I have returned to Itoigawa, my former village… Falling ill, I rest at an inn, and listen to the sound of rain. One robe, one bowl, are all I have. Becoming a little stronger, I lift my weak body, burn some incense, and sit in Zazen. At night, rain falls sadly, and I dream of my pilgrimage these past ten years…
Mid-autumn: the wind and rain are now at their most melancholy. A wanderer: my spirit is inseperable from this difficult road. During a long night, dreams float from the pillow. Awake suddenly, I have mistaken the sound of the river for the voice of the rain.
Carrying firewood on my shoulder, I walk in the green mountains along the bumpy path. I stop to rest under a tall pine. Sitting quietly, I listen to the spring song of the birds. Early summer, floating down a clear running river, in a wooden boat, a lovely girl gently plays with a crimson lotus flower, held in her white hands. The day becomes more and more brilliant. Young men play along the shore, and a horse runs by the willows. Watching quietly, speaking to no one, the beautiful girl does not show that her heart is broken.
Since I came to this hermitage, how many years have passed? If I am tired, I stretch out my feet. If I feel fine, I go for a stroll in the mountains. The ridicule or praise of worldly people means nothing. Following my destiny for this body I have received from my parents, I have only thanks.
Day and night, the cold win burns through my robe. In the forest, only fallen leaves, while chrysanthemums can no longer be seen. Next to my hermitage, there is an ancient bamboo grove. Never changing, it awaits my return.
Once again, many greedy people appear, no different from silk worms wrapped in cocoons. Wealth and riches are all they love, never giving their minds or bodies a moment’s rest. Every year their natures deteriorate, while their vanity increases. One morning death comes before they can even use half their money. Others happily receive the estate, and the deceased’s name is soon lost in darkness. For such people, there can be only great pity.
Today, while begging food — a sudden downpour. I waited out the storm in a small shrine: laughing —one jug for water, one bowl for rice. My life is like an old run-down hermitage: poor, simple, quiet.
Even if one lives a hundred years: their life is like a floating weed, drifting with the waves — east and west continually, no time for rest. Shakyamuni renounced nobility, and devoted his life to preventing others from falling into ruin. On the earth eighty years, proclaiming the Dharma for fifty, bestowing the Sutras as an eternal legacy: today, still a bridge to cross over to the other shore…
An evening dream: everything must have been an illusion. I cannot explain clearly even one part of what I saw. Yet, in the dream, it seemed as if the truth were in front of my eyes. This morning, awake. Is it not the same dream?
The long summer days at Entsū-ji temple: everything is fresh and pure — worldly emotions never come here. I sit in the cool shade reading poems — beauty all around. I endure the heat, listening to the sound of the water wheel…
Counting days is like snapping one’s fingers: even May passes like a dream.