Real Stillness, Real Knowledge

Shunryu Suzuki summarized Buddhism in two words: “everything changes.” Indeed, Buddhism itself changes as it moves from country to country, culture to culture, and down through the ages. Our individual practice will continue to change and evolve as well. The passage of time and the changing of circumstances may well take our teachers from us, our practice communities, and perhaps even the meaningfulness of those practices that we once thought central to our path. We may find ourselves much like the storied hermit monks of long ago, with only our will and whatever truth we’ve come to realize to guide us through the dharmic landscape.

I’m not quite a hermit, but I do live in a small country town now, far away from anything one might consider overtly “Buddhist.” That’s probably just as well, though. I’m at a place in my practice where I believe very little, and practice communities seem all too often to fairly reek of belief. Meditating with a group of people can be a very powerfully guiding, motivating, and energizing experience. Unfortunately, the usual accompaniment of ritualized minutiae, overvalued cultural artifacts, concretized religious concepts, and contrived hierarchical structures tend to leave me wondering whether I belong.

Yes, I’ve taken refuge in the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha – although my definition of sangha has grown quite a bit over the years. Yes, I still have teachers – billions of them, I’d venture to say – and hardly a day goes by that I don’t learn something from someone that brings to life the Dharma. But am I looking for a teacher who can provide for me that “turning word” – entrée into the so-called state of enlightenment? No. You see, I’ve come to experience a stillness of mind profound enough that I no longer look anywhere else for my salvation. I don’t enjoy it all the time, mind you, but I do so frequently enough that I know it’s always here, even when it might not seem to be.

I don’t need someone to tell me what it’s like, what it means, or how to “get there.” I don’t need anyone to give my experience their stamp of approval or certification. This is what I mean by the title of this post: Real Stillness, Real Knowing. If I wasn’t sure about the depth of the stillness that I’d experienced, I might not give it much consideration. If it was so ephemeral, or my understanding of it so inchoate, I certainly wouldn’t be inclined to call it real. I trust that some of you will know what I mean when I say that. Which brings me to real knowing. First-hand experience equips you with real knowledge. When your mind comes to know the depths of its own stillness, you come to realize that there are no trap doors or secret passageways to be found. There is no magical valley just over the horizon. Real stillness affords you such a view, and such knowledge.

At this point I’m reminded of a story told by Hsing Yun in his Buddhism in Every Step series, which I'll paraphrase here:

One Zen practitioner was asked by another what he took with him when he first went to study with Hui-neng, the Sixth Patriarch of Zen Buddhism.

“My nature was complete,” the practitioner replied.

“If everything was perfect, why then did you bother to go?”

“If I had not gone, how would I have known that I was not lacking in anything? How could I have seen my intrinsic nature?”

When our experience of stillness is still somewhat ephemeral, and our understanding of it rather inchoate, we still have doubts. We seek out teachers and further learning from outside of us in order to satisfy our thirst for knowledge. We practice with great diligence as teachers have taught us we should practice. But when our experience of stillness becomes very real for us, our quest for understanding from outside of us fades away. Our knowing becomes real for us as well. And we continue practicing with great diligence.

Copyright 2019 by Mark Robert Frank

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