(Sections ① through ⑥ are drawn from answers Master Kim gave during a conversation in March 2003. Section ⑦ through ⑨ were added later in April 2010, continuing the story.)

Question: Could you please explain in concrete terms how you studied, so that we can better understand your path?

     ① At that time, I was in a doctoral program studying Seon Buddhism and carried the heavy burden of having to write a dissertation on Seon. But Seon is not something one can understand through books alone, and I was struggling with how to proceed. Then, by chance, I met my teacher and began studying in his gathering. If I remember correctly, I went to see him about twice a week. Each time, he would bring out texts like Essential Teachings on the Mind (Yuanwu Xinyao), Letters of Dahui, The Record of Linji, and The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, and give Dharma talks based on them.

     At the time, my teacher was running a boarding house near Busan National University. He was the elderly owner of the house. When I first joined his gathering and met him, he was just an old man—but I didn’t feel any sense of doubt or mistrust. In any case, I wasn't in a position to judge him one way or another. I was simply thirsty for Seon. I had never studied Seon before. I had never been to a temple or a Seon meditation hall. I hadn’t even met a monk. Honestly, until I began specializing in Seon in graduate school, I had hardly read any books on the subject.

     In college, I had surveyed Eastern and Western philosophy, but they were all just well-structured theoretical systems. None of them provided an answer to the thirst I was feeling. So I entered graduate school hoping that Buddhism might offer a solution. During my master’s program, I studied Buddhist history along with the doctrines of early Buddhism, Hinayana, and Mahayana. Eventually, I came to realize that Seon was the living form of Buddhism that could truly quench my thirst. After that, I began reading various introductory books and collections of Seon teachings. But those writings only conveyed historical facts or interpretations. My thirst to understand Seon itself—the real thing—only grew deeper. 

     Then I met my teacher. It was the first time I had encountered someone who was actually teaching Seon directly—not as academic knowledge, but as living truth. At that point, I was simply parched for Seon, so I didn't even think to judge what kind of person he was, or whether studying with him would be worthwhile. It wasn’t that I withheld judgment—it’s just that such thoughts didn’t even arise. They simply weren’t there. 

     When I first listened to one of his Dharma talks, I couldn’t make any sense of it. Because I didn’t understand, I got sleepy, even bored. But I didn’t know where else to go. At first, I didn’t even think of him as a teacher—he was just the elderly owner of a boarding house. Still, without realizing it, I found myself trusting him. Maybe, right from that first encounter, I sensed something—like, “Ah, this person has something.”

     Anyway, I was longing for an opportunity to truly taste Seon, and the chance came so easily—right in front of my university—that I was grateful. I actually felt a bit reluctant about going to temples, perhaps because I felt burdened by the presence of monks and all the formal rituals. But since this person was just the old man running a boarding house, I felt no such pressure. So I simply went and sat there without any burden. I never asked any particular questions, and he never initiated any conversation with me either. I just quietly sat in the back and listened.

     ② I just kept attending with the intention of studying, but after a few months, I began to dread going. The atmosphere of the Dharma meetings felt unfamiliar, and the Dharma talks were completely beyond my understanding. Still, I think I had a certain trust in my heart: “There's definitely something here. I don't know what it is, but I'll dig into it as much as I can here. Then, once I’ve done that, I'll make my own judgment. Maybe then I can study somewhere else? For now, let me keep digging here.” That was the feeling I had. And beyond that, I had a kind of trust in my teacher. In any case, I never once doubted him. I definitely had the thought, “This person knows something!” I only wanted to know what he knew. And since there wasn’t anywhere else that felt like the right place to go, I just kept going back.

     One thing I remember is that after our study sessions, my doban—a Korean Buddhist term meaning Dharma companion, or fellow practitioner walking the path of awakening—and I would sometimes go to a teahouse near the university and have tea. Each time, they would say to me, “See this through to the end. Something good will definitely come of it.” That encouragement gave me a lot of strength. The relationships with those doban were different from the ones you find in ordinary social life—there was a kind of warmth, a sense of shared connection. I found it truly comforting and uplifting.

     Still, because I didn’t understand the teachings, I couldn’t say anything about them. So I kept silent and just listened. I simply sat there and listened—without asking questions, without judging whether it was good or bad. I think I have that kind of temperament. When something comes my way, I tend to hold on to it silently like a bear, until I can grasp it fully and speak about it with confidence. That’s how I clung to it—with that kind of attitude.

