עוד?
Among pines and boulders, the path is clearest when there is no place to go, for through clouds and cliffs, one goes nowhere when there is no place to go, and one can go nowhere till he knows the path, too, is a place. Fire Boy talks to himself, all morning, trimming wicks for lamps. "If we could run fast enough, we might always live in daylight and never needs lamps. "What a bright day that would be!" Sounds too much like too much work — for this ragged janitor, at least. And if one could run that fast, he'd better stay in one place and learn the pace of the day. Big Shield once told me all may be enlightened: serpent, stone, bell, moon, pine. Imagine that. Yet my question remains: "On what great day will fear and hope finally die?" "Back to work," said Big Shield. "Even the sun must climb Cold Peak." Who works to be free will never be free. Raise two hands to your eyes. Show yourself your bonds. You see nothing. Pity those bound by a whisper of wishes. You are free only when you forget you are free. If you seek freedom, desire binds you, and you are not free. You are free. Young monks gaped in awe when the old master came to meals but never ate. Their fear was funny. They whispered of hungry ghosts, magic kettles, and lost desires of the holy. I teased them with tales of one-eyed demons rising in the dark. One night, I caught the old master at the trap in the drain where rice gathers when monks wash their bowls after the evening meal. No more rice than would fill a hermit's thimble, yet the old monk carried his portion to a spot warmed by the stove and ate his meal with simple grace. Such is the way. Numbskulls never tire of stuffing empty heads with grain too good for them, while the wise survive on scraps left by a sullen cleaning of bowls and sticks. One wishes the mouths of fools might open only to shove in rice. With no Master, I have none to visit in Autumn, when wind blows six-petaled blossoms from the West. Under only clouds and stars, I lie on steps before the kitchen door, fart and scratch myself like any Buddha. There are many ways to the Lotus Peak, Each finds a path to suit his steps, and none sees others from the way one walks. All paths converge at the peak. From the plains, the mountain grants a single trail to climb, yet the peak reveals the ways are many, though one chooses only one. Will good and evil deeds be weighed? Who ponders such nonsense is lost. Does a farmer eaten by a tiger mourn the rice he harvested? If the ugly, filthy feet of the Buddha protrude from the pyre, one may snicker softly as flames tickle the toes and black smoke rises in vain to the sun. חג חירות שמח
