The ancient Masters slept
without dreams and woke up without worries.
Their breath came from deep inside them. They didn’t cling
to life, weren’t anxious about death. They emerged without desire
and reentered without resistance. They came easily; they went easily.
They didn’t ask where they were from; they didn’t ask where
they were going. They took everything as it came,
gladly, and walked into death without fear.
They accepted life as a gift, and
they handed it back
gratefully.
postsecret / all the blessings
Suffering is a
special kind of knowledge.
There is something in human life
that it is impossible to convey and preserve
in any other way, especially among us.
That is how the world is made;
that is how we are
made.
The universal body
of reality is so subtle that you
do not hear it when you deliberately
listen for it, and you do not see it when you
look at it. As for the pure knowledge that
has no teacher, how can it be attained
by thought or study?
it is not something you can attain by embellishment
The Canon is still full of old paper
seventeen-hundred tangled vines
who can see through the mess
one thought is still too many
Red Pine’s “The Zen Works of Stonehouse”
lucien stryk on shinkichi takahashi
I hold a newspaper, reading.
Suddenly my hands become cow ears,
Then turn into Pusan, the South Korean port.
Lying on a mat
Spread on the bankside stones,
I fell asleep.
But a willow leaf, breeze-stirred,
Brushed my ear.
I remained just as I was,
Near the murmurous water.
When young there was a girl
Who became a fish for me.
Whenever I wanted fish
Broiled in salt, I’d summon her.
She’d get down on her stomach
To be sun-cooked on the stones.
And she was always ready!
Alas, she no longer comes to me.
An old benighted drake,
I hobble homeward.
But look, my drake feet become horse hoofs!
Now they drop off
And, stretching marvelously,
Become the tracks of the Tokaido Railway Line.