What do you hear when you clap with one hand? Why must you kill the Buddha when you meet him? Could the most important truth in spirituality be a tree outside the lecture hall? Who possesses the nature of a dog? Who is asking these questions?

These are not jokes, nor riddles from a monastery of eccentric monks. They are kōans – short, paradoxical stories and questions that have served in Zen for centuries not to provide answers, but to awaken. Their logic resembles dreams: devoid of instruction, full of contradictions, and yet hitting the very core. Sometimes a single word, a blow from a stick, a cypress tree pointed at with a finger, a polished brick – become the thing that can stop the mind and open awareness. A kōan differs from the moral tales we are accustomed to in Europe. It does not serve to confirm beliefs, but to shatter them. In Zen tradition, one speaks of the state of “great doubt” – daigidan (大疑団). This is not fear, not uncertainty. It is the courage to ask — and not receive an answer.

The word kōan is written with the characters 公案 – literally: “public case.” Originally, it was a term from Chinese legal practice (gōng'àn), meaning a precedent – an official ruling one could refer to. But in Zen, a kōan does not rule – it disrupts. It derails patterns of thought that have taught us to seek answers, success, explanation. A kōan is not for understanding, but for experiencing – direct, non-conceptual, stripped of logos. That is why in Zen practice, “sitting in the question” is more important than knowing. Remaining ready. Remaining open.

As early as the 13th century, the Japanese monk Mujū Dōkyō gathered dozens of Zen parables, strange stories, and spiritual anecdotes in the Shasekishū – “Records of Sand and Stone.” These were not meant only for the learned, but above all for ordinary people. Instead of abstract treatises – living images, conversations, flashes of intuition. This book is not only a testament to Zen’s spiritual imagination, but a guide to the human heart. And the kōan – though it may seem like a relic from centuries past – can still today serve as a practice of daily presence. Because every “Have you washed your bowl?” still resounds in the silence just as powerfully. A kōan does not offer ready-made answers — on the contrary, it takes them away. And that is precisely why it is more needed today than ever: in an age of instant opinions and constant certainty in one’s own beliefs, the kōan teaches us the courage to admit that perhaps… we do not know.

What is a kōan?

Before we read any kōan, before we ask even the simplest of these seemingly absurd questions, it is worth understanding the word itself – its writing, origin, and the weight it carries.

The Japanese word kōan is written with two kanji characters: 公案.

The first – 公 (kō) – means “public,” “official,” “shared,” and sometimes “universal” or “belonging to all.” In ancient China and Japan, this character was used in the context of state, legal, or judicial matters.

The second – 案 (an) – means “case,” “proposal,” “problem,” and also “plan” or “petition.” Together, they form a term that literally means: “a public matter to be resolved” or “an official case.” In its original Chinese meaning – gōng'àn – it was a legal term referring to court precedents, examples of resolved issues that could be cited in similar future cases.

Only later, within Chinese Chan Buddhism (which in Japan became known as Zen), the term acquired a new meaning: a spiritual task not to be solved, but to be experienced. The kōan became a vehicle for moving beyond the dualism of truth and falsehood, beyond conceptual thinking and beyond logic – not through negation of reason, but through its transcendence. What was once a legal matter became a matter of the soul.

What, then, is a kōan in the spiritual sense? Not a riddle. Not a logical puzzle, as found in textbooks or brain games. Not a question with a hidden answer that one could deduce by thinking hard enough. On the contrary – a kōan is a tool that shatters the illusion that everything can be thought and named. It is like the sound of one hand clapping – an invitation into a world where thought gives way to pure experience.

In Zen practice, kōans are passed from master to student not to provide answers, but to lead to satori – a flash of inner understanding, an awakening that cannot be put into words. It is the difference between reading about rain and standing in the rain. Between the map and the actual terrain. A kōan does not aim to instruct, but to halt. Not to explain, but to shake – so that the mind, full of habits and customary judgments, pauses and falls silent for a moment, observing and experiencing.

