Bitter rain soaks the pile of kindling twigs.

The night so cold and still the lamp flame hardly moves.

Clouds condense and drench our stone walled hut.

Broken rushes clog the reed gate's way.

The stream gurgles, a torrent in its bed.

That's all we hear. Only rarely, comes a human voice...

But oh, how priceless is this peace of mind that fills us

As we sit on our heels and put on another Chan monk's

robe!

We went up across the ridge for the fun of it.

Didn't need to pack any more wine.

On the precipice, flowers opened, smiling.

By the river, willows grew bright.

In the drizzling rain the village smoke congealed, concealed.

The wind was slight and the grass was cool.

There in the woods' underbrush, startled,

We suddenly heard a dog bark.

It wanted us to know the Master was aware.

This is an exquisite truth:

Saints and ordinary folks are the same from the start.

Inquiring about a difference

Is like asking to borrow string

when you've got a good strong rope.

Every Dharma is known in the heart.

After a rain, the mountain colors intensify.

Once you become familiar with the design of fate's illusions

Your ink-well will contain all of life and death.

You've traveled up ten thousand steps in search of the Dharma.

So many long days in the archives, copying, copying.

The gravity of the Tang and the profundity of the Sung

make heavy baggage.

Here! I've picked you a bunch of wildflowers.

Their meaning is the same

but they're much easier to carry.

No need to chase back and forth like the waves.

The same water which ebbs is the same water that flows.

No point turning back to get water

When it's flowing around you in all directions

The heart of the Buddha and the people of the world...

Where is there any difference?

Striving to leave the wilderness

You become part of what's wild.

Striving to cease grasping

Is, itself, grasping.

So how do you gain control and get beyond desire?

Open those eyes... the ones that were born in your own skull.