There are many different pathways that lead to spiritual awareness, consciousness, and perfection. Certainly three of the most frequently traveled pathways are the pathways of Zen, Buddhism, and Taoism. Today I’d like to talk to you a little bit about these ways, not so much from a historical perspective but from the perspective of one who, in other lifetimes, has practiced and taught these three ways. If you’d like historical information on the evolution of Zen, Buddhism, or Taoism, there’s a wealth of information at your local library or in a metaphysical bookstore.

Naturally, if you’re interested in Taoism, I would suggest that you read The Way of Life by Lao Tzu, the founder of Taoism. I personally prefer the Witter Bynner translation. It’s available in paperback.

For Zen, there are many, many books, the Suzuki books and others. I remember a time a number of years ago when you could go into a bookstore and maybe just find four or five books about Zen—Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, Suzuki on Zen and Alan Watts. Now there are many, many more to choose from.

As far as Buddhism is concerned, there are many different books on Buddhism, on Mahayana Buddhism, Vajrayana Buddhism, and Hinayana Buddhism. There’s a wide variety. Buddhism itself, of course, has evolved and changed quite a bit since the time of Buddha. There are different sects, which are basically different Buddhist religions. Just the evolution of Buddhism, from which Zen also sprang forth, or the evolution of Christianity for that matter, is fascinating to study—to see how an enlightened person will come into the world and present a way, as did Lao Tzu with Taoism or Buddha with Buddhism or Christ with Christianity, and to observe how that way will be modified and changed by the needs of the people and their consciousness level over a period of several thousand years.

But my interest is the essence of these teachings, not so much what’s happened with them historically or the books that have been written about them, detailing them, or the descriptions of people who have had experiences in the monasteries or experiences living a more secular life. Rather, my interest is the essence of the teaching—the way, as it were.

Taoism is the way of water. The most frequent element or symbol referred to in Lao Tzu’s writings is the symbol of water, and it’s the primary symbol that we find throughout The Way of Life. In essence, Lao Tzu suggests that we behave like water. Water, of course, is the symbol of consciousness, pure consciousness. He suggests that we flow like water does. Water always seeks the easiest path, the common level of life. When it reaches a spot where there is a blockage, water finds the easiest path around the blockage. Or, if it can’t find a way around the blockage, it continues to assemble. The water gets deeper and deeper until finally the level increases and it flows over the blockage. It uses itself to go beyond whatever it needs to go beyond.

Water gradually wears down even the hardest rocks and stones. The Grand Canyon is living evidence of the power of water over a period of time. The power of water may not manifest immediately. We don’t see these effects right away. We see the little stream of water flowing and we say, well, look at this massive mountain, obviously it’s much stronger than this water. Then suddenly, over a period of time, the mountain goes away and the water remains. Water can be very powerful, like a tidal wave, the ocean. It takes on so many different forms. Lao Tzu says that the way of life is water, to be fluid.

He often uses the analogy of the tree. The old hard tree breaks and falls when the wind blows. It doesn’t survive. The young tree bends and therefore need not break. He advises us to bend and not break. Lao Tzu doesn’t seem to hold too much stock with words or phrases or teachings. Rather, he says that the way of life is ancient, timeless. It is existence, which he calls the Tao. It is a mysterious source, beyond understanding, and all of us are a reflection, if not that source of life ourselves.

Taoism is the gentle way. It’s the way or the path of least resistance. Taoism is something that Lao Tzu found easy to reconcile with the world of human beings, which is interesting because with all the nature imagery associated with Taoism, one might think that it was in some way antithetical to contemporary life. But a great many of the sections of The Way of Life are taken up with political discussions and how the way of the ruler, the way of the servant, the way of the merchant, the way of the householder and the way of the army interact with the Tao.

Lao Tzu always points a finger directly towards us. He says that we must begin with ourselves. It’s impossible to bring order into the world unless we bring order into ourselves first. The enlightened person, he says, who has managed to bring order into themselves, will have a tremendous effect upon all those around them, both those they see and those they don’t see, because their effect is both visible and invisible. Rather than running out and trying to change the world, Lao Tzu suggests that we change ourselves.

“Existence is beyond the power of words to define. Terms may be used, but none of them are absolute. In the beginning of heaven and Earth, there were no words. Words came out of the womb of matter.” So begins the writings of Lao Tzu. “If name be needed, wonder names them both. From wonder into wonder existence opens.”