     After a few months, a younger graduate student who had joined me in the study started began saying he was making some progress and even started having conversations with our teacher. I felt envious, and at the same time, a bit wounded in my pride. Outwardly, I encouraged and praised him, but inwardly, I carried a kind of stubborn resolve—a quiet confidence—thinking, "I will definitely get there too." There was also an expectation: "Someday, it will happen for me." Another year or so passed like that. Since I still couldn’t make sense of the teachings, I would just sit there blankly, sometimes even dozing off. But over time, something began to shift. In the first few months, I couldn’t even sit for thirty minutes—my body would twist with discomfort, and I just wanted to get up and leave. As time went on, though, I grew more accustomed to the atmosphere. You could say it gradually soaked into me. It started to feel familiar, pleasant, even comforting. Before I knew it, I found myself looking forward to the Dharma meetings. Just sitting there felt comfortable, and during those times, it seemed that worldly thoughts and distractions faded little by little. In any case, I felt at ease. Eventually, even when there wasn’t a Dharma meeting, I would visit my teacher whenever I had time, simply because I wanted to. I went several times a week— to attend the Dharma meetings, talk with my doban, and spend time in the gathering with my teacher.

      Still, the study of the mind felt daunting. I once tried taking up a hwadu—a method used in Korean Seon Buddhism involving inquiry into one's original nature—but I couldn’t sustain it for even a single day. Hardly an hour passed before irritation set in. I caught myself wondering, “What kind of study can come from doing it this way?” Even though I was so thirsty, forcing myself to hold the hwadu brought no real results. Then again, it wasn’t as if there existed any special method to extinguish this thirst either. No matter what effort I made under the name of “practice,” it didn’t seem that any of it could give me an answer. After years of wrestling with this thirst, I finally reached a despairing conclusion: it wasn’t going to work by conscious effort alone. I wanted to escape the prison of relentless consciousness, but everywhere I looked, I saw only consciousness. In the end, I let it all go. I did nothing. I simply yielded to the thirst. I was thirsty, but there was no way to relieve it—so I leaned entirely on the Dharma talks at the gathering. Holding only the hope—“Maybe, if I just keep attending, something will happen”—I came and went, trusting in the act of joining the Dharma meetings alone.

     ③ As time went on, it began to feel like something was almost within reach—though still just out of grasp. Because I couldn’t quite catch it, I had no confidence. I felt lost, uncertain, even afraid. Still, in those moments when it seemed close, I didn't grow impatient. I trusted myself. "It'll come... before I die, it'll come..." (laughs) So I put my academic work aside. I stopped reading altogether for a time—I just didn't feel like opening a book. Instead, I kept going to the Dharma meetings, soaking in the atmosphere, and threw myself completely into this study. That period stretched for several months, maybe longer. What became even clearer to me during that time was this: "This cannot be achieved by deliberate effort. No matter how much I will it, it won’t happen by my own strength." So, I gave up trying to force it through willpower. I simply held onto hope—“It’ll come…”—and continued showing up diligently to the Dharma meetings. 

     If I tried to make a conscious effort, calculating thoughts would immediately arise and steer me off in an unwanted direction. That's why I never entertained thoughts like, "Should I study this way? Or maybe that way?" The moment I began thinking about how to study, my mind would drift elsewhere. And I would feel, "This isn’t it." So I stopped thinking about the study altogether. I just kept attending the Dharma meetings—unconditionally. I relied solely on my teacher and kept showing up. In that process, I let go of myself entirely, gave up all effort, and placed my trust fully in the Dharma meetings. During the meetings, I was completely absorbed. But once I returned home, that longing lingered—like a wound, it remained in my heart, always present as a burden. I was perpetually aware of it.

     Listening to the Dharma was never about understanding words. For me, understanding words was not what counted as study. What I really wanted was to steep myself in the atmosphere of the Dharma meeting—to soak into the place beyond thought, not into thought. I didn't want to understand teachings as words with my head. I’d already taken in more than enough words during my years at school, and I was tired of being confined by them. I knew all too well that the study of the mind was not about words.

     My teacher always said the same thing at the Dharma meetings. After hearing it a few times, the words weren’t new anymore—there wasn’t really anything more to hear. So I didn’t go there to hear the words. Instead, I went to sink into what lies beyond the words, hoping my heart would open to it. I wasn’t trying to understand with my head. I was yearning only for my heart to open. That’s why I had no interest in the words themselves.

