What do mountains and rivers have to say to us, and how do we listen? A persisting interest in my studies of Zen has been the concept of the inanimate preaching buddha-dharma (wuqing shuofa 無情說法). Attributed to the Tang Chinese Zen master Nanyang Huizhong 南陽慧忠 (675-775 CE), the above expression points to an understanding that equates the fabric of reality with enlightenment itself [8]. The underlying ontology of wuqing shuofa is one in which all participants exist in an interdependent nexus of causes and conditions. By extension of this logic, mountains, trees and rivers constantly communicate transcendental truths (their intrinsic buddhahood), insights one can appreciate through attentive listening. In light of our current environmental crises, such affective “resources” are crucial to contemplate in our efforts to reassess our relationships with the environment. This post freely explores the above notions in light of soundscape composition, a range of creative approaches for engaging with our acoustic environments. And suggests that the above methods offer theoretically and methodologically mature strategies for deepening our awareness and relationship with the non-human world.

The conceptual background of wuqing shuofa is not without debate, developing in tandem with the movement of Buddhist ideas from India to China [8]. Within this lineage of ideas, wuqing shuofa cannot be separated from the question of whether insentient beings possess buddha-nature² or not. The conventional use of the above term can be traced to the Mahāparinirvāṇasūtra (Dabanniepan jing 大般涅槃經) that emphasises the universality of buddha-nature among sentient beings. The preaching of grasses and trees 草木 or `earth, trees, tiles and rocks’ 土木瓦石 developed out of later commentarial traditions that sought to extend buddha-nature to the insentient world as well. For Huizhong, a proponent of the latter, the `mind of the ancient Buddha’ 古佛心 was nothing more than `wall and tile rubble’ 牆壁瓦礫 (CBETA T.1986B:0519b18³). The whole universe is itself the buddha’s body, with all it’s constituents constantly expressing this reality. These “voices” can, subsequently, trigger spiritual insight if approached with a non-discriminating and non-dualistic mind. Such discussions would see development in the later Caodong Chan School 曹洞宗 （Jp., Sōtō-shū) and in Japan, notably by Dōgen 道元 (1200-1253).

Jumping now to the contemporary era, the term “soundscape composition” emerged out of the intellectual movements following the World Soundscape Project (WSP). Beginning in the late 1960s at Simon Fraser University (British Columbia, Canada), the focus of the WSP was to raise awareness and document our changing soundscapes. The above is especially in light of noise pollution, and the rising consciousness towards environmental issues [6,7]. Out of the forms of composition that emerged from the WSP, one that included radically altering original recordings, included a neutral documentary-like approach involving minimal compositional interference. As a “phonographic” approach (the auditory equivalent of photography), this involved disseminating environmental sound by framing it for an audience. Both the techniques above, however, aim at pointing directly to the source sounds, seeking to maintain a contextual link with their origins. The above effectively highlights aspects of the soundscape and helps communicate it to others. As a form of listening and composition, it allows us to make sense of unstructured acoustic environmental data and refine it into a more approachable report-like format. The latter is inherently with the purpose of fostering environmental awareness.

For composers and zen masters, all perspectives of the environment are unique to the perceiver. French composer Luc Ferrari’s (1929-2005) genre-defining work Presque Rien n°1, ou le lever du jour au bord de la mer (1967-1970) (1970) is a sonic snapshot of a Yugoslavian village. [4,3,6]. The work presents highlights of a seamlessly edited field recording from a fixed perspective throughout one day, emphasising the flow and sense of time. The sound events themselves determine the actual compositional structure of the piece, with the composer acting almost as a curator. The above allows the carts, tractor engines and cowbells to effectively speak for themselves, resulting in a soundscape narrative that invites listeners to be inquisitive and discerning. On one level, listeners can distinguish individual sound objects and their relative spatial attributes. And on another lever, listeners can freely mingle in the soundscape, associating any arising thoughts and memories evoked therein. Any knowledge we may “gain” as a result is not, in this sense, necessarily discursive but is more reflexive in nature.

This blog post sought to share a few thoughts on the relationship between zen practice and soundscape composition. The main takeaway of this exploration is the importance of being inquisitive about the environment, and what environmental sounds are ultimately expressing. The soundscape, and its audible characteristics, are likened here to a kalyāṇamitra (shanzhishi 善知識), a “good friend,” a spiritual companion who encourages one to keep practising and keep being focused on the task at hand. Creative compositional choices can subsequently allow us as practitioners to share what insights we have gained with others, thereby acting as interpreters and communicators. The above is with the intention of reducing the ultimately unsatisfactory divides between self/not-self and sentient/insentient.