Mountains and Rivers and Snacks

Taro: Hey Jenn! Can you tell me a story?

Jenn: Sure. What kind of a story would you like me to tell you?

Taro: Oh, I don't know. Maybe something I could enjoy with a snack?

Jenn: Haha, nice try, bud. OK, let me think . . . oh, I know a Zen story that you might like. It's Zen delivered in warp speed time.

Taro: Oh, alright. I'm ready. Just sitting here with my empty snack bowl.

Jenn: Yes, I can see that. OK. Once upon a time, an old woman was talking to her grandson. She told him, "Before I understood anything about Zen, mountains were mountains and rivers were rivers. Then, when I got deep into the training, mountains were no longer mountains and rivers were no longer rivers. But when I came out the other side and fully realized Zen, mountains were mountains and rivers were rivers once again.

The little boy looked at this grandmother. "But Grandma,” the boy said, “the river's right here and it's a hot day. Can't we just go swimming?"

The end.

Taro: Huh?

Jenn: What do you think? Did you like that story?

Taro: Well, yeah, I guess so. Wait. What was the point?

Jenn: Well, even though the grandmother was probably somewhat enlightened, her explanation was literal, conceptual. You might say she used dead words to explain her Zen experience to her grandson.

Taro: Uh huh.

Jenn: But contrasted to the little boy? He only understood the juiciness of a direct experience. He was hot, there was a river. Let’s jump in!

Taro: OK, so let me see if I've got this straight. Before Zen, a snack was a snack. During Zen, a snack wasn't a snack. And after Zen, a snack was back to being a snack.

Jenn: Yes! You've got the concept right.

Taro: But something's missing.

Jenn: What's that?

Taro: The juiciness of the reality of my snack, Jenn. Hand it over!