A kōan is any parable, story, or even a phrase, used in the Zen tradition as a means for altering our modes of thinking. Often, a kōan ends with a student immediately achieving "enlightenment."

My own introduction to kōans was probably in an early episode of "The Simpsons" where Lisa poses some "3,000-year-old riddles" to Bart to help him clear his mind so that he'll be more focused while playing in a mini-golf tournament. She first asks Bart "What's the sound of one hand clapping?" (Bart, rascal as he is, answers the question by smacking his fingers against his palm.) That kōan may actually be much more recent, attributed to the monk Hakuin Ekaku in the 18th century.

As with other kōans, this question can do the trick provided you're in the right frame of mind and not taking it too literally. For our purposes, a kōan can be repeated as a mantra, or just allowed to swirl around your head in meditation or during a quiet break.

It can take some effort to track down kōans that feel insightful and speak to you. With that in mind, here's a list of some of my favorites, to help get you in the state where you're ready to let go...or play some mini-golf.

The Empty Cup

A university professor visited a Zen master. The master poured tea and kept pouring until the cup was overflowing. The professor stopped the master and said "No more will go in!" The master replied, "You are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?"

This need not pertain specifically to students and teachers. We are all the professor, seeking new knowledge. At the same time, who among us would lift up a cup of tea to drink while someone is still pouring? Nevertheless, we must be continually emptying our cup if we are to gain new wisdom from others.

The Tiger and the Mice

A man climbs down a vine hanging over a cliff to escape the tiger chasing him. He looks down and sees another tiger on the ground, ready to eat him. Above him, two mice start eating away at the vine. Seeing a strawberry within reach, he plucks it and takes a bite. How sweet it tasted!

Are we all as close to death as this man? Probably not, but we could be. Our next breath could be our last. Would any strawberry taste as good as one tasted in this moment? Of course, given that our lives are unpredictable and could end at any moment, is there any reason not to taste a strawberry as if it will be the last one that ever touches our lips?

What are you saying?

A master calls his student and says he is getting old and believes the student will be the only one to pass on his teachings. He hands the student a book that has been passed down through seven generations and in which he has written all he has learned. The student tells the master to keep the book, that he is happy with what he has learned and has no need of it. The master asks him to keep it as a symbol, then. The student takes the book and tosses it in the fiery coals. The teacher has never been angry before, but screams, "What are you doing?" The student yells back, "What are you saying?"

We know that attachment to the material does not bring us happiness or wisdom, yet we are still attached to things. The teacher taught the student without use of the book, yet he was still horrified that it would be burned. Is the wisdom burning, though, or just the symbol of it? Is the teacher ignoring the decades of wisdom he has tried to impart by seeing his life's work turned to ash?

(Side note: a version of this parable can be found in "Star Wars: The Last Jedi" — I'm really revealing myself today.)

"Out of nowhere, the mind comes forth"

The next time you're meditating and you catch yourself thinking, ask yourself where the thought came from. Try to see what sent it to you, and where it is now that it's here. Soon, you might realize that the thought is now gone. So where is it? If thoughts truly come from "nowhere," can they be controlled or even managed? Perhaps the true realization is that the mind and all its activity does come from nowhere, or at least nowhere that we can identify, and that being aware of it is our only option.

(Note: This phrase may not come from the Zen tradition, and might better be classified as a Buddhist sutra.)

The Tea Shop

A master told his students that a local tea shop owner had a wonderful understanding of Zen wisdom. After this, the woman who ran the tea shop noticed that more students were showing up. If she sensed that someone came for the tea, she would serve them graciously. If she sensed they came to learn about her understanding of Zen wisdom, she would hit them with a fire-poker.

It's one of the great paradoxes of Zen that trying to become enlightened results in disappointment, as you've already failed by having a goal. I've written about this before and I think it's one of the hardest concepts for 21st-century humans to really embrace — you can't desire to not desire, because that's desiring. We're also human and can't really help ourselves.

The corporal punishment notwithstanding, the tea shop owner teaches a valuable lesson. Tea shops are for drinking tea. That is the wisdom. Wanting something greater out of tea is like wanting my computer to type this issue for me and tell me who's going to win the Super Bowl this weekend, and wouldn't it mind placing some bets on my behalf as well? At least when it comes to what my computer is capable of, I'm keeping my expectations reasonable.

Wash Your Bowls

A new monk asked his master for instructions. The master asked if the monk had eaten breakfast, to which he replied that he had. "Wash your bowls," the master said.

Most of our memories concern moments of great elation or anguish.  We don't often remember or think about the banal, which make up the vast majority of our experiences. Each day's tasks — making coffee, taking out the trash, feeding the cats, writing a newsletter — make up our lives. They are moments to be lived and experienced instead of lived through in anticipation of the astounding.

I have washed so many bowls in the last 11 months that I'd like never to see a sponge again. This is, of course, impossible. I will wash bowls today, and tomorrow, and the next day, and still after the pandemic is over. It is as much a part of my daily experience as the eating of breakfast.