In this sense, the kōan becomes a mirror. It reflects not what the world “is,” but how we see it. It reveals our attachments to language, logic, and identity. And when the mind tries to grasp the meaning of a kōan – such as “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” – it begins to see its own limits. Then something quiet may arise, barely perceptible – an intuitive understanding that is not thought, but presence.

That is why kōans have been used for centuries not to teach theory, but to unseat the student from habitual patterns of thinking. To open them to what cannot be captured in words. To awaken that part of us which understands without explanation – which knows, though it cannot say how.

Kōans in the History of Zen and Japanese Literature

Although kōans are most often associated with Japanese Zen, their roots reach back to medieval China. In the 12th and 13th centuries, masters of the Chan school – the Chinese precursor to Zen – began recording conversations with their students, often short and seemingly incomprehensible exchanges that ended abruptly, contained paradox, or appeared to lead nowhere. These records – called gōng’àn (公案) – formed the first collections of kōans. The most famous among them are the Biyan Lu (Blue Cliff Record) and the Wumenguan (Gateless Gate) – anthologies full of enigmatic moments in which questions about the Buddha met with a shout of “Mu!”, or a gesture toward a door, a bowl, or the trees outside the window.

Kōans arrived in Japan with the spread of Zen Buddhism during the Kamakura period (1185–1333), a time when the country was caught in political turmoil, as the power of the first shogunal clans began to wane. Zen monasteries became spaces of inner order, discipline, and spiritual effort. Kōans took particularly strong root in the Rinzai school, where they became a fundamental tool of spiritual training. Masters gave kōans to students to provoke them into transcending habitual patterns of thought and encountering truth directly, beyond concepts. In the Sōtō school, kōans also played a role, though greater emphasis was placed on zazen – silent, “goalless” meditation.

But kōans did not remain confined to monastery walls. In 1283, Mujū Dōkyō (無住道曉) – a Japanese monk, erudite, and wanderer – collected over a hundred stories, anecdotes, and Zen parables in a work titled Shasekishū (沙石集) – “Collection of Sand and Stones.” The reader may have encountered the notion that Shasekishū has no author. This is plausible, since the format of the work (a collection of anecdotes, parables, miracles, and moral tales) and the absence of a clear “authorial” voice suggest a compilatory nature — that Mujū was more of an editor, a gatherer, arranging these stories into a coherent whole, rather than their sole creator.

Shasekishū – even the title is metaphorical: stones are hard, enduring truths, while sand is the minutiae of everyday life, within which wisdom may also be found. It was not a philosophical treatise, but a literary collection of parables: about monks, spirits, ordinary people, miracles, and failures – each story meant to stir the soul, not to convince the mind.

Mujū Dōkyō did not write for elites, but for everyone – from peasants to samurai. In his tales we find simplicity, humor, but also deep spiritual intuition. Kōans ceased to be merely tools of monastic training – they became a living form of Japanese spirituality and literature, blending philosophy with narrative, mysticism with storytelling. Over time, they seeped into nō theatre, haiku poetry, and Edo-period prose, becoming a cultural element that did not require ordination to move the soul.

In Japan, a kōan was no longer just a question from master to student. It became a question that anyone could pose to themselves – over a cup of sake or tea, during a walk, in the silence of everyday life. For Zen truth is not always hidden in a monastery – sometimes it waits in the reply: “Wash your bowl” (to which we shall return).

Why Do We Need a Kōan? On Opening the Mind

“If you meet the Buddha on the road — kill him.”

This is one of the most famous lines in all of Zen, and at the same time one of the most unsettling. But it is not about violence. It is about liberation. Because the Buddha you meet is not standing before you with an outstretched hand. He is sitting in your head — as an idea, an image, a schema. And as long as you worship him, you will reach nothing true. The kōan serves precisely this purpose: not to confirm beliefs, but to shatter them.

In Zen tradition, there is talk of a state of “great doubt” — daigidan (大疑団). This is not fear, not uncertainty. It is the courage to ask — and not receive an answer. It is the readiness to stand in the doorway and not enter, because first you must see whether the door truly exists. A kōan is a question that gives no peace. It doesn’t leave you with something to “understand,” but with something to experience. With a moment that is alive because it can no longer be tamed by the mind.

