Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Don’t misunderstand me, the following poem written by Ryokan has very little to do with my life. I spend most of my time clinging, resisting, holding …The way I see it, the way I see IT is that as I go along, reluctantly and with great difficulty, bits and pieces drop and drop. Not many. Bloody slow. I would like so much to be able to allow it as rain pouring down, throwing itself away without holding on anything. Sheer joy and relief. And dance.

A few months ago as I was hitting rock bottom, I had a kind of strong vision, so clear, so uncomplicated: I was begging at dusk holding the large black bowl and walking in a fierce, whirling and joyous wind. There was nothing in my bowl, neither food nor money, but a glimmering reflection floating there. As I looked more carefully, I did not see my face or the straw hat in the black curved mirror, but the whole of the night sky was thrown in there, in my bowl, stars and moon and yellow and greyish clouds and birds and whispers and… This has now become my direction.

The rain clears, the clouds clear
Then the air clears too
When the mind is pure, the whole universe is pure
I gave up the world, gave up my station in life
Became an utter good-for-nothing
Now I can live out my days
Companion of the flowers and the moon


Blogger Michael Tait said...

Ha ha, cunning old Ryokan thinks he's good for nothing but he is the goodness of everything like our friend Pierre.

8:09 AM  

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