Mind Mend

I wonder what feelings inspire a man to complain of "having nothing to do." I am happiest when I have nothing to distract me and I am completely alone.
     If a man conforms to society, his mind will be captured by the filth of the outside world, and he is easily led astray; if he mingles in society, he must be careful that his words do not offend others, and what he says will not at all be what he feels in his heart. He will joke with others only to quarrel with them, now resentful, now happy, his feelings in constant turmoil. Calculations of advantage will wantonly intrude, and not a moment will be free from considerations of profit and loss. Intoxication is added to delusion, and in a state of inebriation the man dreams. People are all alike: they spend their days running about frantically, oblivious to their insanity.
     Even if a man has not yet discovered the path of enlightenment, as long as he removes himself from his worldly ties, leads a quiet life, and maintains his peace of mind by avoiding entanglements, he may be said to be happy, at least for the time being.
     It is written in Maka Shikan, "Break your ties with your daily activities, with personal affairs, with your arts, and with learning.
— Kenko, Essays in Idleness (Tsurezuregusa), #75, Donald Keene (tr.), pp. 66-67.

A man who was famous as a tree climber was guiding someone in climbing a tall tree. He ordered the man to cut the top branches, and, during this time, when the man seemed to be in great danger, the expert said nothing. Only when the man was coming down and had reached the height of the eveas did the expert call out, "Be careful! Watch your step coming down!" I asked him, "Why did you say that? At that height he could jump the rest of the way if he chose."
     "That's the point," said the expert. "As long as the man was up at a dizzy height and the branches were threatening to break, he himself was so afraid I said nothing. Mistakes are always made when people get to the easy places."
     This man belonged to the lowest class, but his words were in perfect accord with the percepts of the sages. In football too, they say that after you have kicked out of a difficult place and you think the next one will be easier you are sure to miss the ball.
— Kenko, Ibid., #109, pp. 92-93.

Ryokan, a Zen master, lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain. One evening a thief visited the hut only to discover there was nothing in it to steal.
     Ryokan returned and caught him. "You may have come a long way to visit me," he told the prowler, "and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift."
     The thief was bewildered. He took the clothes and slunk away.
— #9, The Moon Cannot Be Stolen, in Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, Paul Reps (ed.), p. 12.

     Hoshin, who related this story, told his disciples: "It is not necessary for a Zen master to predict his passing, but if he really wishes to do so, he can."
     "Can you?" someone asked.
     "Yes," answered Hoshin. "I will show you what I can do seven days from now."
...."Seven days ago," he remarked, "I said I was going to leave you. It is customary to write a farewell popem, but I am neither poet nor calligrapher. Let one of you inscribe my last words."
     His followers thought he was joking, but one of them started to write.
     "Are you ready?" Hoshin asked.
     "Yes, sir," replied the writer.
     Then Hoshin dictated:

     I came from brilliancy
     And return to brilliancy
     What is this?

     The poem was one line short of the customary four, so the disciple said: "Master, we are one line short."
     Hoshin, with the roar of a conquering lion, shouted "Kaa!" and was gone.
— #10, in Ibid., pp. 13-14.

     Jiun, a Shingon master, was a well-known Sanskrit scholar of the Tokugawa era. When he was young he used to deliver lectures to his brother students.
     His mother heard about this and wrote him a letter:
    "Son, I do not think you became a devotee of the Buddha because you desired to turn into a walking dictionary for others. There is no end to information and commentation, glory and honor. I wish you would stop this lecture business. Shut yourself up in a little temple in a remote part of the mountain. Devote your time to meditation and in this way attain true realization.
— #20, A Mother's Advice, in Ibid., p. 24.

     Sagen Shaku, the first Zen teacher to come to America, said: "My heart burns like fire but my eyes are as cold as dead ashes." He made the following rules which he practiced every day of his life:

     In the morning before dressing, light incense and meditate.
     Retire at a regular hour. Partake of food at regular intervals. Eat with moderation and never to the point of satisfaction.
     Receive a guest with the same attitude you have when alone. When alone, maintain the same attitude you have in receiving guests.
     Watch what you say, and whatever you say, practice it.
     When an opportunity comes do not let it pass by, yet always think twice before acting.
     Do not regret the past. Look to the future.
     Have the fearless attitude of a hero and the loving heart of a child.
     Upon retiring, sleep as if you had entered your last sleep. Upon awakening, leave your bed behind you instantly as if you had cast away a pair of old shoes.
— #22, My Heart Burns Like Fire, in Ibid., p. 26.