On Chopping Wood and Carrying Water

“Before enlightenment; chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment; chop wood, carry water.” — Zen Kōan

I don’t remember where I read about this Koan for the first time. I quite like it. It seems to make sense to me (although that doesn’t necessarily mean my understanding of it is correct).

But anyway, this is what I think..

If I ever became enlightened, it’s not that I would disappear in a puff of smoke, or live the rest of my life in a cave in the Himalayas (although this one does seem attractive to me, as long as it’s not too cold and there is a hot shower).

I would probably carry on doing most of the things I am doing but without the distraction, the anxiety and the wanting.

Was it Ramakrishna who said that you can live in the samsara but not be affected by it. Like a lotus growing in the mud. Maybe enlightenment is about realising you are the lotus. Not just in an intellectual way but truly realising it from inside.

And when you do that you know that you can live in peace amongst everything, not be afraid of the “mud”. It won’t stick to you. And you can live

Also, it’s not just knowing in a theoretical sort of way, like you know the earth goes round the sun. It’s knowing as part of your realisation. Otherwise it is as good as knowing all about the science and art of swimming without knowing how to actually swim.

And if one were to become enlightened, how would the chopping would and carrying water change. I think that’s the bit which the Bhagavata  Gita points to with those famous lines.

Karmanye vadhikaraste Ma Phaleshu Kadachana,
Ma Karmaphalaheturbhurma Te Sangostvakarmani

You have the right to work only but never to its fruits.
Let not the fruits of action be your motive, nor let your attachment be to inaction

A Zen Hut

It wasn’t much of a hut..just one room.
And no doors and windows. Just gaps where they should be.
So anyone could come in if they wanted to. But not many came. Not many knew about it.
High up on the slopes where the rising clouds bathed the forest in mist.
And the constant drizzle ran down in a thousand impromptu streams.
Even if someone did come what would they find? There wasn’t much to see, or steal.
The old rug in one corner, still warm and musty from last night’s sleep.
A few books, standing against the wall in a spot farthest from the window.
The little copper bells, tinkling their presence in the soft breeze.
The hut was yellow, the bamboo old and dry, creaking when you walk
Outside was green and new and wet, fresh paint, mushy under feet
The hut stood still, in time, in space, unchanging
Change lived outside, in the trees and the leaves and the water
The hut stood still, in time, in space, unchanging
Change lived inside, in the students who came and went
The hut stood still, in time, in space, unchanging
But not the little board beside the window
Where I scratched my name with me little knife
Like those countless others before me

Isn’t This Enough

Is this all there is? I ask.
This crunching of autumn leaves under your feet. This soft sunshine. This cool shadow of the trees. Isn’t this enough? The voice says.
The white sailed boats out on the horizon. The sparkling blue sea. The breeze in your hair. Isn’t this enough? The voice says.
The dogs out running. The children out playing. The segulls out soaring. Isn’t this enough? The voice says.
The innocence in your son’s smile. The gurgling laughter. The joy in his eyes . Isn’t this enough. The voice says.
The warm tear on your cheek. The silence between the two breaths. The flower which blooms for one night. Isn’t this enough. The voice says.
This moment, which is all there is. Isn’t this enough. The voice says.

No Regrets

Like a wave I rose from the water
And felt the sun warm on my shoulders;
Like a wave I rose from the water
And heard the music of the seagulls cry;
Like a wave I rose from the water
And saw the moonlight silver flow;
Like a wave I rose from the water
And touched the sand in golden glow;
Like a wave I rose from the water
And like a wave I go back
To the sea and the sky..

One of my Favourite Poems

Sometimes I feel that if I got a chance to live once more and I could chose what my life would be like, maybe I would become a hermit, a travelling monk in a pre-industrial age society

Maybe someone like Ryokan Taigu. Have you ever come across his poems? This is is my favourite. Its called My Legacy

My legacy —
What will it be?
Flowers in spring,
The cuckoo in summer,
And the crimson maples
Of autumn…