     In fact, even now when I give Dharma talks myself, the content is always the same. The message doesn’t change. But back then, because I couldn’t really understand it, I always felt frustrated. It was like being pierced in the chest again and again with the same awl, yet no hole would open. The awl never changes, so there’s no need to wonder, “Which awl will pierce me?”

     ④ I had simply been sitting there, hoping for my heart to open. One summer day, just a few minutes into my teacher’s Dharma talk, he said, “Seon is none other than this!” and tapped the floor with his finger. At that moment, something that had been tightly blocked within me suddenly burst open—like a flash of light streaking across my vision. As it passed, I thought, 'Ah, this! This is it!' And everything suddenly clicked. “So this is what he’s been talking about all along!” It was as if everything he had ever said had been recorded in my mind, but until that instant, none of it had truly registered. Then, all at once, it came pouring out—like a tangled cassette tape suddenly unwinding and playing back clearly.

     Because it was so sudden, I said nothing at the time. But from that moment on, I understood what he was saying. Even after that, although I understood what he was saying, that didn’t mean I had become completely steadfast, without a single doubt, with my heart at ease and all my problems gone. Not at all—every problem remained just as before. I was still anxious and frustrated. But as I began to understand his words, little by little, gradually, I started to feel some relief.
     Then one day, while reading a book alone at home, I came across a line I still remember: "The whole world is nothing but God's grace." As I read it, I felt a strange sensation—like heat rising through my whole body. Suddenly, I flushed hot, and a shiver swept through me. And I cried out, "Ah! Ah! Yes, yes!"—it really felt as if the whole world were filled with blessings. That kind of experience happened to me a few times.

     As time went on, it became increasingly clear in my heart: "Ah, this is it. This is what I've been yearning for all along!" "This is it! This truly exists!" And when it became clear, the feeling that arose was like stepping into a bottomless, empty sky—yet at the same time, it was intense, like something containing all power. There was nothing clearly tangible, but it was like an abyss where everything had dissolved, free of conflict or conceptual discrimination. Later, I described it as being like a nuclear reactor. Still, there was something. If I relied on it, stray thoughts wouldn't arise, and I would feel at ease and stable. But whenever I followed thoughts, I always felt anxious. Following thoughts always led me to instability and trembling. Yet when I rested in that fiery core, I felt both safe and at ease—like being nestled in a mother’s embrace. Leaning into it, I felt a sense of freedom from various desires, emotions, and thoughts. Still, that presence was unmistakably there. 

     However, at that time, it wasn't clear what it was. I only had a vague sense that it was always by my side, and within that sense of recognition, I felt at ease. Yet, it wasn't as if it had clearly become one with me. I was still thirsty, yearning, and incomplete. All that remained was the desire to always be one with it. I think several years passed like that. The feeling of it would sometimes come strongly, then fade, recurring periodically. Sometimes I felt like I was truly in that unshakable place, and sometimes I didn't.

     ⑤ However, I still felt my study was lacking, particularly in this respect. I had developed a habit of falling into samadhi (deep meditative absorption). Samadhi, as I experienced it, was this: during quiet moments alone, in my free time, when I sat in a chair, there was an indescribable abyss. It’s what we emptiness, I supposed. I would plunge deep into that unknown abyss. When I plunged into such a fathomless, empty abyss, there were no thoughts, no desires, just endless comfort. No matter how tired I was, if I just sat and plunged into it for ten minutes, I would feel as refreshed as if I had slept for a long time. So for a while, I got caught up in the pleasure of it. But falling into samadhi means there are times when you fall in and times when you come out, so it also has its ups and downs. It meant there was still a problem with my study of the mind. Even if one has tasted the truth and abides in that place, it may still be a state of being absorbed in the flavor of the Dharma.

     Afterward, giving lectures on The Letters of Dahui Zonggao and The Record of Linji in the Buddhist newspaper led to studying together with visitors who came to see me. Helping others awaken and sharing the study with them greatly supported my own. As I guided, my own shortcomings in the study continued to surface and be gradually addressed. I even learned from those who came to experience awakening while studying with me.  Anyone with genuine interest and sincere faith eventually awakened and shared their experience with me. Through that process, I gradually became more and more familiar with this place.

