Holding a question

Pick one question and keep it. What is this? works. So does who is hearing? The question is not asked in order to get an answer. It's held, the way you'd hold a weight.

Every answer is a thought. Something will answer — "awareness," "nothing," "consciousness," "me." Put each one down. It's a thought, and the question is about what's before thought. Return to the question without the answer.

Hold, don't repeat. This is not a mantra. Repeating the words does nothing; the words are a handle for a feel of not-knowing, and the not-knowing is the point. When the question is held well there's a live sense of I don't know what this is that stays in the body while you go about the day.

Keep it close. What is this? pointed at the sound, the cup, the thought — not at the universe. The question is about what's here.

What goes wrong

Forcing. Gripping the question, pushing for a breakthrough, frustration that nothing is happening. The question can't be squeezed. If it's turned into strain, rest and let the question hold itself. It comes back on its own when it's ready.

Answering. Settling on a good answer and living there. That's a belief, not a seeing. Put it down.

A mind that holds the question long enough runs out of answers, and what's left when it runs out is what you were asking about.

Where it comes from

Zen calls this great doubt. Rinzai koan practice and the Korean Seon hwadu — What is this? is one — are the same mechanism with stranger questions. Ramana's Who am I? sits between this door and looking.