"Please explain in detail how you studied, in a way that we can easily understand."

① At that time, I was in a situation where I had the burden of writing my doctoral dissertation on Seon (Zen) while studying Seon Buddhism in my Ph.D. program. However, because Seon couldn't be understood solely through books, I was troubled in various ways. It was by chance that I met my teacher then and studied in his assembly. I believe I went to him about twice a week. When I went, he would expound the Dharma using records like Yuanwu Xinyao, The Letters of Dahui, The Record of Linji, and The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.

At that time, my teacher was running a boarding house in front of Busan National University. He was the grandfather who owned the boarding house, and when I first met him at his assembly, there was no sense of distrust, even though he was just a grandfather. Anyway, at that time, I wasn't in a position to judge him one way or another; I was simply thirsty for Seon. I had never studied anything about Seon before. I had never actually been to a temple or a Seon meditation hall, nor had I met any monks. Honestly, until I specialized in Seon in graduate school, I had read hardly any books about it.

I had broadly surveyed Eastern and Western philosophy in the university's philosophy department, but they were all well-structured theoretical systems that didn't offer answers to what I was truly thirsty for at the moment. So, I went to graduate school to study Buddhism, hoping it might quench my thirst. After spending my Master's program studying Buddhist history and the doctrines of early Buddhism, Hinayana, and Mahayana Buddhism, I eventually realized that Seon was the living Buddhism that could truly satisfy my thirst. Afterward, I read various introductory books on Seon and Seon records. However, such books merely conveyed or interpreted historical facts, so my yearning and thirst to truly know Seon itself only grew stronger.

Then I met my teacher. It was the first time I had met someone who directly taught Seon, not just academic knowledge. So, for me, who was simply thirsty for Seon, I didn't even attempt to judge what kind of person he was or what he seemed like, or whether I should study with him or not. It wasn't that I didn't try; such thoughts simply didn't arise. I had no such thoughts.

I just listened to his dharma talk once, and I completely didn't understand what he was saying. Because I didn't understand, I would often feel sleepy or bored. However, since I didn't know where else to go, I guess a kind of trust in him, who was just a boarding house owner grandfather at first and not even considered a teacher, grew within me unknowingly. Maybe at the very first moment I met him, I unconsciously felt, "Ah, there's something about this person!"

Anyway, I was looking for an opportunity to genuinely experience Seon, and it was great that such an opportunity came so easily, right in front of the school. In fact, I found going to temples somewhat burdensome. I felt a burden regarding the existence of monks and the associated etiquette. But since he was just a boarding house owner grandfather, there was no burden at all. So, I just went and sat there comfortably. I never asked any special questions, and he never said anything particular to me either. I simply sat quietly in the back and listened.

② Anyway, I just sat there with the intention of studying, but after a few months, I really started to dislike going. The atmosphere of the dharma assembly was unfamiliar, and the dharma talks were utterly incomprehensible... Yet, I think there was a certain trust in my heart. 'There's definitely something here. I don't know what it is, but I'll dig into it here as much as I can, then I'll form my own judgment, and maybe then I can study somewhere else? For now, I'll dig out everything I can from here.' That seemed to be my thought. And despite that, was it a sense of trust in my teacher? Anyway, I never doubted him. I definitely had the thought, 'This person knows something!' I only wanted to know what he knew. Since there was no other suitable place to go, I just kept attending.

One thing I remember is that after our study sessions, my fellow students and I would occasionally go to a teahouse in front of the school to drink tea. Each time, they would encourage me, saying, "See it through here. You will surely get good results." I think this encouragement greatly empowered me. The human connection with fellow practitioners, as opposed to social relationships in everyday life, felt like a different kind of bond. Those things were very comfortable and good.

However, since I didn't understand the practice, I couldn't say anything about it. So, I kept my mouth shut and was always in the position of listening. I just sat there and listened unconditionally. Since I didn't understand, I couldn't even ask questions. I just listened, without any questions, without judging whether it was good or bad. I think I have a certain temperament. What is it? When faced with something, I tend to quietly and persistently stick with it like a bear until I can fully grasp it and speak confidently about it. So, I clung to it with that kind of attitude.

