When all thoughts are exhausted, I slip into the woods and gather a pile of Shepherd’s Purse. Like the little stream making its way through the mossy crevices, I too, quietly, turn clear and transparent.
The flower invites the butterfly with no-mind. The butterfly visits the flower with no-mind. The flower opens, the butterfly comes; the butterfly comes, the flower opens. I don’t know others. Others don’t know me. By not-knowing, we follow nature’s course…
My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest; every year the green ivy grows longer — no news of the affairs of men, only the occasional song of a wood-cutter. The sun shines and I mend my robe. When the moon comes out, I read Buddhist poems. I have nothing to report to my friends. If you want to find the meaning, stop chasing after so many things.
A cold night, sitting alone in my empty room, filled only with incense smoke… Outside, a bamboo grove of a hundred trees. On the bed, several volumes of poetry. The moon shines from the top of the window. And the entire neighborhood is still, except for the cry of insects. Looking at this scene, limitless emotion — but not one word.
The rain has stopped, the clouds have drifted away — and the weather is clear again. If your heart is pure, then all things in your world are pure. Abandon this fleeting world, abandon yourself. Then the moon and flowers will guide you along the way.
At night, deep in the mountains, I sit in Zazen: the affairs of men never reach here. In the stillness I sit on a cushion, across from the empty window. The incense has been swallowed up by the endless night. My robe has become a garment of white dew. Unable to sleep, I walk into the garden. Suddenly, above the highest peak, the round moon appears.
First days of spring: blue sky, bright sun. Everything is gradually becoming fresh and green. Carrying my bowl, I walk slowly to the village. The children, surprised to see me, joyfully crowd about, bringing my begging trip to an end by the temple gate. I place my bowl on top of a white rock and hang my sack from the branch of a tree. Here we play with the wild grasses and throw a ball. For a time I play catch while the children sing, then it’s my turn. Playing like this, here and there, I have forgotten the time. Passers-by point and laugh at me, saying, “What is the reason for such foolishness?” — No answer I give, only a deep bow. Even if I replied, they would not understand. Look around, there is nothing besides this.
Autumn night, unable to sleep. I leave my tiny cottage. Fall insects cry under the rocks, and the cold branches are sparsely covered. Far away, from deep in the valley, the sound of water. The moon rises slowly over the highest peak. I stand there quietly for a long time, and my robe becomes moist with dew.
The night is fresh and cool. Staff in hand I walk through the gate. Wisteria and ivy grow together along the winding mountain path. Birds sing quietly in their nests. And a monkey howls nearby. As I reach a high peak, a village appears in the distance. The old pines are full of poems. I bend down for a drink of pure spring water. There is a gentle breeze, and the round moon hangs overhead. Standing by a deserted building, I pretend to be a crane, softly floating among the clouds.
My life may appear melancholy, but traveling through this world, I have entrusted myself to Heaven. In my sack, three shō of rice. By the hearth, a bundle of firewood. If someone asks, what is the mark of enlightenment or illusion? I cannot say. Wealth and honor are nothing but dust. As the evening rain falls, I sit in my hermitage, and stretch out both feet in answer…
An old grave, hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill, overrun with rank weeds, growing unchecked year after year… There is no one left to tend the tomb, and only an occasional wood-cutter passes by… Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair, learning deeply from him by the narrow river. One morning I set off on my solitary journey, and the years passed between us in silence. Now I have returned to find him at rest here. How can I honor his departed spirit? I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone and offer a silent prayer. The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill, and I am enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines. I try to pull myself away, but cannot. A flood of tears soaks my sleeves…
In my youth, I put aside my studies, and I aspired to be a saint. Living austerly as a mendicant monk, I wandered here and there for many springs. Finally, I returned home, to settle under a craggy peak. I lived peacefully in a grass hut, listening to the birds for music. Clouds are my best neighbors. Below, a pure spring where I refresh body and mind. Above, towering pines and oaks that provide shade and brushwood. Free, so free, day after day — I never want to leave.
Yes, I’m truly a dunce, living among trees and plants. Please don’t question me about illusion and enlightenment — this old fellow just likes to smile to himself. I wade across streams with bony legs, and carry a bag about in fine spring weather. That’s my life, and the world owes me nothing.
No luck today on my mendicant rounds. From village to village I dragged myself. At sunset, I find myself with miles of mountains between me and my hut. The wind tears at my frail body. My little bowl looks so forlorn. Yes, this is my chosen path that guides me through disappointment and pain, cold and hunger.
This treasure was discovered in a bamboo thicket. I washed the bowl in a spring, and then mended it. After morning meditation, I take my gruel in it. At night, it serves me soup or rice. Cracked, worn, weather-beaten and misshapen — but still, of noble stock!
I watch people in the world throw away their lives lusting after things, never able to satisfy their desires; falling into deeper despair, and torturing themselves. Even if they get what they want, how long will they be able to enjoy it? For one heavenly pleasure, they suffer ten torments of hell, binding themselves more firmly to the grindstone. Such people are like monkeys, frantically grasping for the moon in the water, and then falling into a whirlpool. How endlessly those caught up in the floating world suffer. Despite myself, I fret over them all night and cannot staunch my flow of tears…
Fresh morning snow in front of the shrine. The trees, are they white with peach blossoms, or white with snow? The children and I joyfully throw snowballs. Where beauty is, then there is ugliness. Where right is, also there is wrong. Knowledge and ignorance are interdependent. Delusion and enlightenment condition each other. Since olden-times it has been so. How could it be otherwise now? Wanting to get rid of one, and grap the other is merely realizing a scene of stupidity. Even if you speak of the wonder of it all, how do you deal with each thing, changing?