Clouds, Barriers and Hidden Gates by Knud Rosenmayr JDPSN

Clouds, Barriers and Hidden Gates

What gets in the way of kong-an practice – and what is behind it

What is a kong-an, anyway?

Kong-an means “public case.” It can be a story, a short dialogue, a question. Zen Master Seung Sahn said its job is very simple: to wake up and help this world.

Wake up to what? Not to an idea. Not to a special state. Not to something we could hold in our hands. We sometimes call it “don’t know”, or “mind before thinking”. But it has no name. It comes before words and speech, before good and bad, before like and dislike. So every name we give it is wrong in the end. Then – what is it?

A kong-an doesn’t have to come from an old Zen book. A dear person dies. A child is born. A relationship ends. A sunrise. Anything that stops our thinking for a moment is a kong-an. So if you practice, you can’t avoid kong-an practice. Your whole life is one.

But I want to understand!

This may be the strongest pull of all. We want to know. Knowing feels safe. We learned in school: give an answer, and it should make sense.

But a kong-an is not about the answer. It’s about staying with the question. Who am I? Where do I come from? Where do I go when I die? Thinking hits a wall here.

Zen Master Seung Sahn often said that understanding cannot help us. When I first heard that, I thought: “Well, but I want to understand.” Some part of us wants to stay in control. It is subtle. Often we don’t even notice it.

Nothing is wrong with wanting to understand. Can we notice it – not follow it, not fight it? After a long day of sitting, it often gets quiet by itself. The sound of the room, the smell of the air, the floor. Nothing missing. Everything is enough.

Is a kong-an a riddle?

We live in a problem-solving world. Something is broken – fix it. So we turn the kong-an around in our head. We read more books. We feed exactly the thinking that stands in the way.

And we check our progress. Zen Master Wu Bong called this the number one problem. Two years on the same kong-an, and we feel useless. Or we keep a list in our head: this answer was wrong, that one too, so maybe this one… That kills the moment.

You don’t need to think about a kong-an at all. The Buddha didn’t think his way to waking up.

Do you believe yourself?

We love words. They inspire us. But words are like wrapping paper. Nice, colorful, sometimes beautiful. But not the gift. Watch children at a birthday party. They rip the paper off in two seconds. They want what’s inside.

Our head puts a name on everything, right away. We see a tree, and “tree” is already there. Can we meet it without the word in between? Not “tree.” Not “green.” Not “beautiful.” Then what is it?

Two people describe an orange. One has read everything about oranges. The other has just bitten into one. Who do you trust? Whether the water is hot or cold, you have to find out yourself. No one can taste it for you. Not your teacher. Not the Buddha. Not an AI.

Sometimes a teacher says no even to a correct answer. Not because it’s wrong. Only to see: is it really yours? Or just more wrapping paper?

“Correct!” – and now?

We want to be confirmed. We want to be somebody, in the eyes of others and in our own eyes. So when the teacher says “Correct,” what does it mean?

Correct. That’s all. Not good, not bad. Not a prize. Just correct.

But right away we add a story: I did it, I passed. Passed what? Who did it? A kong-an is not a shopping list. A Zen center is not a shopping mall. Kong-ans are not collected. They are lived. They can wake us up again and again.

And when the answer is no?

The teacher says no. Or just rings the bell. What happens inside? But my answer was good! Maybe disappointment. Maybe anger. Anger at what? Most people don’t like “don’t know”.

Sometimes it simply hurts. Hurt is a great teacher. Who is hurt? What is it?

We often run away from rejection. New partner, new sangha, new tradition. Can we stay right in the middle of it instead? And let it show us something?

Afraid to fail?

There are so many books about success. Not many about failure. When we fail, the body knows first: tight stomach, head down, no energy. “I can’t do this. Maybe it’s not for me.”

We make pictures of ourselves. Who I want to be. How my world should look. How others should see me. We put these pictures on an inner altar and bow to them every day.

Can we just see them? Not hate them – that would be one more altar. Not hang them up, not hide them in the basement. Just watch them come and go.

Try again, fail again, fail better – Samuel Beckett knew this well. When Zen Master Wu Bong was asked what is most important in practice, his answer was short: try. When we just try, the big “I” can’t hold on so tight. So what is it that fails?

Is the interview a test?

We all remember school – exams, sweaty hands. An interview can bring all this back. We know it’s not a test. But the body reacts as if a wild animal is in the room. Fight, run or freeze. Telling ourselves to stay calm doesn’t help much.

There’s an old story about Milarepa. He comes home and his cave is full of demons. He tries to chase them out. They stay. He teaches them the Dharma. They stay. Then he gives up, opens himself and accepts that they will live there together. Most demons disappear. One big one stays. Milarepa walks up to it and puts his head in its mouth. And the demon is gone.

How do we put our head in the demon’s mouth? Trying to stop thinking is just more thinking – like growing a second head to give away the first one. But can we be with the fear itself? The stomach, the heartbeat, the tight chest. Not running away. One step forward.

Seen without an answer

Nobody likes to look helpless. In the interview room there is no armor. It feels like a starfish on the beach, out of the water. Very open. Almost too close.

An old Zen saying puts it this way: “Not knowing is most intimate.” The place we fear most – not knowing, being seen without an answer – is not a weakness. Not a failure. It is where we really meet. Can we let it be like that? Without judging? Without adding anything?

This is not a game

After some years, practice can become a hobby. How many kong-ans did I pass? Zen Master Su Bong once asked Zen Master Seung Sahn a clever question, and Seung Sahn shouted at him: “This is not a game!” And the big question was back: What am I?

Not a game means: try. Not too light, not too heavy. Again and again.

When the alarm clock rings, what do you do?

Sometimes we don’t want to wake up. The alarm clock rings. Just five more minutes. Some people want to throw it against the wall.

All these clouds and barriers are not only in the interview room. They are in our whole life. When we see them and don’t follow them by habit, they can open a gate. A hidden gate. To something big and precious. Don’t stop there. Use it to help this world.