Ryokan's Meditations

The Japanese poet-monk Ryokan (1758 - 1831) is my Buddhist patron saint of  childlike simplicity.  He much preferred playing ball with the local children to discussing sutras with other monks.  Me too.  Give me a four year old with an unbridled sense of play any day of the week over a heavy-handed, overly serious academically inclined educator with their pet child development philosophies to impose upon the innocent.  

Let's just play. Here's an example of a Ryokan poem to that effect:

How long has it been since the teaching 

of pure essence was swept away?

Students are caught up with the written word

and Buddhist priests are stubbornly obsessed

with doctrine.  It's a shame that for a thousand years

no one has spoken seriously of this essence.

Better to follow the children 

and bounce a ball on these spring days.

Along with such simplicity and innocence comes an innate, or hard-won (who can say?) humility....

I'm truly simple

living among trees and grasses.

Don't ask me about illusion or enlightenment.

I ford streams with these thin legs,

and carry my bag in fine weather.

Such is my life,

but the world owes me nothing.

He joined a Buddhist monastery at the age of 17, forgoing the inheritance of his father, that of taking over the role of headman of his village.  Judging by his intrinsic sense of fairness, he probably would have been good at it but it seems he didn't want the trouble.  External trouble, that is.  Instead, he turned to the internal wrangling of zen.  

He studied for ten years with the master Kokusen, receiving Inka (recognition of his enlightenment).  When his master died in 1791, Ryokan left the monastery and became an Unsui (cloud and water) monk, wandering from place to place, rather than establishing his own dharma lineage or becoming an abbot at a monastery.  He chose simplicity.

But don't be fooled.  He understood the vagaries of the mind.  He couldn't have written this poem had he not --

Gazing at it, the boundaries are invisible

But as soon as even a slight thought arises,

ten thousand images crowd it.

Attach to them and they become real;

be carried by them and it will be difficult to return.

How painful to see a person trapped in the ten-fold delusions.

Of his own time, he says --

It is fine to see young people

stay home and enthusiastically compose poems,

imitating the classic styles of the Han and Wei

and mastering the contemporary styles of the Tang.

Although their style is excellent, even novel,

unless the poem says something from the inner heart

what shall we do with so many empty words?

I'm sure there are still monks in Japan.  In China, there are still hermits up in the mountains, trying to become "immortal" in the Daoist conception of the word.  Somehow, somewhere, someday, the world will give birth to new forms of spirituality, new waves of the spirit will resound through different cultures upon the earth, and depending upon the time, place, and circumstances of each locale, new forms of spiritual practice or focus will evolve.  I believe we will be there and will partake of these new forms, live and breathe the new energy that they convey, and our consciousness will grow, transform, and express itself in new ways.

I can't wait, but I can.  We have no other choice but to go with the flow of time as we experience it.  You can't push the river.

These poems and the gist of the text are from the volume "Between the Floating Mist," translated by Dennis Maloney and Hide Oshiro, published by White Pine Press, 1992, 2009.