     ⑥ Even then, I continued attending my teacher's Dharma talk once a week. Then, one day, as I was sitting and listening to the Dharma talk, all consciousness suddenly began to slowly converge into a single point. Just like when you pull the drain in the bathtub and the water rushes out, leaving everything clear, the consciousness gathered into a single point and vanished. Then the entire void collapsed into a single point. Everything that appeared was just this. The very possibility of anything else disappeared. Suddenly, everything became incredibly light. I felt no weight at all. It took no effort whatsoever. All the events unfolding before my eyes were so natural and ordinary, and I couldn't possibly think other thoughts. Even if I wanted to miss, I couldn't. I felt much more comfortable and free.

     In the past, when I used to fall into samadhi, I would retreat into it whenever something difficult happened or a challenging state came up. The things I saw and heard weren’t much of an issue. The most difficult challenges were emotional ones—people. People were the hardest to detach from. Objects weren’t a problem. But with people, because we emotionally resonate and interact, it’s different. If the person is grounded in study, there’s no problem. Those who study the mind connect from this place. But when dealing with someone who hasn’t entered the study, if there’s no emotional bond, it’s not an issue. But when emotional ties are present, it’s hard to remain free from their influence. Those relationships include parents, siblings, friends, students, and so on. There’s no burden among those who study the mind. But when it comes to parents, spouses, children, friends, colleagues, or students—those with whom I'd exchanged affection and opened my heart—I would easily be pulled back into old worldly emotions. That kind of attachment doesn’t fall away easily. Whenever that happened, I would flee to solitude. I would quickly try to be alone, and when I was alone, I would fall into samadhi and become free. I was constantly struggling to stay in this place.

     However, after this experience of becoming a single point, things were different. I did not fall into samadhi—there was simply nothing else. I became much freer. There was no thought of doing study, and there was nothing else in my ordinary actions, moment by moment. There wasn’t even the thought that this was all there is. To liken this experience of becoming a single point: it's like there’s a small dot on a white sheet of paper, and you try to hit that dot precisely from above. At first, you miss countless times. But at some point, you hit it exactly. Then, you don't lift the pencil from there. You fix it precisely. Or, when connecting electrical wires, the positive and negative ends might keep missing each other, but at some point, they fit exactly. Then the light stays on. So this is what is meant by falling perfectly into place. This place is like a single tiny point—but once it falls exactly into place, it holds without wavering. After experiencing that, emotions and all such conditions could no longer shake me. There was no longer any sense of avoiding or not avoiding. Even when such things approached, they only hovered around me and no longer had any direct effect. So, I became much freer and more at ease. There was nothing else to manage. I just went on with ordinary life. Truly, when hungry I ate, and when thirsty I drank. That was all. There was nothing special called Dharma. I was simply living—just following where the hands moved, where the feet went, and where the thoughts flowed. But that wasn't the end.

     ⑦ As I had become freer and increasingly occupied with work at the Seon Center, the frequency of my visits to my teacher's gatherings for study gradually became fewer. Thus, two or three years after opening the Seon Center, I stopped going to my teacher's gathering for study and would just stop by occasionally to pay my respects whenever I had time. There was an inner urge to walk my own path, step by step, without relying on my teacher, and I also knew that I had to complete my study myself; I couldn't remain under my teacher's influence indefinitely. You might say it was like a grown child becoming independent and setting out on their own path.

     Meanwhile, perhaps because I had opened a Seon Center under the name Musim Seon Center and had written articles in the newspaper, gaining some recognition, people studying the mind often visited and asked to talk. Meeting these individuals always gave me an opportunity to reflect on my own study. They would share their study, and I would share mine, using the encounter as a chance for mutual sharpening and deepening of study. Various kinds of practitioners came. Some were clearly on a heterodox path, while others were on the same path as I was.

     Meeting these individuals, I confirmed that I had clearly been freed from worldly entanglements was residing in a place of non-attachment, non-abiding, and unwavering stability. At the same time, however, I also felt that the strength of this liberated state was not yet powerful enough to completely overcome the force of worldly discrimination and right-wrong judgment. Like a child eager to grow up and become an adult, I longed to be stronger, more certain, and more unshakable. Still, I did go out of my way to seek out those known as renowned Seon teachers in order to compare whose study was deeper. The thought did occur to me, but in that moment I saw the stirring of judgment and competitiveness in my mind, and I let it go, sensing it would only interfere with my study. I simply wished for my budding study of the mind to grow fully and purely, in accord with its original nature, without hindrance.

