As a boy I studied
literature, but was too lazy to
become a Confucian; in my younger days
I worked at Zen, but got no Dharma worth handing
down. Now I’ve built a grass hut, act as
custodian of a Shinto shrine,
half a shrine, half
a monk.
As a boy I studied
literature, but was too lazy to
become a Confucian; in my younger days
I worked at Zen, but got no Dharma worth handing
down. Now I’ve built a grass hut, act as
custodian of a Shinto shrine,
half a shrine, half
a monk.
You are
already realized.
It is critical to understand this.
Enlightenment is less a matter of charging
forward to achieve something, and more
one of doing non-doing — of leaning
slightly back and silently
accepting its constant
presence.
Once you have
done this, go on practicing.
Without straining, continually pour the
emptiness of your being into the
emptiness of existence, and
drink what comes back:
emptiness.
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book.
Friend,
please tell me what
I can do about this world I hold to,
and keep spinning out! I gave up sewn clothes,
and wore a robe, but I noticed one day the cloth was
well woven. So I bought some burlap, but I still throw it
elegantly over my shoulder. I pulled back my sexual longings,
and now I discover that I’m angry a lot. I gave up rage, and
now I notice that I am greedy all day. I worked hard at
dissolving my greed, and now I am proud of myself.
When the mind wants to break its link with
the world it still holds on to one thing.
Kabir says: Listen, my friend,
there are very few that
find the path!
A lot
of unimportant inner
litter and bits and pieces have
to be swept out first. Even a small head
can be piled high inside with irrelevant distractions.
True, there may be edifying emotions and thoughts, too, but
the clutter is ever present. So let this be the aim of the meditation:
to turn one’s innermost being into a vast empty plain, with none
of that treacherous undergrowth to impede the view. So that
something of “God” can enter you, and something of “Love,”
too. Not the kind of love-de-luxe that you can revel in
deliciously for half an hour, taking pride in
how sublime you feel, but the love
you can apply to small,
everyday things.
…
Looked
at Japanese prints
with Glassner this afternoon.
That’s how I want to write. With that much
space round a few words. They should simply emphasize
the silence. Just like that print with the sprig of blossom in the
lower corner. A few delicate brush strokes—but with what attention
to the smallest detail—and all around it space, not empty but inspired.
The few great things that matter in life can be said in a few words.
If I should ever write—but what?—I would like to brush in a
few words against a wordless background. To describe
the silence and the stillness and to inspire them.
What matters is the right relationship between
words and wordlessness, the wordlessness
in which much more happens than
in all the words one can
string together.
The mind
can go in a thousand
directions, but on this beautiful
path, I walk in peace. With each step,
the wind blows. With each step,
a flower blooms.
Fleeting time
and the changes of matter
make all the kings of the earth but
transitory kings, ruling over transitory kingdoms;
this is because of their dependence upon their environment
instead of their imagination. But the kingship of the dervish,
independent of all external influences, based purely on
his mental perception and strengthened by the forces
of his will, is much truer and at once unlimited
and everlasting. Yet in the materialistic view
his kingdom would appear as nothing,
while in the spiritual conception
it is an immortal and
exquisite realm
of joy.