續高僧傳 16.45

16.45

Śramaṇa Tanxun, surnamed Yang, was a native of Huayin in Hongnong, whose family later moved their residence to Hedong Commandery. In his youth he delighted in the Way but was long detained in worldly entanglements. When he was twenty-two, he finally abandoned secular affairs to seek cliffside hermits far away. Wandering to the north of Mount Bailu to the Linluoquan Temple, he met Dhyāna Master Tanzhun and received the shaving of his hair. After another year, he advanced to receive the full precepts. He practiced with careful restraint and self-cultivation, relying upon the study of the mind as his core. Resolute and fiercely determined, his companions placed him first in completely fulfilling the monastic discipline, and he also recited the *Saddharmapuṇḍarīka Sūtra*. When the first summer [retreat] was concluded, he returned to mastering the practice of dhyāna. Hearing that Sengchou was residing in Canggu, he went there to ask for guidance. Chou was also an adept craftsman of the mountain of dhyāna, as recounted in the previous biography. Xun, inspired by the reach of his fame and luster, bowed in homage to him from afar. Although they dwelled in different groves, their subtle absorption reached the ultimate principle. Whenever Xun wished to pay a visit and converse, obstructions would arise. Because human tracks were rare along the paths and the ridges abounded with wild beasts, having lodged in seclusion for so long his nature was unfamiliar with the dust of the world; his travels to resolve doubts did not take the woodcutters' paths. Looking directly toward Canggu as his signpost, he did not find it difficult to push through thorns, gravel, and sand, climbing and ascending steep and secluded precipices and ravines, for his intention lay in correct contemplation. Thus he did not seek passage by crooked paths. Moreover, [he thought]: 'By bending along advantageous side paths, one traverses obstacles through winding forwards. Although my present destination is difficult, I must advance straight ahead to measure my spiritual work. To employ this intention and make the mind conform to the environment—is that not good?' He often said: 'Rather than straying from the Way and luckily getting through, it is better to accord with the Way and be stranded by misfortune.' Therefore, treading through layered obstacles, he did not consider reaching a dead end difficult. After three summer [retreats], he moved to reside at Lutu Valley to cultivate dhyāna. At that time, a dried spring welled up again, and wild deer encircled his courtyard; thus sweet water and tamed beasts daily assisted the neighborhood of the Way. His fellow students congratulated one another on this auspicious sign. Once, because he had to request the Dharma, he went briefly to Yunmen. Meeting with dark clouds and dense fog along the path, he lost his way. Relying on a mountain spirit who revealed the path, he was finally able to join the original route. This was his spiritual transformation moving the unseen realm, with divine spirits flanking and guarding him. At that time, a thief came to steal vegetables; as he was about to leave the garden, he was stung by a swarm of bees. Xun heard of it and came to the rescue, treating him with a compassionate mind so that his remaining life was preserved. Once, a man from Zhao came from afar, bowed with earnest courtesy, and said: 'Having fallen ill, died, and revived, I received your gracious kindness. When I went and met King Yama and was interrogated, my offenses dictated that I should enter the prisons. Fortunately, Dhyāna Master Tanxun came to plead for my life, and on that account the King released and pardoned me. During my life I did not know you, but only found out after inquiring.' Furthermore, while walking in the mountains, he came upon two tigers fighting each other without stopping for a long time. Xun took up his khakkhara staff and separated them, using his own body as a screen, and spoke to them: 'Living together in the forest, surely there is no great discord; fortunately each of you can go your separate ways.' The tigers lowered their heads and obeyed his command, thereupon swallowing their anger and dispersing. He frequently encountered bears and tigers contending, and the incidents were roughly similar to this. Or, when he dwelled alone in dense thickets, with Xun as the solitary human trace, he could walk among birds without disturbing them, and beasts saw him as a companion. This was his hidden virtue moving living things, its manifest function turning into benevolence—how could one not praise it? Whenever he entered meditative concentration, seven days was his period. A white tiger entered his room and treated it as its den. He stayed alone in a quiet courtyard without coming out for ten years. Since the traces of dhyāna began, few could compare to this man. From then on, his transformation flowed through Heshuo, flourishingly expounding the gate of dhyāna; leaning on their staves and packing provisions, people gathered like fish scales and dense fog. Emperor Wen of the Sui dynasty esteemed the reputation of his virtue and showed utmost sincerity and devotion, ordering Yuan Shou, the Specially Advanced of the Three Dignitaries, to personally deliver an imperial missive along with offerings of incense. In the final years of the Kaihuang era, an illness caused by wind suddenly flared up, and he passed away at the Baijianshan Temple. His worldly age was eighty-five, and his monastic age was fifty summers. When he first fell ill and lingered near death, suddenly a divine light shone brightly, and a fragrant wind fanned across. Furthermore, an extraordinary bird appeared with a white neck and a red body, circling above the courtyard in the sky and uttering sorrowful, plaintive cries. When his breath reached the final extremity, the bird rested on the base of the hall, naturally drawing near without fearing people; it went to his doorway and even to his sleeping mat, its sorrowful cries growing more intense, and blood welling in its eyes. Once [Xun] had passed away, the bird flew out into the open sky, circled, and swiftly soared away. A fierce tiger was also moved to circle the courtyard, roaring in sorrow for two nights; clouds darkened the sky for three days, and heaven and earth congealed in sorrow. In addition, the mountain collapsed, rocks fell, forests were crushed, and ravines blocked, startling and driving humans and beasts into helpless panic. The spiritual portents of his mournful passing cannot be fully recorded. Later, in the twelfth month of the fifth year of the Wude reign, his disciples Jinglin, Daohui, Fang, and others cremated his remaining remains, built a pagoda, and erected a stele. The śramaṇa Mingze composed the inscription, which can be seen in his separate collection.