Returning home from a day of begging;Sage has covered my door.Now, a bunch of leaves burns with the brushwood.Silently I read the poems of Han-shan,Accompanied by the autumn wind rustling through the reeds.I stretch out both feet and lie down.What is there to fret over?What is there to doubt?
Actually there isn’t a thing,Much less any dust to wipe away;Who can get this straightDoesn’t need to sit there stiff. (in response to this famous pairing)
Having once penetrated the cloud barrier, The living road opens out north, east, south, and west. In the evening resting, in the morning roaming, neither host nor guest. At every step the pure wind rises.
Searching for attributes is wrong Seeing no form is like death Don’t ask if it’s vast or small A ray of winter light flickers in the void.
Leaking from the rock in an old temple, water barely trickles – the voice of the lingering dharma.
Rent a house near the beach, or a cabin but: Do not take your walking shoes. Don’t take any clothes you’d wear anyplace anyone would see you. Don’t take your rechargeables. Take Scrabble if you have to, but not a dictionary and no pencils for keeping score. Don’t take a cookbook or anything to cook. […]
I’m just a festering mass, a beast amongst humans. For years I minced barefoot, adopting some “Continental” style. Now, monk’s straw sandals on my feet, I touch my nose.
Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold, Death’s great black wing scrapes the air, Misery gnaws to the bone. Why then do we not despair? By day, from the surrounding woods, cherries blow summer into town; at night the deep transparent skies glitter with new galaxies. And the miraculous comes so close to the ruined, dirty houses— […]
Noisy kids lack co-ordination to catch early fireflies
As I step slowly along to the sounds of running water My wandering gaze catches the traces of flying birds.
