more ramblings on huàtóu

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In Chinese, if you wish to inquire from someone, “what is your problem,” or “what do you want.” you might say, “what is your huàtóu?” When a thought begins to take shape, this is the beginning of a sentence. However, what is the source and location of an budding thought? This is what is sometimes called the ‘great matter.’ To discover the source of any thought—this is a huàtóu. It is the beginning of a phrase, or a problem. To work on a huàtóu is the method of dwelling upon the origin and root source of the phrase. This “dwelling upon” includes the effort of study, deduction, understanding, observation, contemplation and quiet deliberation upon the huàtóu.

Ideally, a huàtóu leads the meditator back to the base of his or her consciousness and enables one to discover the real nature of this consciousness through a thorough examination of an idea. The key word here is “dwelling” (Jǔ, tí) 舉、提. One must dwell upon a Kōan, as Dàhuì had also done, with intense concentration and absorption to the exclusion of all other interests, pursuits and preoccupations. In this respect, a Kōan serves a function similar to that of a mantra, a mandala, or other devices used in what might be called “concentrative or absorptive meditation.” Here the practitioner actively focuses their entire attention on a single object, sound, or idea and reaches a new level of consciousness because of this concentration and restriction of their awareness. It is very different both in approach and technique from the type of meditation sometimes called “the negative way” of which the exercise in mindfulness of the Theravada tradition and the quiet-sitting of the Cáodòng ([Jap]: Soto) Chán are good examples. In this case, the practitioner relinquishes any active control but remains aware of everything in a state of passivity and receptivity. The practitioner relaxes concentration and expands the domain of attention.

This “dwelling upon” is not the same as “thinking about;” in fact, the dwelling upon of a Kōan is the exact opposite of our ordinary logical discursive thinking processes. For how is one seriously to think about Zhàozhōu’s “Wu,” as logically, the Kōan makes no “sense.” The entire exchange between the monk and Zhàozhōu, just as the other exchanges Dàhuì mentions, is unintelligible and cannot be thought about or understood rationally no matter how hard one tries. Actually, the very opaqueness to reason and the stubborn refusal to be “figured out’’ are intrinsic features of Kōans and constitute their effectiveness as meditative devices.

One useful way to understand Kōan introspection or huàtóu is to regard it as an opening wedge for the sudden and intuitive apprehension of the very suchness of life. Its effectiveness stems from its ability to create in the practitioner a sense of “great doubt” (dà yíqíng) 大疑情and the accompanying feelings of bewilderment, frustration, anxiety, and anger. If the practitioner takes a Kōan seriously, we can expect that they will be impelled to “solve” the Kōan with the strong sense of urgency that this painfully disquieting “great doubt” produces. In actual practice, probably very few monks could sustain their effort without constant prodding from their teachers. Consequently, Dàhuì was chastised because he did not “doubt [his huàtóu] enough.” Chán masters have often recognized the crucial role this sense of doubt plays in the workings of attaining ones true self. Approximately six hundred years after Dàhuì’s death, the Japanese Rinzai master Hakuin regarded “great doubt” as the indispensable driving force behind every opening experience. “Once the great doubt arises, out of a hundred who practice, one hundred will achieve breakthrough.”

However, how does a huàtóu generate doubt? A huàtóu can do so because it works as a sort of shock, or a surprise, which breaks the practitioner’s assumed expectancies. It is in this sense that a huàtóu can be considered an opening wedge. To begin with, in China the huàtóu was used in traditional novels and plays as the “opening statement.” The narrator in the story or play would deliver a short opening speech, sets up the proper dramatic situation and provides the occasion for the unfolding of the succeeding events. In the case of a Kōan, however, what follows is not a rational sequence of statements or events, as one would ordinarily expect, but by a totally unrelated and sometimes illogical statement, such as “mount Sumeru walks over the water.” The practitioner is thus made an alien and is separated from the familiar world of logic and becomes open to transformation.

Chán masters have realized that the true nature of things is Śūnyatā and out of compassion will help his or her students to attain the same realization. Human beings are creatures of habit; consequently, they are used to seeing the world, others and themselves in a predefined way. The student’s worldview is shaped by constructs (language, concepts, belief-structures, or what Buddhism calls “views”, trsti). He thinks this is the only right way to see the world and tenaciously clings to it. In this view, everything in the world is “real”: permanent, substantive, and, by and large, pleasant. Yet Buddhism believes otherwise. A Chán master sees the world as Śūnyatā, form arising out of interdependent origination, there is no difference between self and others, and nirvana and samsara then become empty names.

        Students do not give up their habitual views easily or willingly; because, their reality seems to be the natural one, and they are not ready to abandon their attachment to it. Engaging huàtóu practice can lead to an opening that enables the practitioner to return to their “true selves”.