Whatever comes to mind. Sometimes a story I read, sometimes something that came to me while holding my mala beads.
Someone asked Zhaozhou: Does a dog have Buddha-nature? Zhaozhou said: Mu. Just one word that countless people have failed to penetrate for a thousand years. Maybe it's not an answer but a wall — making you crash into it and find all your prepared responses useless.
Hanshan asked Shide: when someone slanders me, cheats me, insults me — how should I deal with it? Shide replied: tolerate him, yield to him, let him be, avoid him, endure him, respect him, pay him no mind.
A couple of days ago I was flipping through an old book and came across a set of woodblock prints. Black and white, very simple. A person, an ox, ten pictures. I wasn't looking at the pictures anymore. I was looking at myself.
Zen Master Hakuin was falsely accused of fathering a child. He didn't defend himself. He just said "Is that so?" — and these three words changed how I see blame and misunderstanding.
On a windy day in Guangzhou, a flag flapped outside my window. I stood there watching it and remembered a story from thirteen hundred years ago — two monks arguing about whether it was the wind or the flag that was moving. Huineng said: it's neither. It's your mind that moves. I used to think this was idealism. Now I think it's about something simpler — what makes you suffer isn't what happens outside, but how your mind responds.
This morning I was sweeping the courtyard when the sound of the bamboo broom made me stop. Then I remembered the story of Xiangyan — a monk who had read countless sutras but only understood everything when he heard a piece of tile strike bamboo. Maybe practice doesn't need grand narratives. Just one ordinary sound, one moment of quiet.
During the Tang Dynasty, an old monk named Huaihai lived on Baizhang Mountain. Every day he worked alongside younger monks. When his disciples hid his tools, he refused to eat. This story has been passed down for over a thousand years.
A young monk asked Zhaozhou how to practice. Zhaozhou simply said, "Go wash your bowl." One bowl of porridge, one alms bowl, one simple phrase — why did it bring sudden awakening? A deep exploration of this Zen koan's three layers of meaning.
On Vulture Peak, the Buddha held up a single flower. Thousands were bewildered. Only Mahākāśyapa smiled. Thus began the mind-to-mind transmission that would become Zen — a timeless teaching about direct awareness beyond words.
Is the wind moving? Is the banner moving? Or is your mind moving? A question that has echoed through thirteen centuries, revealing our attachment to external appearances.
No matter who you are, no matter what you ask, Zen master Zhaozhou's answer is always the same: "Have some tea." Three simple words that contain the essence of Zen.