I have been thinking about the old Zen teaching:
Before enlightenment, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers.
During the path of Awakening, mountains are no longer mountains and rivers are no longer rivers.
After Awakening, mountains are once again mountains and rivers are rivers.
It sounds mystical. But it's surprisingly practical.
It's about how we see...
This winter, where I live in New England, the snow has not behaved the way it usually does. We get snow here, yes. But often it falls and then melts. It comes in waves. It rarely just… stays.
This year, it has stayed.
And then more has come on top of it.
I found myself feeling deeply disappointed the other morning, looking out at yet another thick layer of white. Not because it is supposed to be spring yet; the calendar is innocent.
But because this winter is not like other winters.
And that is where the “Mountain, No Mountain, Mountain” teaching begins to breathe…
Mountain
In the first stage, mountains are mountains. Snow is snow. And what I think about it feels unquestionably true.
"This is too much.
All this snow should have melted by now.
Other winters have not been like this!"
The suffering does not actually come from the snow, although that's where the mind lays all the blame. The suffering comes from the comparison. From the mental overlay of memory.
I’m not just seeing what's on the ground. I’m seeing it against the backdrop of other Februaries. Other years when the grass reappeared sooner.
The present moment is being measured against the past, and it is failing the test!
In first mountain, the story and the scene are fused.
"Of course I’m disappointed.
Look at this!
This is not how it’s supposed to go!"
No Mountain
Then something loosens, and I lean into my natural curiosity.
I notice the mechanism of comparison. I notice the mind flipping through past winters like a photo album.
"This one melted faster.
That one had bare patches by now…"
And I see that what is so dissonant and uncomfortable is not caused by the snow itself, but by the gap between expectation and reality.
The thought arises:
"This should be different."
When should is seen clearly, the solidity of the experience begins to thin. The snow is simply snow. Cold. White. Still covering the ground. The past winters are memories. Images. Not current facts.
Disappointment becomes interesting.
What even is disappointment, actually?
A contraction in the chest...?
A leaning toward a preferred (made up) version of reality...?
An argument with what is already here...?
The mountain is no longer just a mountain. It is perception layered with memory layered with expectation. When those layers are seen, they lose some of their grip.
It is seen that there is no mountain outside of our perception of it.
And experience becomes less solid. More fluid. A happening in awareness rather than a problem to solve.
Mountain
And then there is a return.
The snow remains. It hasn’t melted simply because I saw through my thoughts and felt some discomfort. The world is unchanged.
But something inside me has settled.
Yes, this winter is different from others. Yes, I prefer the pattern where storms come and go and patches of earth reappear in between. Preference is natural and part of being human.
But the comparison softens.
This winter doesn’t have to behave like previous winters. It is its own winter. And it is here now regardless of my feelings or preferences about it.
The snow on the ground is not wrong. It is not excessive. It is not a personal inconvenience designed to test my patience and make me miserable. It is simply what has unfolded this year. And I will think and feel whatever I do about it at any given moment.
When I look out the window now, there can be a quiet simplicity.
White fields.
Bare branches etched against the sky.
An insulated stillness that only deep winter carries.
This is second mountain.
The mountain is a mountain again. The snow is snow again. But it is no longer competing with memory. It’s not being measured against what used to be.
It stands on its own.
Nothing about the outer landscape has changed across these three stages. The difference is entirely in the seeing.
In first mountain, comparison is invisible and therefore powerful.
In no mountain, comparison is revealed as thought.
In second mountain, this winter is allowed to be this winter.
And perhaps that is the quiet invitation in all of it.
Not to force ourselves to love the snow.
Not to deny preference.
But to notice where we’re arguing with reality by holding it up against something that no longer exists.
Other winters are memories.
This winter is here.
Just this (snowy) mountain.