The Spirit of Zen

If someone asks my abode, I reply: The east edge of the Milky Way — Like a drifting cloud, bound by nothing… I just let go, giving myself up to the whim of the wind. Truly I love this life of seclusion. Carrying my staff, I walk towards my friend’s cottage… The trees in his garden soaked by the evening rain, Reflect the cool, clear autumnal sky. The owner’s dog comes to greet me; Chrysanthemums bloom along the fence. These people have the same spirit as the ancients. An earthen wall marks their separation from the world. In the house, volumes of poetry are piled on the floor. Abandoning worldliness, I often come to this tranquil place. The spirit here is the spirit of Zen.

In the morning, bowing to all; In the evening, bowing to all — Respecting others is my only duty. Hail to the never-despising Boddhisattva. In heaven and earth, they stand alone. A real monk needs only one thing: A heart, like never-despising Buddha.

If you speak delusions, everything becomes a delusion; If you speak the truth, everything becomes the truth. Outside the truth, there is no delusion. But outside delusion, there is no special truth. Followers of Buddha’s way: Why do you so earnestly seek the truth in distant places? Look for delusion and truth In the bottom of your own hearts. Don’t cling, Don’t strive… Abandon yourself. Look beneath your feet.

In the entire ten quarters of the Buddha-land, There is only one Vehicle. When we see clearly, there is no difference in all the teachings. What is there to lose? What is there to gain? If we gain something, it was there from the beginning. If we lose anything, it is hidden nearby. Look at the bowl in the sleeve of my robe — Surely it has great value.

After a night of rain, Water covers the village path. This morning, the thick grass by my hut is cool; In the window, distant mountains: the color of blue-green jade. Outside a river flows like shimmering silk, Under a cliff near my hut. I wash out my sore ear with pure spring water. In the trees, cicadas recite their full verse. I had prepared my robe and staff for a walk, But the quiet beauty keeps me here. Down in the village, the din of the flute and drum. Here in the mountains, everywhere, the sound of pines.

The wind has settled, The blossoms have fallen, Birds sing. The mountains grow dark. This is the wondrous power of Buddhism.

Returning to my native village after many years’ absence, I put up at a country inn and listen to the rain. One robe, one bowl — is all I have. I light incense, and strain to sit in meditation. All night, a steady drizzle outside the dark window. Inside, poignant memories of these long years of pilgrimage.

First blooming in the western paradise, The lotus has delighted us for ages. Its white pedals are covered with dew, Its jade green leaves spread out over the pond — And its pure fragrance perfumes the wind. Cool and majestic, it raises from the mirky water. The sun sets behind the mountains, but I remain in the darkness — Too capitvated to leave. Deep in the valley, the beauty hides: Serene, peerless, incomparably sweet. In the still shade of the bamboo thicket, It seems to sigh softly, for a lover. How can I possibly sleep, This moonlit evening. Come my friends, let’s sing and dance, all night long.

You stop to point at the moon in the sky, But the finger is blind, unless the moon is shining. One moon, one careless finger pointing. Are these two things, or one? The question is a pointer, guiding a novice, From ignorance, thick as fog. Look deeper, the mystery calls and calls. No moon, no finger. Nothing there at all.

You must rise above the gloomy clouds covering the mountaintop; Otherwise, how will you ever see the brightness?

The winds have died, but flowers go on falling. Birds call, but silence penetrates each soul. The mystery unknowable, unlearnable — The virtue of canon. Priest Ryokan must fade, like this morning’s flowers, But his heart will remain behind. What will remain of my legacy? Flowers in the spring, The hototo-gisu in summer, And the crimson leaves of autumn. Life is like a dewdrop, empty and fleeting. My years are gone — now quivering and frail, I must fade away. In this dreamworld, we doze and talk of dreams. Dream, dream on, as much as you wish. This world, a fading mountain echo, void and unreal. With inner-light snow, three thousand realms — Within those realms, light snow falls. As the snow engulfs my heart, at dusk, My heart, too, is completely consumed.