The essence of Taoism, in my estimation, is really expressed by these few words, “From wonder into wonder existence opens.” Taoism is the way of the child, or as Lao Tzu finally refers to himself or others who follow the way, the way of the fool, the way of someone who doesn’t have to have pomp and circumstance, who doesn’t need to be noticed. The primary quality that Lao Tzu seems to embody is humility, which is the image of water—seeking the common level of existence, without struggle. Or if there is struggle and there is strife, being silent, being at the center of being.

Taoism is not particularly a popular way in the West, and not really so much in the East. Lao Tzu recognized that this would happen. When he writes, he writes, he says, to the few. He says, “Most follow the passing way.” The crowds, the masses are attracted to the popular teacher of the moment, to the popular philosophy that tells them what they want to hear. But very few, he realizes almost sadly but with inevitability, recognize the way of life itself, the way that withstands all time and all change.

Lao Tzu’s way of life, his Taoism, is not a religion, although perhaps it has been made into one by some people. Lao Tzu’s way of life occurs in any spiritual philosophy, if it’s real. Because if a spiritual philosophy doesn’t conform to Taoism, then it’s not truthful. Taoism has no rules. It’s a suggestion for perceiving life in its wholeness, without unnecessary categorization, yet while enjoying the beauty of categorization.

Taoism shows us how to deal with life and death by realizing everything here is transitory but its substance is eternal. Lao Tzu says, “A sound man, immune as to a sacrifice of straw dogs, faces the passing human generations.” We should not weep, cry, or be upset when those we love die, or when we see the generations pass, the multitudes, because all these are forms of the infinite creation. They are not real. They are not eternal. The death of nations, of the world, of all the worlds, does not affect eternity in any way. Just as when water is frozen into a form as ice and then it melts—the ice is gone, but that which it was all along, the water remains—so at the time of death, there is no death. The spirit simply changes form. It becomes something new.

Lao Tzu was worried that some people would attack him or his philosophy and say that it was the way of nothing—quietism, giving up. His only concern was that this observation was very, very inaccurate. Some people think that Taoism means not doing anything, just going on with your life as if nothing had happened, and that has little or nothing to do with Taoism. Taoism means stretching your being. As Lao Tzu says, it is becoming both a man and a woman and joining within yourself, to be the heavens themselves, to stretch your awareness beyond the breaking point until all opposites are reconciled within yourself. Taoism is Tantra, the reconciliation of opposites, where all things join together in perfect unity and at the same time have beautiful diversity.

Buddhism is a very scientific approach to self-discovery. Buddha gave a number of talks, lived to be quite old and spent many years with his disciples. When we push away the mythology and myth that’s been connected with his life, when we just examine him as the man who attained enlightenment, his own life was fascinating. He was a prince, had a wonderful family, and like many of us was confronted one day with pain and suffering. He saw the pain and suffering of others, and suddenly the fulfillment of his own life for its own sake was no longer sufficient. He recognized the need to aid and put an end to the pain and suffering of others.

He decided to use himself as an experiment. He was very much like an Einstein. He said, “Well, before I go out and tell people what to do, I have to find out myself. If it doesn’t work for me, how can I hope to show anyone else?” Left his family, he left his kingdom, and he began to wander throughout India. He studied with many different teachers, learning from each one. Each teacher showed him something new about the enlightenment process. Then one day he had learned all he could from teachers because none of the teachers he met were truly enlightened—they all had learned something about the way. He went and meditated under the Bodhi tree, and over a period of time, through his meditations, attained liberation. He saw his past lives, the triple universe, the seven higher and lower worlds, and of course was absorbed in nirvana.

After his absorption in nirvana, his consciousness returned to this world and he set off to teach, to show the way. He presented the four ways, the four rules, the four causes. There is pain, this world is filled with pain, he said. All pain comes from attachment. There is something beyond pain, which is nirvana, an end to pain, infinite bliss, perfect consciousness, and awareness. And there is a way, a pathway, to reach nirvana, which he called the eightfold path. He divided the way into eight sections: right actions, right thoughts, meditation, absorption, many different things.

He formulated a scientific approach, which was not really at all in conflict with any other true way. You’ll always notice that all the ways agree. Some have different terms, different methods. And there are different methods. Different roads do lead to Rome. But once you’re there, the roads are forgotten, unless you’re showing others the way.