After a few months, a junior graduate student who was studying with me started saying that he had made some progress and would even converse with the teacher. I felt envious, and at the same time, my pride was hurt. But on the outside, I would encourage and praise my junior, while internally, I had a stubborn determination, a self-confidence, saying, "I will definitely achieve this too." I also had the expectation, "It'll happen someday..."

Another year seemed to pass like that. Since I couldn't understand what was being said, I would just sit there blankly. Sometimes I would even doze off. But as time went on, a change began to occur: during the first few months, I couldn't adapt to the atmosphere; my body would twist uncomfortably, I couldn't sit for even thirty minutes, and I wanted to go outside. But after a while, I started to get used to the atmosphere. In other words, I became accustomed to it, and the atmosphere began to feel good and comfortable. So, I started attending the dharma assemblies with joy. Sitting there felt comfortable, and while I was sitting, it felt as if some worldly afflictions and delusions were gradually disappearing. Anyway, it was comfortable. Because of this, if I had free time, even if there wasn't a dharma assembly, I would go to see my teacher. I would go whenever I was bored. I would go several times a week to listen to dharma talks and talk with my fellow practitioners, having frequent contact with my teacher in the assembly.

Still, the practice felt daunting. I tried to apply a hwadu (a Chan/Seon koan) on my own, but I genuinely couldn't hold it for even a day. What's a day? I couldn't even do it for an hour before getting frustrated. Questions arose like, "How can any progress be made like this?" Actively trying to hold a hwadu at that moment, when I was so thirsty, had no practical effect on me. Yet, there was no special method to quench this thirst either. No matter what effort I made in the name of "practice," it didn't seem like it would provide an answer. In fact, the desperate conclusion I reached after struggling with thirst for several years was that no conscious effort on my part would work. I wanted to escape this persistent prison of consciousness, but no matter where I looked, there was only consciousness. Eventually, I had no choice but to let go of everything, do nothing, and simply surrender to the thirst. I was thirsty, but there was no way to deal with it, so I simply relied on the dharma talk assembly. I just went back and forth, trusting only that "it'll work out eventually..." and attending the dharma assembly.

③ As time passed like that, something gradually seemed to be within reach, yet still not firmly grasped. Because it wasn't yet firmly grasped, I lacked confidence, felt overwhelmed, and even afraid. Even when it seemed almost within reach, I didn't become impatient. I trusted myself. "It'll happen... before I die, it'll happen..." (laughs)... So, I put aside my academic studies a bit, and for a while, I stopped looking at books; I just didn't want to read them. I just attended the dharma assemblies, immersed myself in that atmosphere, and focused solely on this practice. That period seemed to last for quite a few months. What I realized more clearly then was, "I absolutely cannot do this by consciously trying to study! In any case, this is absolutely impossible with my own strength." So, I gave up on doing it with my own strength and just diligently attended the dharma assembly, holding onto the hope that "it'll happen..."

Because if I tried to make a conscious effort, this calculating thought would immediately arise and lead me in an undesired direction. That's why I didn't even think about "Should I study this way, or that way?" If I started thinking about studying, my calculating mind would immediately go elsewhere. So, I thought, "This is not it." I didn't even think about "study" itself; I just unconditionally attended the dharma assembly. I relied solely on my teacher and just attended the dharma assembly. In other words, I completely let go of myself, gave up, and simply relied on the dharma assembly.

While attending the dharma assembly, I would be completely immersed in it, and when I returned home, that craving would always be in my heart like a wound, a burden, so I always felt burdened. Listening to the dharma talk wasn't about listening to words and understanding them. Understanding words wasn't the practice for me. I just wanted to be deeply immersed in the atmosphere of the dharma assembly and be absorbed into that place, not through consciousness. I didn't want to understand words with my head. I had learned too many words while attending school, and I disliked the constraint of such words. I knew very well that practice was not about words.

