Grasping Way, Granting Way

Throughout our fall practice period at Mountain Rain Zen Community, we drew heavily from an excellent book called The Hidden Lamp, a collection of koans featuring women ancestors, with commentaries by a fabulous assembly of women teachers.

What Are Zen Koans Exactly?

The simplest explanation is that koans are stories, both mythical and historical, made up of the sayings, dialogues, and experiences of our Zen ancestors.

The word koan is Japanese and comes from the Chinese term “Gongan,” which literally translates as “public case,” as in a legal case or precedent.

As a lawyer, I find this very satisfying. Many of my arguments in trials are built on references to other recorded trial decisions.

So when I encountered the idea of a koan in Zen, I thought, “Oh, how wonderful, it’s like spiritual case law!”

But Koans are, of course, not so easily defined, and there’s probably a lot of different possible ways to explain what they are and how they might be worked with in practice.

I really like James Ishmael Ford’s simple definition: “a koan points to something of deep importance and invites us to stand in that place.”

Two Teaching Styles

In his foreword to The Hidden Lamp, Mountain Rain’s founding teacher, Zoketsu Norman Fischer, makes a brilliant comment about two teaching styles that show up in the koan collections that have been translated to English and shared in our North American Zen traditions.

He writes, “The traditional collections often make reference to two opposing but complimentary teaching styles: ‘the grasping way’ and ‘the granting way.’”

“The grasping way,” [Fischer tells us] “is the withholding way. It gives you nothing because there is nothing to give. Whatever there is to be gotten must be hard-won through struggle. This is the way of the solitary hero.”

“The granting way is the kindly way of clear and helpful teaching, in which even your confusion and suffering is part of the path. Practice always takes place in the context of others, so awakening is not something you ‘get’ so much as the relief you experience when you recognize that your life is always right (even when it is difficult) and shared.”

So another way to say this is that the grasping way is solitary, marked by one’s own heroic effort, and individual discovery—sometimes in opposition to a student or master who doesn’t quite get it.

A more charitable framing of this is that we learn to stand on our own two feet, not to depend on anything other than a deep trust in the practice and in our innate ability to give ourselves to a life of practice.

The granting way is marked by cooperation and compassion, and awakening happens when one realizes one’s deep connection to others. And also when one realizes that those dark and painful and imperfect parts of our lives are the material of awakening itself and must not only be faced, but also embraced.

Fischer shared, in correspondence with a scholar of religions, Ben Van Overmeire, that he came up with these two styles by loosely translating a pair of terms that show up in the Chinese Koan sources: fuqi (扶起; literally “raising up”) and fangdao (放倒; “dashing down”).

It’s fun to stop for a moment and consider which way seems most natural to you. I have always felt very deeply how important community and relationships are to keeping up my practice, so the granting way feels very natural—maybe even like the proper and wholesome way to engage with the teachings.

But I have many dharma friends for whom solitary practice is not only comfortable, but vital. They need to go off on their own from time to time to puzzle something out.

Fischer tells us that, in practice throughout the centuries, monastics likely experienced both ways, depending on temperament and circumstances.

But in the classical collections, this is not reflected. And in the West, we can be very attracted to the idea of solitary spiritual practice.

The Hidden Lamp is not just incredible because it is a koan collection compiled by women and about women ancestors. Fischer feels that it is also remarkable because it stands as a tangible example of this overlooked style of teaching and practice—the granting way.

The granting way is very present in the koans of our women ancestors, and the commentaries of modern teachers.

Master Shiche’s Koan

Here is one example from The Hidden Lamp and highlighted by Van Overmeire in his exploration of koan interpretations by contemporary female Zen practitioners:

Master Shiche asked his student, the nun Qiyuan Xinggang, “Buddha-nature is not illusory. What was it like when you were nourishing the spiritual embryo?”

Qiyuan replied, “It felt congealed, deep, and solitary.”

Shiche asked, “When you gave birth to the embryo, what was it like?”

Qiyuan replied, “It was like being completely stripped bare.”

Shiche said, “When you met with Buddha, what was it like?”

Qiyuan replied, “I took advantage of the opportunity to meet him face-to-face.”

Shiche said, “Good! Good! You will be a model for those in the future.”

In The Hidden Lamp, this koan is commented on by Sunya Kjolhede, a Zen priest ordained by Phillip Kapleau.

She writes that upon reading this phrase, “nourishing the spiritual embryo,” she immediately thought of her early days working on the koan “Mu” that many Rinzai Zen students begin with, when they take up koan introspection practice.

She says that “Nourishing the spiritual embryo,” a phrase adopted from Taoist teachings, has long been used in Zen to refer to deepening and maturing practice.

In her view, the maternal idea of giving birth to greater awareness might be a lot more accessible than the masculine, combative, grasping language traditionally used to guide new students.

Macho masters might tell you to “bore through Mu like an iron drill,” or take up the purported words of the Buddha, “It is like a strong man pushing down a weaker one.”

