enclosure and the watering trough. To his surprise and delight, the visiting gazelle takes it upon herself to follow the herd home. She appears to feel at ease among the animals. The shepherd is pleased. She accepts the gate, and appears comfortable with the notion of passing the night in safety with the other animals. And now she is a welcome guest. But this night is dark. There are noises beyond the perimeter. The shepherd cannot sleep. By the light of his intellect and the fear of some intrusion, he carefully leaves his tent and goes to check on the herd. There is no moonlight. Only the faint glimmer of stars behind the clouds. We say, sometimes, 'pitch black,' of this kind of night. Whatever the case, the shepherd cannot see. But he is worried about his animals - in particular, the beautiful young gazelle who has made herself welcome in his enclosure.

We have the advantage of knowing what he does not. As the shepherd caught an hour's sleep, a hungry lion came and devoured the gazelle. We can see that the lion has wholly consumed her. And fully satisfied, lays in the dust near the branches and limbs of the enclosure - sound asleep in his satiety. He is asleep, that is, until the hand of the shepherd reaches between the limb wall of the pen and finds his shoulder. He opens one eye. The shepherd has both eyes closed. After all, what good would it do to open them in the sea of darkness. The shepherd strokes the lion's shoulder, thinking he has touched the newest member of his herd. Thinking all is well. Thinking what a comfort it must be to the gazelle to have the reassuring hand of the one who feeds and cares for the animals - stroking her shoulder in the dark.

The lion is so full, so satisfied with his meal and his shoulder massage, he simply remains still and allows this to go on for a few minutes. The shepherd, satisfied himself that all is well, rises to return to his tent. You could say that something in the lion stirred at the padding feet of the shepherd walking across the sand in the darkness. Some hunger that has nothing to do with hunger, but the predatory nature of a hunter. Call it the thrill of making a clean kill. Either way, the lion is aroused.

I don't know if the lion jumped up and made a clean kill. I don't know if the shepherd was able to sleep until sunrise, believing he'd been wise to check on his animals. Maybe the sun never came up. Perhaps the stars came down and told another story.