Even in the dharma assembly, the content of the teacher's words was always the same. After hearing it a few times, it was the same words, so there was nothing more to hear. So, I wasn't going to hear words; I wanted to fall into this non-verbal thing there and have my heart open to it. I didn't want to understand it with my head, so I was earnestly wishing for my heart to open. That's why I wasn't interested in words.

In fact, I am giving dharma talks here now, but the content of what I say is always the same. It's the same content, but because I couldn't understand, my chest always felt constricted. In other words, I was constantly piercing my chest with the same awl, but no hole was made in my chest. The awl is always the same, so there's no need to think, "What kind of awl is piercing me?"

④ I sat there, wishing only for my heart to open, when one summer day, a few minutes after my teacher began his dharma talk, he said, "Seon is nothing other than this!" and tapped the floor with his finger. At that moment, what had been completely blocked flashed before my eyes like a sudden burst of light. As it swept through, I thought, "Oh, yes, this!" and it just clicked. "Ah, everything this person has been talking about until now was all this!" It was as if everything he had said had been recorded in my mind, but not a single word had been deciphered until then. But at that moment, it all suddenly unfolded, like the recordings became perfectly clear and absorbed. It was like a tangled tape unraveling and playing smoothly.

However, since it was instantaneous, I didn't talk about it at the time. Anyway, after that, I understood what he was talking about. Even after that, although I understood what he was saying, did I become unwavering, with my heart perfectly stable, and without any problems? No, that wasn't the case. All the problems remained. I was still anxious and frustrated. However, as I understood his words, I gradually, little by little, began to feel refreshed.

Then, one day, while reading a book alone at home, I remember the passage even now: "The whole world is God's grace." As I read that passage, a strange sensation came over me, like a heat, suddenly my whole body became hot, and a tremor ran through me. And I thought, "Ah! Ah! Yes, yes!" and it really felt as if the whole world was filled with blessings. I had a few experiences like that.

As time gradually passed, I started to confirm more and more clearly in my heart, "Ah, this is it! This is what I've been yearning and craving for!" "This is it! This exists!" But the feeling of that confirmation was like stepping on something in a bottomless, empty void, and at the same time, it was very strong, like something that contained all power within itself. There was nothing clearly tangible, but it was like an abyss where everything was dissolved, without any conflict or discrimination. Later, I would use the analogy of a nuclear reactor; anyway, there was something. If I relied on it, idle thoughts wouldn't arise, and I would feel at ease and stable, whereas if I followed thoughts, I would always feel anxious. Following thoughts made me anxious, shaky, and trembling. But if I only relied on that fireball-like thing, I would become stable and at ease, with a sense of warmth and security, like being in my mother's arms. Relying on it, I felt a lot of freedom from various desires, emotions, and thoughts. Anyway, that existed.

However, at that time, it wasn't clear what it was; I just vaguely felt that it was always by my side, and I felt at ease in that feeling of confirmation. Yet, it wasn't a feeling that it was definitively one with me. I was still thirsty, yearning, and incomplete. So, there was only 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 unwavering place, and sometimes I didn't.

⑤ However, there was still something that made me consider my practice insufficient: I had developed a habit of falling into samadhi (meditative absorption). What is samadhi? During quiet moments alone, in my free time, when I sat in a chair, there was an indescribable abyss. We call it emptiness (공), I think; 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, I was engrossed in that enjoyment for a while. 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 practice. Even if one experiences the taste and is in this place, it's like being intoxicated by the taste of the Dharma, perhaps?

Afterward, my lectures on The Letters of Dahui and The Record of Linji in the Buddhist newspaper led to people visiting and studying with me. Guiding people to awaken and sharing the practice with others greatly helped my own study. As I guided, my own deficiencies in practice continually surfaced and were continually remedied. I even learned from those who experienced new awakenings through me. Regardless of gender, age, or status, those who had genuine interest and sincere faith gradually experienced awakening, one by one, and shared their experiences with me. Through this process, I became even more accustomed to this place.

⑥ Even then, I still attended my teacher's dharma talk once a week to listen to his teachings. Then, one day, as I was sitting and listening to the dharma talk, all consciousness suddenly began to slowly converge into a single point. Then, just as water drains into a plug hole and disappears, leaving everything clean when you pull the plug from the bottom of a bathtub, the consciousness gathered into a single point and vanished, and the entire emptiness became 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 go astray, I couldn't. I felt much more comfortable and free.

