Empty Your Cup

 Empty Your Cup

“We’re so full of ideas about who we are, there’s no space left to realize our true nature.  Zazen is where we begin to empty the cup.” ~Dennis Genpo Merzel

Zen master Dogen wrote about shoshin, or "beginner's mind," in his masterwork "Shobogenzo." (painting of Dogen courtesy Wikimedia)

This is often the first lesson received when one takes up Zen or Budo.  It should also be the last.

But what does it mean to “empty your cup”?  There is an oft-told story that you have probably heard before.  It’s so popular—maybe even “cliche” is the best word—that I remember hearing/seeing this story in the ‘80s when it was adapted as part of the story in the low-budget, straight-to-video martial arts movie No Retreat, No Surrender.  This movie has become something of a “cult” favorite (there is even a “Rifftrax” version of it).   The main character played by Kurt McKinney even learns his “empty your cup” lesson from the ghost of Bruce Lee, who is training him to take on the big baddie Jean Claude Van Damme (which should give you an idea of just what kind of movie we’re talking about here).  But the story as I originally read it goes something like this (there are some slightly different versions in books, and probably on the internet): 

An American professor of Eastern Religions goes to Japan so that he can meet, and learn from, a well-known Zen master.  Finally, after much traveling, he arrives at the home of the Zen master, who is expecting him.  The master is serving tea.  He gestures toward an empty chair in front of his, and the professor takes a seat.  As soon as the professor is seated, he begins to go on and on about Zen this and Zen that.  But finally, he does manage to tell the master that he would really like to practice with him, and attain enlightenment.  The master says nothing, but pours their tea.  He pours the professor’s cup full, and keeps on pouring, the tea spilling onto the table, the floor, and even the professor.  “Stop! Stop!  My cup is full!” the professor screams.  “Then empty your cup,” the master says.

I believe this is such a popular story, and so well-known for a couple of reasons.  (And these are reasons that any great Zen koan or even a parable from the Bible sticks with you easily.)  One, it has the ring of truth to it.  We immediately realize that we think we know and so we don’t strive to truly know.  In other words, we see ourselves in the American professor, so full of “head knowledge” about the philosophy of Zen or the history of martial arts that we often settle for this lesser knowing instead of striving for true mastery of our art, which would allow for true knowing.  And two, it’s easy to remember the story, which makes it immediately relatable to us since we can recall it quickly to mind.

But as with any parable, for it to make a difference in our lives, we have to apply its lessons.  It’s not enough to just remember the story, and acknowledge the truth of it - we must actually apply what is being taught.

We must learn to let go (which is the same as emptying your cup) of not just “head knowledge” alone but also of thoughts and ideas.  We have a lot of ideas: ideas about what “real” Zen practice is, ideas of how we think budo should be trained, ideas about how to live out this life of budo and Zen, and so on and so forth.  But that’s the problem.  These thoughts and ideas are nothing more than concepts.  We need less thinking, less ideas, and we need more letting go, and more training.

Budo is experiential.  Zen practice is experiential.  And it’s in their training that you have insights or “a-ha” moments, not in thinking about Zen or budo.  You can’t learn budo - any budo - through a textbook.  You need “hands on” training with a master.  Zen is no different.

In the martial arts, if you want to master a technique, then you must first be shown the technique.  As you are shown the movement, a teacher will typically explain the movement in just enough detail so that you will have the knowledge to try it.  (There are some teachers, and good ones too, I might add, that I have known who didn’t explain the movement, but instead just showed the technique to the student, but if a teacher does teach this way, then there must be a reason for it, and his skill at teaching should be evident in his students.  Be leery of any teacher who doesn’t explain things and also doesn’t have many students.)  Once you understand the technique well enough, then you need to train it for years before you can master it.  There is no “book knowledge” that can help further this mastery.  As you train for years on end, it is only then that you will begin to “understand” a movement.  Sometimes, after years of practice, you may find that a lot of techniques that you thought you “knew” begin to open themselves to you in often new and surprising ways, and you realize just how limited your true knowledge of budo actually is!  And, of course, this spurs you forward even more in your training, and you may find yourself thinking, “I wonder what other things the budo has to reveal to me?”

In Zen it is the same way.  In fact, in the “just sitting” of Soto Zen, shikantaza, you have something that could almost be a microcosm of the macrocosmic whole of budo.  In the zazen that is shikantaza, you are taught one thing and one thing only: how to sit.  It’s as if you practiced a martial art that had only one technique, but you devoted yourself entirely to that one movement.  That is the shikantaza of true zazen.  Because in this one act of “just sitting,” you will encounter the whole of the cosmos both within yourself and extraneous to it.  This is the great thing about practicing both budo and Zen together.  When you encounter something in one of the disciplines, you will find that it very quickly carries over to the other.

As your practice does mature and deepen, however, you need to always be cautious of your cup.  For as you encounter ever-deepening layers in your training, you may find yourself with a full cup that needs to be emptied.  And emptied often.

This ties into another concept within both budo and Zen: shoshin (Japanese: 初心), often termed “beginner’s mind.”  It has become part of the modern Zen and budo “lexicon” more from the book “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind” by Shunryu Suzuki (founder of the San Francisco Zen Center) than from anything else that comes from either Zen or budo, but it does have historical corralaries going back centuries.  Suzuki states, “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.”  It’s popular because it’s a really good quote that quite succinctly explains why you need to do your best to maintain shoshin, but Suzuki’s book should be required reading of all budoka because there is much more in it for the dedicated martial artist than that one quote.  Here is Suzuki explaining shoshin in more depth: 

“In Japan we have the phrase shoshin, which means “beginner’s mind.” The goal of practice is always to keep our beginner’s mind. Suppose you recite the Prajna Paramita Sutra only once. It might be a very good recitation. But what would happen to you if you recited it twice, three times, four times, or more? You might easily lose your original attitude towards it. The same thing will happen in your other Zen practices. For a while you will keep your beginner’s mind, but if you continue to practice one, two, three years or more, although you may improve some, you are liable to lose the limitless meaning of original mind. 

“For Zen students the most important thing is not to be dualistic. Our “original mind” includes everything within itself. It is always rich and sufficient within itself. You should not lose your self-sufficient state of mind. This does not mean a closed mind, but actually an empty mind and a ready mind. If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind there are few.”

You can see quite easily how this carries over to budo.  A “beginner’s mind” is also an “empty mind.”

When I was a teenager, I can always remember my sensei talking about shoshin and mushin (“empty mind”).  In his mind, these two concepts seemed to be closely related, even though I remember I couldn’t understand why.  Why is “beginner’s mind” the same as “empty mind”?  I had equated mushin with a state of awake aware emptiness (which it sort of is) attained after years and years of training, so I just couldn’t fathom how that could also be shoshin, the mind of a beginner?  But looking back on it now, maybe I could have attained mushin by also embracing shoshin!  The young arrogance of youth kept me from being able to do that.  Why?  Because my cup was too full.  Apparently even the ghost of Bruce Lee couldn’t get me to empty it!