Instead, Kjolhede writes “I remember the turning point, in [a] seven-day sesshin [retreat], when it hit me that none of these very male images was working for me—when I finally had the confidence to toss it all aside and find my own way. Working with Mu, I realized, was like surrendering to and merging with a lover! Letting Mu walk, letting Mu eat, letting Mu do it all … suddenly practice opened up, shifting into something alive and juicy and intensely close.”

I love this idea of practice as warm, relational, alive, juicy, and intimate. Instead of conquering awakening like a foe, what about embracing awakening as a lover? As a beloved friend?

Instead of conquering awakening like a foe, what about embracing awakening as a lover? As a beloved friend?

And Kjolhede’s description of this opening for her reminds me of my Dharma Inquiry Ceremony (Hossenshiki) during this last retreat.

I was so unbelievably nervous. Traditionally, the Hossenshiki is translated as a “Dharma Combat,” but in our tradition, we say instead that it is an inquiry.

I want to think this is gentle encouragement for us to take up the granting way, rather than the combative, heroic grasping way of old.

But even so, I couldn’t shake the idea that I was about to be tested. I had thoughts like “I have to say the right things, the helpful things, or people will be disappointed in me.” Or I imagined that people might try to trick me with questions, and I’d freeze up.

When I was in middle school, I joined the school debate club. I was really great at the sections where I had time to prepare my notes. But there was a section of a competition where we would be asked a question and have to answer right there and then, without preparation. I was asked, “If you were a tree, what tree would you be?”

Friends, I froze up completely. I didn’t just give a bad answer. I didn’t say what tree I would be, and then found myself unable to justify myself.

I just straight up couldn’t answer.

After years of Zen training, I can now say that the best tree to be is a Christmas tree. Because everyone decorates you with little ornaments and lights and candy, and children play in your branches.

In the koan stories, not answering usually means a cat gets chopped in half, or you get hit with a stick or something.

It feels like in the stories, the head student either comes out looking wise and heroic, or is the butt of the joke. I think the traditional idea of being a leader of any kind in Zen, whether a head student or a teacher, is very solitary.

So, I was really worried that I’d get my fan and the dharma staff and someone would ask me about my original face or about the sound of one hand clapping, and it would be crickets.

I shared my worries with my teachers, Kate and Michael—which I always recommend doing, by the way. And they reminded me that my job was not to have all the answers, but to take good care of all my dharma friends.

And that opened everything up for me. I realized, for the fiftieth time during my time as shuso, that my role was not to be perfect, to be smart, or, indeed, to be enlightened. It was to love and to be loved.

So that’s what I did. I took up the dharma staff with the intention of loving and receiving love from the assembly, no matter what my conditioning told me.

And, like a miracle, the moment the first question was asked, I felt all my butterflies flutter away. I felt entirely at ease.

As Kjolhede says, in collaboration with everyone at the ceremony, practice became “something alive and juicy and intensely close.”

Or, like the nun Qiyuan replied, “It was like being completely stripped bare.”

Not in a painful or humiliating way, but in the sense that I felt totally at ease sharing myself. I was just River, in that moment. Just River meeting her friends, exploring with them, playing with them.

Maybe another way of talking about Qiyuan’s feeling of being stripped bare is Michael’s frequent invitation to meet others, to meet our lives even, with our hands open, walking innocently. Michael has often encouraged me to take this attitude when my fear of disappointing others flares up, when I find myself hiding behind cleverness, or when I raise my defenses against real or imagined conflicts.

To walk with hands open, stripped bare of pretense, just offering ourselves to others, we go beyond winning and losing.

When we feel that way, like Qiyuan did, we naturally feel the urge to meet others “face-to-face.” To really get to know people, and to be known by people, without fear.

In this way, it is not about victory in combat; there is instead an instinctive desire to explore something together with friends.

This, for me, is the beauty of the grasping way.

And although many of the koans about our women ancestors exhibit this granting way, you can apply both styles to many koans.

Dogen’s Koan

There are many examples of the ‘granting way’ in older collections of koans, and in fact, I think Dogen had a thing for them.

One of my favorite koans is case 198 of Dogen’s Shinji Shobogenzo, a collection of 300 koans he gathered during his time in China. I find many of these koans to be very sweet, and one of my favorites is about two dharma brothers, Dongshan and Shenshan, crossing a river.

Zen Master Shenshan was crossing a river with his dharma brother Dongshan.

Dongshan said, “Don’t make a mistake with your steps and slip into the current.”

Shenshan said, “If I make a mistake with my steps, then I won’t live to cross the river.”

Dongshan said, “What is the state without mistakes?” 

Shenshan said, “Just now, crossing the river with you, elder brother.”

This is such a good example of the playful language of koan exchanges. Here are the two dharma brothers, crossing a river together—maybe on a journey from one temple to another, but they are referring to another kind of river—the river of dharma, the river of our lives.

One way of talking about this kind of spiritual river is a parable attributed to Shan-tao, a Master of Pure Land Buddhism who lived in 7th-century China.