Before, when I used to fall into samadhi, if I encountered a problem or a particular situation, I would retreat into samadhi. Objects seen and heard with the eyes were not much of a problem. What kind of situation was most severe? Emotional issues, people. People were the most difficult boundary to detach from. Things were not a problem. Since people emotionally empathize and interact with each other, it's fine if the other person is a practitioner. People who have practiced can connect in this place, so it's not a problem. But when dealing with people who haven't practiced, it's fine if there's no bond between us, but if there are various human affections, then I couldn't be free from their influence. Those relationships include parents, siblings, friends, disciples, and so on. There's no burden among those who have practiced, but when dealing with parents, spouses, children, friends, colleagues, disciples, etc.—people with whom I've exchanged affection and opened my heart—I would easily be pulled back into old worldly affections. That boundary really doesn't detach. Whenever that happened, where would I flee? 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, the situation changed. What happened was, instead of falling into samadhi, there was simply nothing else, always. I became much freer. There was no thought of "practicing," and my every action in daily life was nothing but this; there wasn't even the thought that "this is 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 hold a pencil and precisely mark that single dot from above. At first, you'll miss countless times. But at some point, you'll hit it perfectly. Then, you don't lift the pencil from there. You fix it precisely. Or, when connecting electrical wires, the positive and negative connections might keep missing each other, but at some point, they align perfectly. Then the light stays on. In that way, which is called "契合" (gyehab, perfect alignment), this place is like a very small point, but once it perfectly aligns, there's a place that becomes fixed without wavering. Once I had that experience of perfect alignment, emotions and all such circumstances could no longer shake me. There was no escaping or not escaping. Even if they approached, they would just hover around and couldn't directly affect me. So, I became much freer and much more comfortable. There was nothing else to do. I just lived my life as usual. It was truly just eating when hungry and drinking when thirsty. That was all; there was nothing special called "Dharma." I was simply living, following my hands, my feet, my thoughts. But that wasn't the end.

⑦ As I became this free and the affairs of the Seon Center became busy in various ways, the frequency of my visits to my teacher's assembly for study gradually decreased. Thus, two or three years after opening the Seon Center, I stopped going to my teacher's assembly for study, only occasionally dropping by to greet him when I had time. There was an internal urge to walk my own path, step by step, without relying on my teacher, and I also knew that I had to complete my own practice myself; I couldn't remain under my teacher's influence indefinitely. Should I say it was like a grown child gaining independence and finding their own way?

Meanwhile, perhaps because I had opened a Seon Center under the name Musim Seonwon and written articles in the newspaper, gaining some recognition, people cultivating their minds often visited and requested conversations. Meeting these individuals always provided an opportunity to reflect on my own practice. They would reveal their practice, and I would reveal mine, and we would use these encounters as opportunities for mutual refinement and learning. Various types of practitioners visited. Some were clearly on the path of externalism (外道), while others were on the same path as me.

Meeting these individuals, I confirmed that I was clearly emancipated (해탈) from worldly ties, residing in a place of non-attachment, non-abiding, and unwavering stability. However, at the same time, I also felt that the power of this emancipated state was not yet strong enough to completely overwhelm the power of worldly discrimination and right-and-wrong judgments. Like a child eager to grow up and become an adult, I longed to be stronger, more certain, and more unwavering. Yet, I did not intentionally seek out renowned Seon masters to compare our levels of practice. Although I considered doing so, I saw the rising of discriminating thoughts and competitive desires within me at that moment, and I stopped, fearing it would hinder my practice. I simply wished for my budding practice to grow fully and purely according to its original nature, without any hindrance.

Furthermore, there were still ambiguous areas where I couldn't make clear judgments. Even when meeting visitors, while I could clearly discern whether the broad framework of their practice was on the right path or the wrong path, it was often difficult to judge the degree of completion of their practice when delving into subtle details. This was, of course, because my own practice hadn't yet achieved precise focus in those subtle areas, so my discernment wasn't that refined. I knew I was on the right path of practice because I was largely free from all things and always in an unwavering state, but I also clearly felt the inadequacy of my own strength and ability.