In this sense, the kōan works like a mirror. But it does not show the face — it shows what one brings with them in their gaze: assumptions, expectations, quick answers. When you read: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” — the first reaction may be a smile. Then perhaps: “That makes no sense.” And then… perhaps silence. Until you realize that the sound you are seeking is not a riddle. It is life itself, before you name it.

In Zen, it is said that everyday life is a kōan. When a young monk asked the master what he should do, he heard: “Have you eaten breakfast? Then wash your bowl.” There is no other teaching. Do not wait for something important to happen. Do not seek depth in distant words. Sometimes it is enough to truly notice the bowl — and yourself in the act of washing it.

Because a kōan does not ask: “What does this mean?”

It asks: “Is the one trying to figure out the meaning sure that he is truly here?”
Can we look without judging? Can we ask without needing an answer? Can we be in the world not to understand it, but to touch it — in wonder, in silence, in presence?

You do not need to be a monk, nor know Sanskrit or Chinese sutras. It is enough that you have the willingness to see the world differently than usual. And a kōan will help in this — not because it brings special arguments or reflections, but because it takes something away. For example… the illusion that we already know something.

Examples of Kōans

Mu! – Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?

One day a monk asked the Zen master Jōshū:
– “Does a dog have the Buddha-nature or not?”
Jōshū answered with a single word:
– “Mu!” (“no” or “nothing”)

That’s all. Neither a lecture, nor a parable. Just this one word, spoken like the striking of a bell, whose echo continues to reverberate in the hearts and minds of practitioners for over a thousand years.

This kōan comes from the classical Chinese collection Wumenguan (Japanese: Mumonkan, “The Gateless Gate”), compiled in the 13th century by Master Wumen Huikai. Jōshū (Japanese: Jōshū Jūshin, died c. 897) was one of the most distinguished masters of the Chán school in China. His answer “Mu” — which literally means “no” or “nonexistence” — is considered the first and most important kōan in many transmission lines of the Rinzai Zen school in Japan. The question about the “Buddha-nature” refers to one of the core doctrines of Mahayana: that all beings — even a dog — possess the potential for enlightenment. So why does the master deny it?

Meaning

The answer “Mu” does not deny the doctrine itself — it denies the question. This kōan is not aimed at determining whether a dog “has” or “does not have” the Buddha-nature in any objective sense. Rather, Jōshū recognizes that the monk’s question is rooted in dualism: “yes” versus “no,” “sacred” versus “ordinary,” “enlightened” versus “unenlightened.” The answer “Mu” is a blow aimed at the need to categorize reality. The master does not respond on the level of content — he responds on the level of awareness. He shows that the question arose from a mode of thinking that, in itself, is the obstacle.

“Mu” is a gate to emptiness — to the space where all our notions, including spiritual ones, dissolve. The monk expects spiritual certainty, but instead receives emptiness that cannot be captured in words. For the Zen practitioner, “Mu” can become the center of meditation — a word not broken into syllables, but sat with, until all thoughts, reactions, and expectations are exhausted. When “Mu” becomes the only thing that remains — without explanation, without content, without context — then a flash of satori (awakening) may arise. Jōshū’s response is not meant to inform — it is meant to awaken.

In Life

Each of us asks ourselves questions in the form of “does this have value or not?” Am I good enough? Does what I do have meaning? Do others respect me? Is my daily life spiritual, or merely mundane? The answer “Mu” can be a blow to our ego — but also a call to live without labels. Instead of asking whether something “has” enlightenment, it may be better to ask: can I be present right now without needing to judge? Perhaps it is precisely then — in that simplicity, without confirmation — that we are closest to our own Buddha-nature. In practice, “Mu” is not a word — it is a state of mind. A space without “yes” and “no.”

What Are You Made Of? – He Gong!

In a simple, ascetic room of the monastery, a young nun had just received her new name: He Gong (慧空) — “Wisdom of Emptiness.” It was a moment full of solemnity, spiritual intent, but also hope. When she heard this name spoken for the first time, she felt deeply moved. And it was precisely then that the old master — Hye Chun Sunim — looked her straight in the eyes and suddenly called out:

“He Gong!”

