佛果圜悟禪師碧巖錄 1.40

1.40

Xuedou is an expert. At those places in the ancients that are difficult to bite, chew, penetrate, and see, the intricate knots and tangled obscurities, he composes a verse eulogy to show people; it is exceptionally extraordinary. Xuedou recognised Fayan's pivot and also knew where Huichao landed. Furthermore, fearing that later people would make erroneous interpretations under Fayan's words and phrases, he therefore versified this monk's asking thus and Fayan's replying thus: it is precisely 'The spring wind of the river country cannot stir it up; partridges cry amidst the deep blossoms.' These two lines are just a single line. But tell me: what was Xuedou's intention? In Jiangxi and Jiangnan people mostly make two kinds of interpretations, saying: 'The spring wind of the river country cannot stir it up' eulogises 'You are Huichao'—just this message, even the spring wind of the river country cannot stir it up. 'Partridges cry amidst the deep blossoms' eulogises the discussions of this topic in various quarters, surging clamorously, just like partridges crying amidst the deep blossoms. What connection is there? Little do they realise that these two lines of Xuedou are just a single line, needing to be seamless and crackless, clearly saying to you: the words are proper and the phrases are proper, covering heaven and covering earth. He asked, 'What is the Buddha?' Fayan said, 'You are Huichao.' Xuedou says: 'The spring wind of the river country cannot stir it up; partridges cry amidst the deep blossoms.' If you can comprehend it here, you can walk alone in the crimson dawn. If you make an emotional interpretation, it will take three lifetimes and sixty kalpas. Xuedou's third and fourth lines are exceedingly excessive in their compassion, laying it bare all at once for people. Monk Chao's instant of great awakening is like 'Three tiers of waves rise high, and the fish turns into a dragon; foolish men are still bailing out the night pond's water.' At the three tiers of waves at Yu's Gate—Mengjin is the Dragon Gate, chiseled by Emperor Yu into three tiers—now, on the third day of the third month, when the peach blossoms bloom, moved by heaven and earth, there are fish that penetrate the Dragon Gate: horns grow on their heads, their manes and tails bristling, and they grasp the clouds and depart. Those who cannot leap turn back with bruised foreheads. Foolish men chew under the words, which is like bailing out the water of a night pond to look for fish. Little do they realise that the fish has already transformed into a dragon. Grandfather Master Duan had a eulogy: 'With one large bright coin, / I bought an oily rice-cake. / Having eaten it into my belly, / Immediately I feel no hunger.' This eulogy is extremely fine, only too artless. Xuedou versifies it extremely skillfully, without wounding the blade or injuring the hand. In former days, Chief of the Canon Qing loved to ask people: 'What is: Three tiers of waves rise high, and the fish turns into a dragon?' I need not be in that; let me just ask you: Having transformed into a dragon and departed, right now, where is it?