In the parable, a traveller is on a journey through a dangerous wilderness. Pursued by bandits and wild beasts, she races through unknown territory to escape. Eventually, she comes to a river split in two by a narrow path of pure white rocks. On one side of the path, the river is filled with tongues of burning flame; on the other, a powerful current threatens to sweep the traveller to her death.

Even though the only way forward is this narrow, perilous path, the traveller is stuck. She cannot go back to face the bandits and beasts. She cannot cross and risk death. And she cannot just sit down and give up; she has to do something. We have to do something.

In this parable, the river of flame represents our hatred and aversion, the painful experiences in our lives that we seek to avoid at all costs. The surging waves represent our craving, the parts of life we want more of, threatening to swallow us up. And the bandits represent all the false ideas and teachings about happiness. The shiny new diets, workout regimens, and gurus with easy, attractive answers (whether spiritual, financial, or ideological). The beasts are our strong passions, the powerful emotions that drive us forward, whether or not we’re ready.

Suddenly, a voice calls out from behind the traveler, “Dear one, I know it is very scary, but you’ll be OK. You have what you need to make this journey,” And a voice calls out from ahead, “Come just as you are, I will protect you.”

Shan Tao explains, in his parable, that the voice behind the traveller is Shakyamuni Buddha, the historical Buddha, and the voice ahead is Amida Buddha, the manifestation of primordial light and life. The narrow path is our Way Seeking Mind, delicate amid all of life’s confusion, but an open passage with the help of our buddha-nature, good teachings, and the support of friends.

So, Dongshan, teasing his dharma brother, is reminding him, “It’s pretty perilous crossing this river of life. One mistake, one wrong step, and you’ll be lost!”

And this is true. I think we often have this experience after sesshin. People are so blissed out, very, very huggy—to my mild dismay—and full of kind words and appreciation for everyone they have sat with for seven days. And then we go home, and suddenly there’s a new season of Stranger Things on Netflix, an endless assortment of boozy Christmas chocolates, and Boxing Day sales on the newest Apple product. That new Hockey show that everyone is talking about…

How Can We Make Use of These Two Ways?

Often, after a retreat (or in the New Year), I hear many people in the community talk about making a fresh commitment to sit more regularly, to come to the zendo consistently, and to volunteer for practice positions.

And this is wonderful, I think it is one of the best things we can do for our practice, to make explicit commitments and express them to friends and teachers.

But then, inevitably, we make mistakes. We miss a Wednesday, or maybe spend that thirty minutes in bed with our iPhone instead of on the cushion, or—most sinfully of all—we miss a bell during Sunday service.

Speaking just for myself, sometimes I think I would rather be swept up in a river than make a mistake or let down my teachers.

What happens when you make a mistake? When the resolution or commitment you have set for yourself doesn’t work out?

Dongshan has a question for his brother, a question for us—what is the state of no mistakes?

What would it be like to live in a place of no mistakes? Not a place where we do everything perfectly. But a place where our mistakes aren’t the end of practice. We put down a foot wrong, brush ourselves off, and continue on our way across the river.

Shenshan answers, “Just now, crossing the river with you, elder brother.”

Ah, this is so tender! This, to me, exemplifies the granting way as medicine, when we’re maybe a bit too stuck in the grasping way.

In Shan-Tao’s parable of the rivers, it is Buddha who guides us across. I feel like in this koan, Shenshan is saying, “Together, supporting each other, caring for each other, it is safe to make mistakes, safe to be imperfect.” The voice that urges us forward, the voice that calls out to us, is so often the voice of our good friends. And, in turn, maybe because of our mistakes and missteps, we are often the voices that soothe others on that perilous journey across the river.

Early in practice, mistakes really hurt me. I am a perfectionist, raised by perfectionists. I have often equated worthiness, or being lovable, with being practical, talented, or helpful.

I recall hitting a bell at the wrong time, or saying something in a sharing circle, and then spending days agonizing about it.

Something I have noticed is that I hold mistakes so much more lightly now, and because I hold my own mistakes more lightly, I can hold the mistakes of others with patience, and sometimes even tenderness. It has made it possible for me to be more fully support and encourage people to practice, which is one of the things in my life that brings me the most joy.

The place of no mistakes is not a place where we are perfect, nor is it a place where there is no effort. 

When I think of the place of no mistakes, I come back to Fischer’s beautiful description of the granting way:

“The granting way is the kindly way of clear and helpful teaching, in which even your confusion and suffering is part of the path. Practice always takes place in the context of others, so awakening is not something you ‘get’ so much as the relief you experience when you recognize that your life is always right (even when it is difficult) and shared.”

So what does that mean?

As you craft commitments for the new year, and receive the commitments of others, please consider:

Where is the place of no mistakes for you?

Where is the place where your life is always right, even when it is difficult, and shared?

♦

This article was first published on River Shannon’s Substack, Unfolding Practice, and was republished with permission.