Startled, she replied: “Yes?”

The master calmly asked: “Who answered?”

And in that one moment, in that sudden question without an answer, something more than conversation opened — a gate to the discovery of one’s true nature.

This kōan, known from the Korean Zen (Seon) tradition, is a variation of the classic question: “Who are you?” or “What is this?”, which appears in many schools of Mahayana Buddhism. This kōan is used as a direct impulse toward awakening — a living kōan, spoken not in a book, but in real encounter. Its core lies in the immediate confrontation with the question of identity, subjectivity, presence.

Meaning

“Who answered?” — this question cuts to the root of our certainty about the existence of a self. Is the “I” merely a name? A mind? A voice? A reaction? Buddhist philosophy has long questioned the existence of a permanent “I,” pointing out that identity is a construction — a collection of conditions, reactions, and memories. The question posed by the master is not meant to lead to a new definition of self, but to the recognition of the emptiness at the center of “I.” It is an invitation to transcend the ego — not by destroying it, but by seeing through the illusion that it is something fixed.

This kōan holds extraordinary spiritual power because it does not allow escape into concepts. It does not say: “Understand,” but rather: “Look — now.” In the moment we hear our name and react automatically, we forget to ask: who, really, just responded? When you say “yes?”, you do so out of habit — but is that reflex truly you? The master halts that motion. In her question lies the silent: wake up. Realize that your entire life is a series of responses — but have you ever truly examined who is responding?

In Life

In everyday life, too, we wear names, roles, and reactions. We are “husband,” “daughter,” “specialist,” “friend.” But what happens if someone calls us by name — and before we answer, we ask ourselves: who within me is about to respond? This does not mean one must live in constant detachment. On the contrary — it points to a fuller presence. To living not on autopilot, but from an authentic place. Sometimes the most important question is not “what should I do?” but “what am I made of?” — not as theory, but as a quiet discovery of what in you is true, before you name it “yourself.” In that one moment, you may touch emptiness — and feel that it is precisely what carries you.

The Cypress Tree in the Courtyard

A monk asked the Zen master Jōshū:
“What is the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?”

This question, in the Zen tradition, is a question about the essence of the teaching — about what the first Zen patriarch truly brought from India to China. The master could have delivered a lecture, cited sutras, pointed to the emptiness of existence. But instead, he answered:

“The cypress tree in the courtyard.”

And that was all. No more, no less.

This kōan comes from the collection Mumonkan (“The Gateless Gate”), and its author is Master Zhaozhou Congshen (Japanese: Jōshū Jūshin, 778–897), one of the most revered teachers of the Chinese Chán school. The question posed was a form of spiritual provocation: “How would you sum up the essence of Zen? What remains when we strip away all the ‘excess’ teachings?” Zhaozhou points to something concrete, tangible — a tree. But he does not do so arbitrarily. For the Zen student, it is a moment that either confuses or opens. This answer has intrigued, irritated, and inspired practitioners for centuries — and remains one of the most frequently interpreted kōans to this day.

Meaning

Zhaozhou did not answer symbolically. He answered concretely. And it is precisely this concreteness that contains the entire philosophy of Zen: reality is what it is. When the mind demands meaning, mysticism, ideas — the master points to a tree. Zen does not seek enlightenment “elsewhere,” in transcendence. It shows that what is “here” — is already complete. The answer “the cypress tree” undermines all need for explanation. It does not interpret the Zen teaching — it expresses it directly. Philosophically, it is a radical immersion in tathatā — the direct experience of reality as it is, without judgment or concept.

In spiritual practice, we often tend to seek “something more” — inner light, mystical experiences, proof of progress. The student asks what the master really brought from the East. He expects a spiritual essence. But the master says: “the tree.” This is a spiritual shift of center — from seeking to seeing. Zen encourages us not to overlook reality in the pursuit of interpreting it. In meditation, in breath, in an ordinary step — that is where the answer lies. Not in words, not in ideas — but in what is now. Perhaps it is precisely the cypress before the hall that shows the truth more than any teaching.