Also, although I could confidently speak clearly and logically about the Dharma, I couldn't shake the feeling that my heart wasn't as confident and that something was lacking. Although I had become much freer than before, I was still not completely free from experiencing and perceiving the sensations and consciousness of my body and mind. I had become much lighter, but there was still a physical body and a mind, which acted as hindrances. Especially when occasionally swayed by desires or by people like family and relatives, I would always feel acutely that my practice was still insufficient. Thus, I still enjoyed having a certain amount of time alone each day. Family members and relatives remained burdensome presences, so I tried to spend as much time alone as possible even at home.

⑧ At that time, the Seon Center was in Namsan-dong, Geumjeong-gu. When I returned home to Togok, Yeonsan-dong, in the evening, I enjoyed getting off the subway at Dongnae Station and walking home alone for about an hour along the Oncheoncheon riverside promenade. Of course, it was also a walk to get some much-needed exercise, but walking alone along the stream promenade was also a time for practice. Walking alone with this place, with this Dharma, was always enjoyable. Should I say I took each step, intoxicated by the joy of the Dharma? The scenery and people around the promenade didn't enter my eyes; I walked, facing only my mind's place, this place of Dharma.

Then one day. I don't remember the year, but 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 forcing myself to tell this story now only with the expectation that it will give even a little faith in the practice to those who are studying.

That evening, as usual, I was taking a walk, immersed in the Dharma. As I passed under a rainbow bridge called Yeon-san Bridge, my mind suddenly vanished. With no mind, there was no "place of Dharma" to speak of. Suddenly, there was nothing, like empty space. My physical body was still walking as before, and seeing, hearing, feeling, and thinking were no different than before, but my body, senses, feelings, and thoughts were all like empty space, completely unhindered and unobstructed. It was then that I finally knew that the focus was perfectly aligned, and the gap had disappeared, becoming completely one. With no mind and no Dharma, there was no obstruction or attachment to any realm or object. That evening, when I arrived home and saw my wife and children, they were distinctly different from before—not bothersome at all. Even when I was with people, I felt incredibly free, as if no one else was there. There were no people, no self, no mind, no world. Thoughts of "study" or "Dharma" didn't even arise.

It was incredibly refreshing. It was only when my mind disappeared that I was finally freed from all constraints. In fact, before that, I was always awake in this very spot (tapping the table with his hand), but because there was a mind, desires arising from the mind and external realms encountered by the mind were always bothersome and objects to be overcome. There were obstacles and hindrances. But now, with no mind, there were no people, no world, no truth, no study, no enlightenment. There was literally not a single speck of dust to get caught on. I finally understood Layman Pang's saying, "Not a single speck of dust is seen on mountains and rivers," and the scripture's saying, "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 assimilated naturally as soon as I saw them, without any hindrance. Passages that were ambiguous before now simply flowed into my understanding, and I couldn't help but marvel. When someone spoke about practice, I could judge even the most subtle details. I could even discern the actual living situation of the famous Seon masters renowned in the world. The saying that a swan king, when milk and water are mixed, discards the water and drinks only the milk, resonated with me. The Sixth Patriarch's words, "Fundamentally not a single thing exists," the Diamond Sutra's words, "There is not the slightest dharma to be obtained," the Heart Sutra's words, "Because there is nothing to be obtained," or "Hindrances disappear," or "Form is emptiness and emptiness is form," the words, "All dharmas are without self-nature (自性)," the words, "The Middle Way is non-abiding (無住)," the words, "Emptiness of self (我空) and emptiness of dharmas (法空)," and the words, "Foolish people try to eliminate external realms, but wise people eliminate their own minds," all truly seemed like ordinary words. At one point, I saw a passage in a book that said, "If the world is not two, then all that appears before your eyes right now is real," and this statement also resonated deeply and moved me greatly. Also, the passages in the Mazu Yulu, "Where you stand is already reality, and wherever your feet tread, you are the master," and "Sentient beings do not have small minds, nor do Buddhas have large minds," truly resonated. Furthermore, the passage from Dahui's letters, "Ignorance is also an illusory delusion, and enlightenment is also an illusory delusion. When a false medicine cures a false illness and the illness is gone and the medicine is discarded, you are still just the same old person. If there is a separate person and a separate dharma, this is the view of heretical externalism," also clearly resonated.

