Koan: The First Principle

When one goes to Obaku temple in Kyoto he sees carved over the gate the words "The First Principle". The letters are unusually large, and those who appreciate calligraphy always admire them as being a mastepiece. They were drawn by Kosen two hundred years ago. 

When the master drew them he did so on paper, from which the workmen made the large carving in wood. As Kosen sketched the letters a bold pupil was with him who had made several gallons of ink for the calligraphy and who never failed to criticise his master's work. 

"That is not good," he told Kosen after his first effort. 

"How is this one?" 

"Poor. Worse than before," pronounced the pupil. 

Kosen patiently wrote one sheet after another until eighty-four First Principles had accumulated, still without the approval of the pupil. 

Then when the young man stepped outside for a few moments, Kosen thought: "Now this is my chance to escape his keen eye," and he wrote hurriedly, with a mind free from distraction: "The First Principle." 

"A masterpiece," pronounced the pupil.

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Why it takes me three times or more to absorb my experiences and digest their lessons is described in this Zen Buddhist koan.

The first time in a new experience, I am most curious and when permitted I have prepared myself, sometime for weeks beforehand, so that I can immerse completely in the new experience. The pitfall here is if I have overprepared, I am susceptible to losing sense of the process by minding the past.

The second time the apparatus, or details of the experience, is activated, I function more analytically, often outside of my skin, observing my performance as objectively as I am able. I collect data and run the risk of editing the data rather than objectively observing, taking me out of the moment and into subjectivity

The third time I run the apparatus, or perhaps the fifth or eighty-fifth time, I reimmerse in the process, this time with the multidimensional perspective of experience and insight. Inevitably, the apparatus becomes obsolete and I perform purely in the process, resulting in organic refinements to my nervous system.

By this method, I activate both my yang and yin, my passion and my clinic. And the resulting human being is both hot and cold, not depending on the activity nor company, but rather the presence of The Observer and whether I have prepared myself as a bold pupil or as a patient master.