In Life

How many times in life do we ask: “What does it all mean?” We search for meaning, direction, depth. But perhaps it doesn’t always need to be sought. Perhaps sometimes it is enough to see the tree — truly see it. Without analyzing, without comparing. What is before us does not need to be explained to be full. When we ask great questions about our lives, our “why,” perhaps the answer will not come in the form of a motivational slogan, but in silence, in a small observation: “there is the sunlight on the leaves,” “there is steam rising from the tea.” Zhaozhou did not reject the student’s question — he dissolved it, showing that the teaching of Zen is life itself — in all its simplicity and extraordinariness.

Polishing a Brick – How to Become a Buddha?

A master asked a Zen student:
– “Why do you practice zazen?”
– “Because I want to become a Buddha,” the student replied.

The master, instead of commenting, picked up a brick and began vigorously polishing it.
The student, surprised, asked: “What are you doing?”
The master replied: “I want to make a mirror out of it.”
The student burst out: “But you can’t make a mirror from a brick!”
To which the master calmly said: “And you won’t become a Buddha just by sitting.”

This kōan comes from the life of Master Nansen Fugan, a disciple of the great Mazu, and appears in classical Zen collections. It is one of those stories that dismantle the mechanical approach to spiritual practice — the belief that merely repeating the form is enough to attain enlightenment. In Japan, this story is often referenced particularly in the Sōtō school.

Meaning

This kōan challenges the mistaken notion of practice as a means to an end. The student treats meditation like a production tool — I do something, therefore I will achieve something. But Zen is not a factory for enlightenment. It is not action that brings awakening, but a way of being. Mere sitting without inner transformation is like polishing a brick — it brings no light.

The master confronts the student with his attachment to form. He teaches that true practice is not action with the hope of a result, but full presence without expectation. Sitting in zazen is not a means — it is realization itself. But only when you are not sitting in order to obtain something — but to truly be.

In Life

In everyday life, we often “polish bricks” — we do things that look like growth, but are merely heartless rituals. We meditate because “we should.” We work on ourselves because “that’s what people do.” But perhaps it is sometimes worth stopping the chase for a goal and asking: does what I’m doing truly enrich my life — or am I just mechanically repeating something? A brick will not become a mirror. But we can — if we stop trying to be someone else, and allow ourselves to truly be who we are.

What Do Kōans Tell Us Today?

Though kōans were created hundreds of years ago in the monasteries of China and Japan, they are not fossils. They are like quiet bridges — stretched between our “self” and the world we do not understand, yet in which we live nonetheless. A kōan does not offer ready-made answers — on the contrary, it takes them away. And that is precisely why it is more necessary today than ever: in an age of instant opinions and eternal certainty, the kōan teaches us the courage to live within the question.

In the question, there is space. In uncertainty — a place where one can breathe. Can you sit with a sentence that cannot be resolved? Can you look at a tree without needing to name its species? Are you ready not to know — and in that “I don’t know,” be more present than ever before? The kōan does not invite us to win an intellectual game. It “wants” us to awaken to a life that already is — right now.

Because any moment can be a kōan. The rustle of leaves, the sound of a tram, the tears in the eyes of someone close. Zen is not a distant ritual — it is the art of truly being here and now. Without the compulsion to analyze. Without calculating outcomes. Simply being. And that requires something we so often lack today: intuition, silence, suspension of judgment. Sometimes the one who best understands this world is the one who has stopped trying to understand it.

You don’t need to understand a kōan. It is enough to pause with it. To hear something that speaks beyond logic. And then to let it stay. Like the imprint of a foot on a path — proof that we were here.

Mujū Dōkyō did not write a textbook. He wrote a story about how to be. His Shasekishū is not a dry lecture — it is a collection of living stories: full of tenderness, absurdity, laughter, and sorrow. It is a book that does not moralize but shows us ourselves — in our mistakes, desires, and questions.

A parable can be a spiritual tool, but it can also be a gesture of care. For oneself — when you don’t know how to live. For others — when you want to say: “I understand.” For life — which sometimes needs us to stop fixing it and start listening.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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