Three Yiyu Chan Master Recorded Sayings (三宜盂禪師語錄)

Preface to the Recorded Sayings of Chan Master Xiansheng Sanyi

The World-Honored One had secret words, but Mahākāśyapa did not conceal them. When a single flower was raised, the whole truth was revealed—so did the World-Honored One truly have secret words? Yet why were the millions of heavenly beings all at a loss? In ancient times, Zhao Jianzi, on the advice of Gu Bu Ziqing, considered Di Feizi Wu Xu to be virtuous and wished to test him. He announced to his sons: “I have hidden a treasure token on Mount Chang. The first to find it shall be rewarded.” The sons raced to Mount Chang, searched but found nothing. Wu Xu returned and said: “I have obtained the token.” Jianzi said: “Present it.” Wu Xu replied: “From the summit of Mount Chang, one can look down upon Dai—it can be taken.” Thus, Jianzi knew Wu Xu was indeed virtuous. Similarly, the intent of the World-Honored One raising the flower can be inwardly understood, yet the millions of heavenly beings were as ordinary as those sons, merely thinking a token was hidden on Mount Chang! Therefore, the forty-nine years of teachings from the Buddha’s mouth were all like those sons. Only at the end did he entrust the True Dharma Eye Treasury to Mahākāśyapa—this is like deposing the crown prince Bo Lu and establishing Wu Xu as the heir.

In the West, this is already the case. Since the founding of the Chan school in the East, master after master has passed on the transmission, all being outstanding sages of their time. Though the great masters’ skillful means spread widely in the Tang dynasty and their words shone brilliantly in the Song, it was like a thunderclap in a clear sky or rain from a dry land—clouds rising over the southern mountains, rain falling on the northern hills. Unless one possessed Wu Xu’s profound insight, few could grasp their true intent. By the Yuan and Ming dynasties, followers merely revered their masters’ teachings without embodying their living spirit. Thus, the genuine rules of the past died within rigid conventions, and the great hall of a thousand years fell into unworthy hands. For them, even following step by step was difficult—how much more so surpassing all limits and attaining the playful, wind-like freedom of samādhi?

Chan Master Sanyi was like a celestial unicorn, a soaring wing amid clouds. He awakened to the Way in his youth, like a stone bamboo sprouting a branch from the Caodong lineage. Early on, he shared the lamp, bearing the fruit of the Yunmen school like an empty flower blossoming. Moreover, he traveled thousands of miles across north and south, enduring wind and frost for twenty years before finally retiring to the southern side of Mount Hualu. When Master Ermi Fu passed away at Xiansheng Monastery, leaving the seat empty, the fourfold assembly urged him to emerge. Then, the fragrance of ripe fruit wafted everywhere on the wind; water filling the channels broke forth and flooded the heavens. Thus arose his discourses and teachings to the assembly—all breaking free from conventions, sweeping away the dust of ages, directly wishing to sing folk songs with the Fifth Patriarch and whistle with Xiatang. Yet, like the ancient performer Yanshi, he left no trace, not allowing a single word to be transmitted. His attendant recorded what was heard, compiling only a few pieces.

When I passed by Mount Hou, I first read them at the home of Nun Jingqi. Unconsciously, I closed the book, patted the table, and sighed deeply: “This is a dragon’s light shooting through the stars—why has it been buried here?” So I took it to Tiantai, examined and edited it, then donated funds to publish it for fellow seekers. Alas! The master’s strings have fallen silent, while wild jackals clamor. Even yellow-headed babblers often flaunt Chan phrases to protect their communities—how much more those with teeth like swords and mouths like basins, yet who deeply conceal themselves like the Master? Long ago, I studied under Huangbo together with the Master. Now, in this year Yihai, over twenty years later, we finally conversed face-to-face below Mount Wuyun, yet all matters of the Dharma, great and small, were discussed without reserve. When I later visited Xiansheng Monastery and saw his arrangements for the community, building halls and quarters, it could indeed be said that both adornments—merit and wisdom—were complete without regret.

In the autumn of Bingxu, due to circumstances, he simply brushed his robes and left without looking back. How different this was from those who cling to their holes like snakes, treating the legacy of predecessors as their own! Yet those of inflated pride criticized him as frivolous and unrestrained. When an elephant treads, how could a lame donkey keep pace?

Written in the year of the Wood Rat, during the month of Lin Zhong, by your fellow practitioner and brother, Guang Run Dao Min, respectfully inscribed.