All of the great teachers have come into the world to reestablish what we call the dharma, the truth, the true way. A teacher will come, an enlightened teacher, perhaps in a generation or not for thousands of years. He or she will show us the way again to truth, to light, to immortal consciousness. These teachers are higher beings who take incarnation into this world to help their brothers and sisters, their friends. Then after their death, the way will be forgotten again. What they said will be corrupted or simply not understood. Because when a liberated teacher is among us, what they teach us are not just a series of words that can be written down in books that others can understand—that’s part of it—but it’s to be in their physical presence and meditate with them. That is what they show.

There are no books or words that can describe that, although videotape is a possibility in the modern age, perhaps, but still, the level of meditation when you’re with them is what stops your thoughts, what brings you into eternal consciousness and awareness. So the way is lost, ritual replaces it. People begin to worship statutes. They worship all kinds of things. They make up rules and prohibitions until another enlightened teacher rolls down on the planet and says, “OK, let’s forget all this ritual, let’s go back to the essence, to the truth.”

Each teacher will say exactly the same thing. The teachers, of course, always speak on the level of the audience. It depends on the culture they’ve incarnated into. They might be able to say much more, but they’re bound by the language of the time. They’re speaking so the people with them will understand.

Buddha spoke to those who would listen, for many, many years. He and his disciples traveled throughout India, teaching about the transitory nature of existence, to become absorbed in the eternal. Buddha wouldn’t answer a lot of questions. He didn’t like to speculate on the nature of God, on the nature of truth. Very often students would approach him and ask him these very convoluted questions, and he would just repeat his four noble truths or discuss the eightfold way. He felt that such speculations don’t help us. All that we need to know is that which will take us to truth. To understand what got us in the condition now will not necessarily alleviate the problem. You may know why you’re in pain now, but the simple knowledge will not necessarily show you the way beyond pain. It’s interesting information. Sometimes it’s helpful. Buddha says that all suffering is caused by attachment, therefore here’s a simple analysis of the problem without a lot of history.

Now when Buddha says “attachment,” he speaks of the same thing that Lao Tzu does. Lao Tzu says we have to flow like the river and not get stuck. Well, attachment is getting stuck. Liberation is being unstuck. Many people think that liberation is simply being attached to a spiritual set of ideals and rules, and that has nothing to do with it. Liberation means that we are not fixated on any reality. All of eternity flows through us and with us. We are it. Liberation can adopt and accept all forms or no forms. It’s not a philosophy, a creed, or a way. It is existence, in its absolute and its finite form.

Buddha pointed out that all pain and suffering comes about through attachment. Physical pain comes about through attachment to the physical body. We identify with our body. We think it is our self, and when the body hurts, we feel we hurt, whereas if we could see that the body is an outer cloak, that it’s not that much a part of us, if we recognized our larger self, our eternal body, as it were, then the pains of the physical body wouldn’t disturb us so much, or the pleasures.

We become attached to possessions, to persons, to experiences. There’s nothing wrong with possessions, persons or experiences, or with having a body. But our attachment causes us to suffer. When someone we love leaves us, when we lose a possession, when our house burns down, whatever it might be, at that time we suffer. Whereas if we recognized all along that these things were transitory and they had only come to us for a while, as we have only come to them for a while, and they weren’t meant to last, then there would be no sadness. Because we would know that life is fullness, that every absence will be filled.

If we didn’t derive our happiness from the things and people and places of this world, if our happiness was based just upon pure being, then we could have all the things in the world and be happy, or none of the things and be happy. Or if we had all the things and then they went away we’d be happy. We’d enjoy the things of this world, but not be bound by them. We won’t be slaves to our possessions, to our friends, to our loves, to our careers. This was Buddha’s point. Not to give everything up but to give up attachment, which we do through meditation and by purifying ourselves—meaning right action, right thought, by leading pure and simple and happy lives, doing all we can for others without a sense of self-importance. Of course, on a more advanced level, Buddha was discussing becoming attached or fixated into states of consciousness, even very advanced states of consciousness like the samadhis, the lower samadhis.

It’s easy to become fixated, to think of ourselves, in other words, in a certain way, as opposed to being the thin air. Sri Ramakrishna always used to use the analogy of the smoke. He would say that when the smoke blows through a building, it leaves soot all over the walls. Similarly, when a person who’s not liberated or self-realized or God realized or enlightened passes through this world, it leaves its mark. Their attachments leave a mark, just like the soot, and it gets deeper and deeper and deeper and darker, until it’s very hard to see the light of the soul. Whereas with the enlightened person, they’re like the thin air. When the smoke passes through the thin air, it leaves nothing. That’s enlightenment, to be the thin air, in a way of speaking, or we could just say to be pure light.