     Furthermore, some areas remained ambiguous because my judgment wasn’t yet clear. Even when meeting those who came to see me, I could clearly discern whether the broad direction of their study was on the right path or not. But when it came to finer points, I often couldn’t tell how far their study had gone. This was, of course, because my own study hadn't yet come into precise focus in those subtle areas, so my eye wasn't that fine. I knew I was on the right path of study because I was largely free from entanglements and always in the unmoving place, but I could still clearly feel the insufficiency of my own strength and capacity.

     Also, although I could confidently speak in clear and coherent terms about the Dharma, I couldn't shake the sense that my heart was not as assured, and that something still felt lacking. Though I had become much freer than before, I was still not completely free from the sensations and awareness of body and mind. Things had become much lighter, but there having a body and mind still meant I was hindered by them. Especially when I was pulled by desire, or swayed by relationships with family or close ones, I would always feel acutely that my study was still incomplete. That’s why I continued to prefer having time alone each day. Family members and relatives still felt burdensome, so even at home I tried to spend as much time alone as I could.

     ⑧ At the time, the Seon Center was located in Namsan-dong, Geumjeong-gu. In the evenings, when I returned home to Togok in Yeonsan-dong, I would get off the subway at Dongnae Station and enjoy walking home alone for about an hour along the Oncheoncheon riverside path. Of course, it was partly to make up for my lack of exercise, but walking alone along the stream was also time for study. Each step, walked together with this very place—with this Dharma—was always a joy. You could say I was steeped in the delight of the Dharma with every step. The scenery and people along the path didn't really catch my eye; I walked facing only the place of my mind—this place of Dharma.

     Then one day—I don't remember the year. Although I'm talking about it now, the truth is I always try to abide in this present moment, so I don't think about or remember when or where I had what experience. I'm telling this story now only with the hope that it might offer even a little faith in the study to those on the path.

     One evening, I was taking a walk, as usual, immersed in the Dharma. As I passed beneath a rainbow-shaped bridge called Yeonsan, my mind suddenly vanished. With no mind, there was no Dharma to be found either. Suddenly, there was nothing—just empty space. My body kept walking as before. Seeing, hearing, feeling, and thinking all continued as usual. But body, senses, sensations, and thoughts were all just like empty space— completely free, without hindrance or obstruction. Only then did I realize that the focus had finally settled precisely, the gap had vanished, and everything had become completely one.

     With no mind and no dharma, there was nothing in the world—no object, no circumstance —that could obstruct or entangle. That evening, when I arrived home and saw my wife and children, there was no sense of burden—it was completely different from before. Even when I was with others, I felt utterly free, as if no one were really there. There were no people, no self, no mind, no world. Even thoughts of study or Dharma didn't arise.

     It was deeply refreshing. Only when the mind disappeared was I finally released from all constraints. In truth, I had always been awake right here (he taps the table), in this very spot. But because there was still mind, the desires arising from it—and the circumstances it encountered—were always bothersome, always things to overcome. There were entanglements and obstructions. But now, with no mind, there were no people, no world, no truth, no study, no enlightenment. Truly, not a single speck of dust remained to cling to. Only now did I understand Layman Pang’s words: “Not a single speck of dust is seen on mountains and rivers.” And the line from the scriptures: “If there is no Buddha who attains enlightenment, then what enlightenment is there?”

     After that, the words of the scriptures and the words of the Seon masters were absorbed effortlessly, just as they were, the moment I read them. Even the passages that had once felt ambiguous now flowed in easily, and I couldn't help but marvel. When someone spoke about study, I could see even the subtle details. I also came to see more clearly how things actually were in the lives of the well-known Seon masters of the world. The line about the King of Geese drinking only the milk when it’s mixed with suddenly made sense to me.

     The Sixth Patriarch’s “Originally, not a single thing exists,” the Diamond Sutra's “There is not the slightest dharma to be obtained,” the Heart Sutra’s “Because there is nothing to be obtained,” along with “All hindrances disappear,” “Form is emptiness and emptiness is form,” “All dharmas are without self-nature,” “The Middle Way is non-abiding,” “Emptiness of self and emptiness of dharmas,” “Foolish people try to eliminate external conditions, while the wise people eliminate their own minds”—all of these felt like nothing more than ordinary words.