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 Puguang. Having many questions about the common practices of Korean Ganhwa Seon, I undertook the task of translating Dahui Zonggao's entire record to understand what kind of Seon the founder of Ganhwa Seon taught. It was a difficult translation project that took over three years, but I learned a great deal through Dahui's record. I found answers to all the questions I had about commonly known issues in Korean Ganhwa Seon, but more than that, encountering Dahui's insight (眼目) into Dharma and expedients was a tremendous help to my practice.

Through Dahui, I clearly understood what the Buddha's enlightenment is and what the expedients of Buddhism are. I distinctly understood phrases such as "Everything is mind (一切唯心), all dharmas are consciousness-only (萬法唯識), and there is no realm apart from consciousness (唯識無境)" from Yogacara philosophy, "The world and enlightenment are like dreams and illusions" from the Perfect Enlightenment Sutra, and from the Vimalakirti Sutra, "The Dharma cannot be seen, heard, felt, or known. If one sees, hears, feels, and knows, this is merely seeing, hearing, feeling, and knowing, not seeking the Dharma." Dahui's teachings and the scriptures and patriarchal sayings he quoted also served as evidence confirming my own enlightenment. Through Dahui's record, I refined my enlightenment and insight in minute and detailed ways.

In particular, while reading the Avatamsaka Sutra, after assimilating the koan of Angulimala begging for alms at a pregnant woman's house, Dahui said, "Only when it is clearly revealed that the true Diamond Lasso is one's own mind can one be liberated." Upon seeing this passage, I truly understood what Dahui's Seon was like. Thus, I even wrote this poem:

I deceived myself,

And I was deceived by myself.

I am my own prison,

And I am my own gate of liberation.

Since I am not, there is no world,

Since there is no world, there is no deception.

Since I am not, there is no prison,

Since I am not, there is no liberation.

All things still arise,

But not a single thing has ever arisen.

What exists is precisely what is non-existent,

It is neither existence nor non-existence.

After this realization that there is no mind and no world, as time passed, I became more convinced of this realization, gained more strength, became more refined, became more confident, and my vision became clearer, so that I had no doubts about anything I saw. Since there is nothing to be called "mind" and nothing to be called "Dharma," there is no need for talk of "two" or "not two," no discrimination between "enlightenment" and "ignorance," nothing to be called "Buddha" or "ordinary sentient being," and not a single speck of dust to get caught on.

All things like "Dharma," "mind," "self," and "others" are shadows that arise because enlightenment is not yet perfect. It's like standing a straight stick toward the sun at noon on a summer day. If the stick is even slightly tilted, its form appears as a shadow, and it seems as if there is something distinct. However, if the stick is perfectly aligned with the sun, the shadow disappears, and there is only the brightness of the sun, with no distinct object. In this way, when perfectly aligned, there are no two. The self and the world are not two, and there is neither self nor world. Life continues as before, unchanging, yet there is neither self nor world. Even though there is neither self nor world, the immediate experiences of seeing, hearing, feeling, and knowing that appear before one are incredibly vivid. While vivid, there is no front, no back, no inside, no outside, no this, and no that. Each and every thing is mind, so there is no distinction between things and mind, and no distinction between things themselves. There is no separate mind and no separate realm; the realm is precisely mind, and mind is precisely the realm. Each and every thing is mind, and every mind is a thing. There are neither things nor mind, so one is not obstructed by mind nor by things. Dahui's Seon is simply this, the Seon of successive 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 enlightenment, Dahui's record was my second teacher, who authenticated my practice, resolved all my doubts, and meticulously refined my practice. My parents gave birth to this body, but my teachers revealed this mind. The grace of my teachers is immeasurable.