Buddha stayed away from religious concepts, not necessarily, because he didn’t believe those things, but he just felt that thinking about these things only leads us farther away from the truth. In his day there were many pundits who would have debates over spiritual philosophy for hours and days on end—the learned philosophers. But they didn’t know much about the truth; they just knew a lot of words.

Rather than seeing his own students get caught up in all this sort of stuff that was popular at the time—these philosophical debates on the meaning of certain Sanskrit phrases and words—he would say, “Forget all this nonsense about God and about this and that.” He didn’t say they didn’t exist. He’d say, “Forget about it, let’s not discuss it. Let’s just look at the problem and let’s solve it. The problem is we’re in pain and suffering, we’re bound, we’re attached, we don’t see truth, we don’t experience the bliss of nirvana, the joy of life. Now what can we do about it today, because there is only today? Well, what we can do is that which will free us, and that which will make others free.” He was very conservative in his spirituality, much more so even than Lao Tzu was. Both were extremely conservative spiritual teachers, in my estimation.

Zen was a reaction. Just as Buddha came into the world and spoke against the fall of Vedanta—Vedanta was once a high and pure way but it became ritual. Enlightened teachers taught the way of Vedanta, but then it was corrupted. Buddha, upon obtaining liberation, looked at the corruption of Vedanta and spoke against it and presented a way that again was the original Vedanta, which he called Buddhism. Buddhism was corrupted. It lost its essence, it became ritual, and Zen was a reaction to that. Zen was an attempt to go back to the purest teachings of the Buddha — enlightenment without strings.

Now when I speak about Zen, I have a problem, in the sense that the Zen of today has lost the essence, in my estimation, of what I call “old Zen.” Just as Zen occurred, or came about, to correct the problems inherent in Buddhism, so Bodhidharma [the founder of Zen] wanted to show that the way still existed, and wanted to get back to its essence. In the same way, today, Zen has lost its zip, if you will, or its nothingness, and has become ritualistic. It’s established in monasteries with strict codes of koan study and things like this. These are all fine ways, there’s nothing wrong—when I say something’s been corrupted, I don’t mean that it’s corrupt in the sense that it’s corrupt like criminals are corrupt. I mean that it has become ritualized, the enlightenment has been forgotten.

There are certainly, in every major faith, advanced spiritual seekers and teachers, but the vision of the founder, that eternal, omniscient, omnipresent vision, has been somewhat lost. This happens, this is existence. There’s nothing wrong with it, it just occurs. When I talk of Zen, the Zen I’m referring to is not what you would see today if you were to go to Japan to a Zen monastery. Oh, there might be an old monk or two who practices the old way, but most of it is an entirely different way. It’s not a bad way, it’s just a different way than old Zen.

Old Zen is the way of nothingness, the way of having a good time. In the old days, in old Zen, Zen was not really practiced so much in a monastery. The Zen master, not that he would probably call himself a master in those days, usually lived up on top of the mountain or the hill or in the forest or sometimes in the village, but usually outside. He would usually study with a small group of students, men, and women. They would spend a lot of their time just simply walking around in the woods or in the cities, or they would come over to his house and he would teach them, with a great deal of humor and laughter, about the nature of existence.

Old Zen was very funny; there was a great deal of humor and happiness. Zen today seems to be much drier. While there’s a certain amount of humor, it seems to lack that total intensity because humor is one of the primary tools for liberation. When one laughs, one ends fixation. When you laugh at your own state, the state dissolves. When you laugh at the world, the world dissolves. Old Zen was also, of course, disciplined meditation, without the need of sticks. When you get to the point where you have to hit someone with a stick, you’ve kind of lost the point, in my estimation. I appreciate the thought, but it’s really not necessary. The stick is love.

Old Zen was the reduction of concepts to absurdity—the koans, the magical phrases that are used in Zen today. ”What is the sound of one hand clapping?” “What is the form of your original face?” You know, all of these one-liners that the Zen masters throw out and the students respond to. Today they’re very fixed. There are classical responses to them and they call these koans. The idea is that you go and see your Zen master, maybe once a day, and you’re working on a particular koan, “What is the sound of the forest at night?” Something like that.

