“We hear two hands clap. What is the sound of one hand clapping?” ¹
This is a Zen kōan – a phrase to help us see the world as it is, not as our intellect conceives it. ²
Upon verbalizing the words aloud, an ex-girlfriend came to mind.
Aika had been the other hand of a pair. When she left, there was only me. Perhaps she was never mine to begin with. As Epictetus tells us, the people we cherish are only ours to borrow – we will lose all of them eventually. ³
But can I still be relevant (if I ever was) as only half of the instrument?
I pondered this question while my feet traipsed along the shore in Olympic National Park.
Maybe the answer was to approach the inquiry from another angle. Henry David Thoreau wrote that “when any real progress is made, we unlearn and learn anew what we thought we knew before.” ⁴ Indeed there is a Zen counterpart: “Knowledge is learning, wisdom is letting go,” which is demonstrated by another kōan:
“A rōshi (teacher) welcomed an academic who came to learn about Zen. The visitor made small talk. The rōshi served tea. She poured the visitor’s cup full and then kept pouring, eyes focused on her guest. The professor became agitated, finally unable to restrain himself. “Surely madame, you know the cup is overfull! The rōshi ceased to pour, and smiled. “How can I show you Zen, unless you first empty your cup?”” ⁵
There are innumerable correct responses to the question of one hand clapping. One example is that the kōan is a hand, and the Zen student is the other. When the student and the paradox become one, the two hands have merged. The ensuing silence is the result. But the interpretation is very personal to each of us, and can change over time as our circumstances change.
The thought of Aika returned to my thoughts. Enlightenment here might only arrive after I had considered the kōan as it relates to romantic relationships. If we need a pair of hands to make a couple, how am I relevant as a single hand?
The most important relationship is the one with ourselves – perhaps this is my answer. One hand clapping is the sound I will finally hear, upon accepting that I am enough.
My feet brought me to a driftwood tree trunk, which became a front seat to the surf’s exhibition. Watching the water’s rhythmic ebb and flow reminded me of another kōan.
“How many waves are there on Yui beach?” ⁶
Tradition suggests that a student assigned this task spent two years in contemplation by the sea.
Searching for the meaning of a kōan is a process to illuminate something about ourselves – to allow direct experience of reality, instead of through the filters created by our minds.
My seat near the sea was a good place for meditation. I began counting breaths. Thoughts came and I let them go. Finally there was only the silence between crashing waves.
After a while, another kōan floated in.
“Without speaking, yet without silence, how can you express the truth?” ⁷
My lips did not move, and I was alone with the collapsing swells. I found space in the rhythm of the surf. Could it be here that the truth resided?
I felt the breeze on my face. In succession two koans fluttered with it into consciousness.
“What is the color of the wind?” ⁸
“Two monks are arguing about a flag. One says, “The flag is moving.” The other, “The wind is moving.” A third walks by and says, “Not the wind, not the flag; the mind is moving.”” ⁷
I looked out to the expanse of ocean in front of me, now darkening as the sun hung lower. Another kōan reached out from its depths, on a bit of salty spray.
“At the bottom of the Ise sea lies a single stone that the master wants to retrieve. Without getting her hands wet.” ⁸
Our thoughts are allowed to wander during meditation. Coming back to the breath allows us to find the stillness we seek. It was not my purpose to consider all of these paradoxes today. I released each and returned to my breath and the sound of the waves.
After a while the imperturbation was complete. By now the sky had almost let go of the sun. This sense of parting invoked yet another Zen story.
“Two young monks walking along a river bank came upon a maiden who could not swim, at her wit’s end of how to get across. “Can you help me?”
Without pause, the older boy lifted the girl on his back and waded through the current. The other boy hurried after them with her belongings. On the other side the monks returned the lass to the ground where she was reunited with her bags. She thanked them, and they went their ways.
The younger monk was mad at his friend, because the elder had broken his monastic oath not to touch a woman. Finally that evening, the indignant one could constrain himself no longer, and admonished his companion for the transgression.
“Oh I left that girl at the river bank hours ago. Yet you are still carrying her.” ⁹
This is a lesson intended to remind us not to hold onto things that disrupt our serenity. And perhaps it was a fitting story on this day. For me, the sound of one hand clapping had become a contemplation about loss – the loss of my former partner. And I had been carrying that sense of incompleteness without her. Perhaps it was time to leave my burden by the side of a river.
Since there was no river here, an ocean would have to do.
As Steve Hagen wrote, “Kōans direct us to be present with what is going on now, and to notice how our minds respond. Once this is seen, there’s no wasting of the day, or ourselves, or the world. What binds us drops away, and we will let it go.” ²
I rose to head back to the car.
Today several kōans had visited in passing, but my introspection had lingered on only “the sound of one hand clapping.” Each person will find their own solution to a kōan. And I had arrived at an answer to this one for me – at least for today.
At the parking lot I turned to say goodbye to the beach. And to Aika.
I was, and would be, enough. And the sound of one hand clapping was absolutely fine.
In time, it might even be beautiful.
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¹ Hakuin Ekaku, “Sekishu,” as ascribed in “The Three Pillars of Zen,” by Roshi Philip Kapleau, Anchor, New York 1965.
² Steve Hagen, in the forward to “the Iron Flute,” by Nyogen Senzaki and Ruth Strout McCandless (based on the work by Genrō Ōryū circa 1783), Charles E. Tuttle, Tokyo 1964.
³ Epictetus, “The Golden Sayings,” translated by Hastings Crossley, MacMillan, London 1925.
⁴ Henry David Thoreau, “Journal, December 31, 1837,” Public Domain, 1837.
⁵ David Chadwick, in the afterword of Shunryu Suzuki’s, “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind,” Weatherhill, Los Altos 1970.
⁶ Trevor Leggett, “The Warrior Kōans,” Arkana, Tokyo, 1985.
⁷ Mumon Ekai, “The Gateless Gate,” Public Domain, circa 1260.
⁸ Hauhōō, “Gendai Sōjizen Hyōron,” Public Domain, Tokyo 1916.
⁹ Hara Tanzan, “The Muddy Road,” Public Domain, circa 1892.
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© 2023 by Dean Jen
Rialto Beach: A Study in Zen, is posted in 3 parts:
Rialto Beach (A poem about kōans)
Rialto Beach Reprise (A reflection of the poem)
Rialto Beach Coda (A reflection of the reflection)
The Acroyoga Solivagant 
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