by Nikkyo Niwano

Self-Awareness

Sometimes we allow ourselves to slack off a little because we hear an inner voice saying, "It's all right because no one's looking." At these moments we usually hear another voice, scolding, "Are you really sure it's all right to be doing this?" Occasionally we even hear a voice consoling us, saying, "You sure are working hard." How does this "other self" work?

In Buddhism we have the terms "transient self" and "true self." The former is possessed of the physical body and spirit and is the self that laughs and suffers through daily life. According to Zen, there is also a true self, which existed before our parents gave us life. The true self is a child of the Buddha, imbued at birth with the life of a buddha.

Daisetz Suzuki (1870--1966), who introduced Zen to the West, said, "Within the self there is still another self." He explained that the first self is mutable and the other self is aware of the first. This second self is the essential, or true, self. This is rather difficult terminology, so I refer to the "observed self" and the "seeing self." What is significant is that everyone has this other "seeing self."

Basho wrote this haiku: "My horse plods along through the summer fields; I see myself as in a picture." Basho's horse raises little dust as it plods along without much vigor. Basho places another self a short way away, and this other self watches him sway back and forth on horseback, as in a picture on a scroll. The Basho actually riding the horse is the "observed self." The seeing self can put the observed self in a haiku. This function of the mind is extremely important for a life of virtue.

If insects, fish, birds, or animals have souls, these souls probably consist of their instinct for survival. Of course, humans often follow instinct. Yet humans are also capable of the detachment necessary to be aware of instinct. In other words, the seeing self is separate, and it is what most distinguishes humans from other animals. It is when this seeing self is allowed to function to the full that human beings are most human.

Conscience and introspection are functions of the seeing self. Sometimes we blurt out things that hurt others and do things that cause lasting resentment. For the most part, we do these things when we forget ourselves and lose our temper, but forgetting oneself is treacherous, and it means that one has lost one's seeing self. There are also times when, stepping off the straight road of life, we indulge in pleasures and even perversities, and merely pass our days without cultivating the true nature we are born with. We frequently come to such forks in the road of daily life, and if we can return to ourselves and put the seeing self to work, we can avoid the dangers of the byroads and stick to the true path.

Date Masamune (1567--1636), the great daimyo (feudal baron) of the Sendai fief, cherished a certain tea bowl made by a famous potter, and one day as he sat holding it in his hands and admiring it, it slipped from his grasp. Fortunately, it fell in his lap and no damage was done, but when he picked it up, he flung it with all his might against a stone in the garden. Then, turning to his stunned retainers, he laughed and said, "When the tea bowl slipped from my hands, I was startled. For a military commander to be startled by the mere slipping of a tea bowl is extremely embarrassing. I have therefore done away with the source of my embarrassment." In other words, Masamune promptly put his seeing self into action, pulled himself back from turning into the side road, and returned to the main road that was his true self.

Since I was born and raised in Niigata Prefecture, I have a special affection for the Zen priest and poet Ryokan (1758--1831), who was from the same region. Ryokan had a nephew named Umanosuke, who lived with Ryokan's parents and completely abandoned himself to dissolute ways. Whatever anyone said, he would not give up his immoral life, so his friends and relatives went to Ryokan, who was at the hermitage Gogo-an on a nearby mountain. They persuaded him to return to his home village to talk to Umanosuke and try to straighten him out. Ryokan went back home for three days, but in all that time he uttered not a word of rebuke to Umanosuke. As he prepared for the return journey and started to put on his sandals, he couldn't seem to tie them properly. He turned to Umanosuke and asked him to tie the thongs for him. Relieved that Ryokan had said nothing at all during his visit, Umanosuke kneeled down and tied the thongs. But as he was doing this, a teardrop fell on his hand. Startled, he looked up and saw tears running down Ryokan's face. Umanosuke completely gave up his old ways that very day.

Deep inside, however wayward a person might be, he or she is endowed with the buddha-nature (the potential for buddhahood). In this case, Umanosuke was awakened to his buddha-nature by Ryokan's tears of great compassion. From within his dissolute and unruly transient self, his true self rose to the surface. Ryokan was known to appreciate an old poem that asked if one could see into someone's heart by looking them in the eye. Someone whose face shows no trace of sorrow may yet be full of grief. Ryokan undoubtedly saw Umanosuke's grief in his eyes. That was why he prepared to return without a word of rebuke. I think it was when Ryokan felt Umanosuke's troubles as his own that he began to weep.

People may differ about the right way to live, but might we not agree that it amounts to the manifestation of the seeing self? There are many ways of becoming aware of the seeing self, but I believe that in the end they are all found in our relationships with people.

Let your "seeing self" watch over what you say and do, and you will know what is the right thing to do.