You go back each day and you repeat the answer that you’ve managed to get together. The idea is that when you have the right answer you’ll make some kind of a breakthrough to a new plane of consciousness. You’ll see something. There are no right answers, though. Today, there are books that give you the right koan answers. But there are no right answers. It has nothing to do with what you say, it’s how you say it. It’s the moment, and old Zen, of course, was the study of the moment, to see that the moment is eternity.

The Zen master would do literally anything to break down the concept of what the study was, because the study was Buddhism, and everyone had fixed ideas about how to attain enlightenment through Buddhism. So the Zen master would present conflicting codes all the time, not that he necessarily believed in them but just to shake this fixation that people had on how to realize God, how to attain liberation.

In addition, the Zen master was constantly attempting to break up concepts that people had about what it was to be a spiritual teacher or what a spiritual teacher is like. They’re very fixed ideas. We have a traditional image, so the Zen master broke with the traditional image. Now, the Zen masters of today, of course, have their own image—Gucci sandals and things like that, but in the old way it wasn’t like that. There was no way to be, there was no way to dress. Each Zen master was a complete character, yet they all said the same thing because there was really only one Zen master. That’s all there has ever really been or will ever really be. And that’s your self.

Zen is the way of splitting—splitting the self again and again and again until there’s nothing left. Reshuffling the deck of cards, each card being a part of your being. Dealing out hand after hand, then walking away and leaving the cards on the table where they sit and stare at each other, sometimes changing places.

Zen doesn’t believe in the reconciliation of opposites because from the point of view of Zen, there’s no point of view, therefore there are no opposites, therefore there’s no Zen. All there is is dishwater. Timeless, eternal, perfect dishwater. Waiting for the dishes that will never come. The Zen mind is mindless, yet it embraces everything.

Zen is discipline. The discipline of living life, the discipline of taking a breath, the discipline of not knowing and not trying to know. The enlightenment of Zen is called satori, and it’s thought of as a quick enlightenment. But satori is not a final state. There are really two types of satoris. One satori is the satori of instant enlightenment [Rama claps his hands loudly]. In a flash, enlightenment comes [he claps again]. With the clap of a hand, enlightenment comes [he claps again].

With the clap of a hand, this world dissolves [Rama claps loudly]. With the clap of a hand there’s nothing but eternal consciousness [Rama claps three times]. Three times the hands are joined. The threefold world dissolves and disappears [Rama again claps three times]. Three times the hands are joined, three times all of existence appears [he claps three more times]. Three times the hands are joined, the mind stops, the world dissolves. Everything is as if it’s always been.

Satori is a brief flash. After some meditation, while working in the field, while talking with someone, while making love, while meditating up on the mountain having renounced all people, suddenly the light breaks through, and for a short timeless time we experience eternity in its unmanifest form. This is satori. It’s comparable to salvikalpa samadhi.

There’s another satori, though. After one has the Zen awakening, the Zen satori, which does not last, which comes for a period of time, a moment, day, a week, but then fades and we see signs of it for perhaps 28 days or 34 days, then it goes away. Yet we’re different. But after this happens again and again and again and again, we reach a point where there’s nothing but satori. In other words, it’s a different level or a different kind of satori. It doesn’t fade, it just is, which is like nirvikalpa samadhi, nirvana.

Zen is a very viable way. It’s one of my favorites. I play it with my students all the time. Of course, I had many incarnations as a Zen teacher. I like it because it’s so incongruous yet makes complete sense. It drives my students up the wall, and then once I get them up the wall I leave them there and go out of the room and move on into another lifetime.

Zen is the fastest method I know of, aside from mysticism of course, of dissolving the fixations that people have about spiritual practice and about themselves. And like mysticism, it’s a very happy way, although it works very differently than mysticism. With mysticism, we’re using the intensive mystical kundalini to literally, with a dose of radiation, just blow apart the subtle structure of a being and rearrange it.

With Zen, we do it more through sleight of hand. With Zen, it’s not so much done with power as by a very subtle and delicate shift in consciousness, which shifts the world. It’s kind of done from the inside out. But both mysticism and Zen have this beautiful quality of happiness and laughter, which I think is so important and so necessary in our modern, contemporary age.

If you were to go to Japan today, I don’t think you’d find many Zen teachers. You’d find a lot of people who teach Zen though. And what they teach, I’m sure, is very fine. It’s the new Zen. And perhaps it’s better.

A short lecture on enlightenment.

Inaccessibility and attachment.