I made my home west of the Sha, where water fills Sky Lake, and the moon fills the river... People are frightened when the see the heights; but once they arrive, they know the trail... Dried snail shells on rock walls; fresh tiger tracks in the mud. My door stays open when spring days grow long, when flowers bloom and cicadas call.
Outside the door I made, but don’t close, I glimpse the movements of unfamiliar birds. A handful of jade is worth a whole mountain, but gold can’t by a lifetime of freedom. The sound of icy falls on dawn-lit snowy-ridge; the sight of distant peaks, through leafless autumn woods… Mists lifts from ancient cedars, and days last forever. Right and wrong don’t get past the clouds. Grave upon grave, buried beneath weeds: before their funerals they carried gold seals — but desire is no match for detachment; ambition can’t compete with restraint. Lured by bait, fish end up in kettles. Uncaged, a bird flies high. Worldly affairs don’t concern a hermit; I weave my robe from home-grown hemp.
Paper windows, bamboo walls, hedge of hibiscus. When guests arrive, wormwood soup serves as tea. The poor people I meet are mostly content. Rare is the rich man who isn’t vain or wasteful. I move my bookstand to read sutras by moonlight. I honor the Buddhas with a vase of wild flowers. Everyone says Tushita Heaven is fine, but how can it match this old hut of mine?
To glorify the way, what should people turn to? To words and deeds that agree. But oceans of greed never fill up, and sprouts of delusion keep growing. A plumb tree in bloom purifies a recluse, a patch of potatoes cheers a lone monk — but those who follow rules in their huts never see the way, or get past the mountains.
Movement isn’t right, and stillness is wrong. And the realm of no thought is confusion instead. The patriarch didn’t have no mind in mind. Any thought at all means trouble.
A hut facing south isn’t so cold. Chrysanthemums along a fence perfume the dusk. As soon as drifting clouds start to linger, the wind blows them past the vines.
Don’t think a mountain home means you’re free. A day doesn’t pass without its problems. Old ladies steal my bamboo shoots. Boys lead oxen into the wheat. Grubs and beetles destroy my greens. Boars and squirrels devour the rice. When what happens isn’t what you expect, forget it — and turn to yourself.
My hut is at the top of Red Cloud Peak. Few visitors brave the cliffs and ravines. I slip on the moss, lugging firewood to market; and drip with sweat hauling rice back up. With no end to hunger, less is better. With limited time, why be greedy? I don’t want to spoil your fun, only make you let go.
My home is secluded, far from the world… The mossen woods are thick, and the plants perfumed. I can see mountains, rain or shine. All day I hear no market noise. I light a few leaves to make tea on my stove. To patch my robe, I cut a cloud whisp. Lifetimes seldom fill a hundred years. Why bother chasing profit or fame?
I entered the mountains, and learned to be dumb. I am usually too tired to open my mouth. I don’t point out the mistakes of others. My own faults are what I try to alter…
The tea is done, the stove is red; the moon is up, the windows are white. Who sees through this illusory world? Yen Su Lin sat alone on his rock.
I lie down in the clouds, no sign of the sky; above high cliffs and wild streams… I wake on a cot: the moon in the window, the porridge done, the fire out… All causes end without driving them off. Our nature’s full light shines by itself. Transparent as space, it never changes — even if the sea becomes a mulberry grove.
The way doesn’t rise or fall. Those who are blind look for an advantage. Sages and the wise escape from this world, where counterfeit truth prevails. Reign in your senses; don’t indulge them. Be ever mindful, and nothing else. Lose your body beneath a patched robe, and say goodbye to a thousand rebirths.
Green mist, red clouds, a trail through bamboo — and a hut where quiet lasts. Just let go, and worries end. Stop to think, and the mind reappears. An unpolished mirror holds millions of shapes. A bell doesn’t ring until it is rung. Our original nature is the real Buddha: nothing solid, or empty; nothing old, or new. A monk in the wild sits quiet and relaxed. He survives all year on what karma brings. Bamboo and yellow flowers occupy his thoughts. White clouds and streams simplify his life. He doesn’t mistake a rock for a tiger on a hill. Or an image of a bow for a snake in a bowl. In the woods, he knows nothing of the world’s affairs. At sunset, he watches the crows return.
Who enters this gate, and studies this teaching, has to be thorough and push to the end. Empty the body, and reason remains. Forget the mind, and the world disappears. Cloud-covered trees form a landscape of white. Swallowing the sun, the mountain turns red. The flag moves, or is it the wind? It isn’t the wind, or the flag…
A friend of seclusion arrives at my gate: we greet, and pardon our lack of decorum. A white mane gathered in back; a monk’s robe worn untied. Embers of leaves at the end of the night. Howl of a gibbon announcing the dawn. Sitting on cushions wrapped in quilts. Words forgotten — finally, we meet.
A hundred years flash by. Does anyone think this through? If what you are doing isn’t clear: the edge between life and death is sheer. Stitches on a monk’s robe are a loving wife’s tears. Grains of sweet rice are an old farmer’s fat. Don’t think charity has no reward: every seed bears fruit in time…
Cares disappeared when I entered the mountains. Serene at heart, I let the world go. Before my door the shade falls in fall. The spring roars in back, after a rain.
I offer tea and vegetables to a visiting farmer. To a neighbor monk, I give chrysanthemums in a pot from town. The jaded life of the gentry can’t match a mountain monks, with scenes like these…
This body’s lifetime is like a bubble’s. May as well let things go. Plans and events seldom agree. Who can step back doesn’t worry. We blossom and fade like flowers. We gather and part like clouds. Earthly thoughts I forgot long ago, withering away on a mountain peak…
I’ve never treasured thoughts of success. I welcome old age, and enjoy being free. Grass shoes, a bamboo staff, the last month of spring. Paper curtains, plumb blossoms, daybreak dreams. Eternal life and Buddhahood are utter illusions. Freedom from worry and care is the practice. Last night the howling pine-wind spoke: this is something the deaf can’t hear.