     At one point, I came across a line in a book that said, “If the world is not two, then all that appears before your eyes right now is real.” That statement resonated deeply and moved me greatly. I also genuinely resonated with passages from Mazu Yulu, such as: “Where you stand is already reality, and wherever your feet tread, you are the master,” and “Sentient beings do not have a small mind, nor do Buddhas have the big mind.” Another passage from Dahui's Letters became unmistakably clear to me: “Ignorance is an illusory delusion. When a false medicine cures a false illness, and the illness disappears and the medicine is discarded, what remains is still the same old person. If there is a separate person and a separate dharma, that is the view of a false path.”

     ⑨ From the fall of 2005, with support from the Korea Research Foundation, I began translating the 30 volumes of The Record of Seon Master Dahui. Having had many questions about how Ganhwa Seon (a Korean Seon tradition of holding a hwadu to realize one’s true nature) was being practiced in Korea, I took on the full translation of Dahui Zonggao's collected teachings to understand what kind of Seon the founder of Ganhwa Seon had actually taught. The translation took more than three years and was difficult, but I was able to study deeply through Dahui's record. I found answers to all the questions I had about the commonly known elements of Korean Ganhwa Seon, but more than that, encountering Dahui's eye for Dharma and expedients (skillful means) proved to be a great support to my study.

     Through Dahui, I came to understand what the Buddha's enlightenment is and what the expedients of Buddhism are. I also came to see clearly phrases from Yogacara philosophy such as "Everything is mind, all dharmas are consciousness-only, and there is no realm apart from consciousness,” as well as "The world and enlightenment are like dreams and illusions" from the Perfect Enlightenment Sutra, and "The Dharma cannot be seen, heard, felt, or known. If one sees, hears, feels, and knows, that is merely seeing, hearing, feeling, and knowing—it is not seeking the Dharma," from the Vimalakirti Sutra. Dahui's teachings, along with the scriptures and the words of the Patriarchs he quoted, served as confirmation of my awakening. Through his record, I refined my insight and realization in subtle and detailed ways.

     In particular, while reading the Avatamsaka Sutra, I came across Dahui’s comment after assimilating the koan of Angulimala begging for alms at the house of a pregnant woman: "Only when it is clearly revealed that the true Diamond cage is one's own mind can one be liberated." Seeing this passage, I clearly understood the nature of Dahui's Seon. And so, I once wrote this verse:

I deceived myself,

And I was deceived by myself.

I am my own prison,

And I am my own gate of liberation.

With no me, there is no world; 

With no world, there is no deception. 

With no me, there is no prison; 

With no me, there is no release.

All things still arise,

But not a single thing has ever arisen.

What exists is precisely what does not exist;

It is neither existence nor non-existence.

     After the realization that there is no mind and no world, I became more convinced of this realization as time passed—gaining more strength, becoming more precise, more confident, and seeing more clearly, until there was no longer any doubt about what I saw. With nothing to be called "mind" and nothing to be called "Dharma," there is no need to speak of "two" or "not two," no discrimination between "enlightenment" and "ignorance," nothing to be called "Buddha" or "ordinary being," and not a single speck of dust to get caught on.

     All notions such as "Dharma," "mind," "self," and "other" are merely shadows that arise when one’s realization has not yet fully ripened. It's like standing a straight stick vertically under the midday summer sun. If the stick is even slightly tilted, it casts a shadow—giving the impression that something separate exists. However, when the stick is perfectly aligned with the sun, the shadow disappears, and all that remains is the sun’s brightness— with not a single separate object. Like this, when one fits without a gap, there is not two. The self and the world are not two. There is no self, no world. Life goes on just as before—unchanged—but still, there is no self, no world. And yet, the immediate experiences of seeing, hearing, sensing, and knowing are vivid beyond words.

     Yet while everything is vivid, there is no front or back, no inside or outside, no this and no that. Each thing is mind itself, so there is no distinction between things and mind, and no distinction among things. There is no mind apart from phenomena, and no phenomena apart from mind—phenomena are mind and mind is phenomena. Each and every thing is mind, and every mind is none other than things. With no mind and no things, there is no obstruction neither by mind nor by things. Dahui's Seon is simply this, the Seon of the Patriarchs is simply this, and the Buddha's Dharma is simply this.

     If Layman Park Hunsan was my first teacher—who guided me to the gate of awakening—then Dahui's record was my second. It affirmed my study, dissolved all doubts, and refined it in subtle detail. My parents gave birth to this body, but it was my teachers who brought forth this mind. The grace of my teachers is beyond measure.