Water, not disturbed by waves, settles down of itself. A mirror, not covered with dust, is clear and bright. The mind should be like this. When what beclouds it passes away, its brightness appears. Happiness must not be sought for. When what disturbs passes away, happiness comes of itself.

At the sound of the bell in the silent night, I wake from my dream in this dream-world of ours. Gazing at the reflection of the moon in a clear pool, I see beyond my form my real form.

The song of birds, the voices of insects, are all means of conveying truth to the mind. In flowers and grasses we see messages of the Tao, of the way of nature. The scholar, pure and clear of mind, serene and open of heart, should find in everything what nourishes him.

Men know how to read printed books. They do not know how to read the unprinted ones. They can play on a stringed harp, but not on a stringless one. Applying themselves to the superficial instead of the profound, how should they understand music or poetry?

If you know the inner significance of things, the misty moon of the five lakes is all within you. If you understand the activity of human phenomena, the heroism and nobility of the great men of all ages is in your grasp.

Walking alone, leaning on a staff. In a valley of pine trees, clouds rise round my monkish robes. Sleeping with a book as my pillow, by the window beneath the bamboos, I wake when the moonlight steps on the floor cloths.

A solitary cloud comes out of a mountain cave. It stays or departs without reference to anything else. The bright mirror of the moon hangs in the sky. It is aloof from both quietness and clamor.

The Zen sect says: “When you are hungry, eat. When you are weary, sleep.” Poetry aims at the description in common language of beautiful scenery. The sublime is contained in the ordinary, the hardest in the easiest. What is self-conscious and ulterior is far from the truth. What is mindless is near.

The body is like a boat adrift, floating along, or motionless in a deep pool. The mind is like a piece of burnt wood. What matters if it is split-fueled or varnished with scented lacquer?

Reading the Book of Changes at the morning window, I rub a vermilion stick of ink in the dew that drips from the pine trees. Discussing the sutras with a visitor, the sound of the wooden clapper is borne away on the wind from the bamboos.

An ancient worthy says: “The shadow of the bamboo sweeps over the stairs, but the dust does not move. The disk of the moon passes through the water of the lake, leaving no trace.” One of our Confucians says, “The stream rushes down swiftly, but all is silent around. The flowers fall incessantly, but we feel quiet.” If you have grasped the meaning of this, in all your relations with things, you are free in mind and body.

If your heart is without stormy waves, everywhere are blue mountains and green trees. If our real nature is creative like nature itself, wherever we may be, we see that all things are free like sporting fishes and circling kites.

When in the mood, I take off my shoes and walk barefooted through the sweet-smelling grasses of the fields, wild birds without fear accompanying me. My heart at one with nature, I loosen my shirt as I sit absorbed beneath the falling petals, while the clouds silently enfold me, as if wishing to keep me there.

Just as a whirlwind roaring down a valley leaves nothing behind it, so the ear is to have nothing to do with right and wrong. Just as the moon only reflects its light in a pool, so the mind, empty and unattached, does not know itself and the outside world as two things.

When waves reach the sky, those in the boat are unaware of the danger, but onlookers are trembling with fear. A drunken diner is swearing and cursing at the others, but they are quite unalarmed, whereas those outside are biting their tongues in apprehension of a quarrel. Thus, with the superior man, his body may be immersed in affairs, but his mind is above and beyond them.

Though my tea is not the very best, the pot is never dry. My wine is not exquisite, but the barrel is not empty. My plain lute, though stringless, is always in tune. My short flute, though a formless one, suits me well.

Following Buddhas, adapting ourselves to circumstances and our confusion, acting in accord with one’s position—these two phrases are the life buoy for us to pass over the sea of life. The paths of life are illimitable. If we desire perfection, all kinds of obstacles arise. But if we obey our destiny, we are free everywhere.

The following are verses from a book called Zenrin Kushu; verses which are collected from ancient Chinese and Japanese classics, and which are used by Zen monks to understand the spiritual discipline of the kōan—that is to say, their understanding of the ancient dialogues between Zen masters and their disciples. The translation of these verses is by Ruth Sasaki, from her book Zen Dust, published by Harcourt Brace and World.

The cold kills you with cold. The heat kills you with heat.

Above there isn’t a piece of tile to cover his head. Below there isn’t an inch of earth for him to stand on.

When the mouth wants to speak about it, words fail. When the mind seeks affinity with it, thought vanishes.

Sun and moon cannot illuminate it completely. Heaven and earth cannot cover it entirely.

Though we are born of the same lineage, we don’t die of the same lineage. When we are reviling one another, you may give me tit for tat. When we are spitting at one another, you may spew me with slobber.

The deer hunter doesn’t see the mountains. The miser doesn’t see men.

Last year’s poverty was not real poverty, but this year’s poverty is poverty indeed.

The angels find no path on which to strew flowers. The heretics, secretly spying, find nothing to see.

Last year’s plum and this year’s willow. Their color and fragrance are as of old.

At the limits of heaven, the sun rises and the moon sets. Beyond the balustrade, the mountains deepened and the waters become chill.

He sees only the winding of the stream and the twisting of the path. He does not know that already he is in the land of the immortals.

He who would understand the meaning of Buddha nature must watch for the season and the causal relations. Every voice is the voice of Buddha. Every form is the Buddha form.

The wild goose has no intention of leaving traces. The water has no thought of engulfing reflections.

The instant you speak about a thing, you miss the mark.

How can the mountain finch know the wild swans’ aspiring?

The eight-cornered mortar rushes across the sky. The badger and the white bull emit a glorious radiance. With no bird singing, the mountain is yet more still. In the spring beyond time, the withered tree flowers. When the snowy heron stands in the snow, the colors are not the same.

A pair of monkeys are reaching for the moon in the water.

When pure gold enters the fire, its color becomes still brighter.

Entering fire, he is not burned. Entering water, he is not drowned.

A fish that can swallow a boat doesn’t swim around in a valley stream.

I do not emulate the sages. I do not esteem my own spirit.

From the top of the solitary peak, I gaze at the clouds. Close by the old ferry landing, I am splashed with mire.

The fishermen singing on the misty shore all extol good fortune and honor. The woodcutters chanting among the lofty trees together rejoice in the era of peace.

On the top of the solitary peak, he whistles at the moon and sleeps in the clouds. Within the vast ocean, he overturns the waves and rouses the breakers.

Not to take what heaven gives is to incur heaven’s calamity. Not to act when the moment comes is to incur heaven’s misfortune.

Enwrapped in billows of white clouds, I do not see the white clouds. Absorbed in the sound of flowing water, I do not hear the flowing water.

I take blindness as vision, deafness as hearing. I take danger as safety and prosperity as misfortune.

When I see smoke beyond the mountain, I know there’s a fire. When I see horns beyond the fence, I know there’s an ox.

When an ordinary man attains knowledge, he is a sage. When a sage attains understanding, he is an ordinary man.

Though a cockatoo can talk, it is still just a bird. Though an orangutan can speak, it’s still just a beast.

But for the rule and the compass, the square and the circle could not be determined. But for the plumb line, the straight and the bent could not be rectified.

The dragon hum in the dead tree, the eyeball in the dry scalp.

When you are really master of the myriad forms, throughout the four seasons, there’s no withering, no decay.

A light breeze stirs the lonely pine. The sound is more pleasant heard from close by. And now that I’ve shed my skin completely, one true reality alone exists.