If people ask about Ryokan’s death poem, tell them it was “Homage to Amitabha Buddha.”*1 Buddhism in Japan's gotten a bad wrap as a culture ravaged by sectarianism. This is a mischaracterization. While there were, at times, fierce territorial and political disputes amongst the different sects,
In the stillness by the empty window I sit in meditation wearing my under robe. Navel and nose in alignment, Ears parallel with the shoulders. Moonlight floods the room; The rain stops but the eaves drip and drip. Perfect this moment— In the vast emptiness, understanding deepens.*1 Why bother
In my hermitage a volume of Cold Mountain Poems — It is better than any sutra. I copy his verses and post them all around, Savoring each one, over and over.*1 Who is Cold Mountain? I don't know. The only fragments of his life that survive are stories
In my youth I put aside my studies And aspired to be a saint. Living austerely as a mendicant monk, I wandered here and there for many springs. Finally I returned home to settle under a craggy peak. I live peacefully in a grass hut, Listening to the birds for
Thinking back, I recall my days at Entsū-ji And the solitary struggle to find the Way. Carrying firewood reminded me of Layman Hō; When I polished rice, the Sixth Patriarch came to mind. I was always first in line to receive the Master’s teaching, And never missed an hour
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.*1 Where is my home? Is it in my house? Is it the county? Is it
