The Middle Way

Who Was Ryokan?

Ryokan is one of the most beloved poets in Japan, and his poetry has been published there more than any other poet. He was a Zen monk and recluse who wandered around Japan with his begging bowl, stopping to play with village children and compose his verses.

He was known for his warmth and compassion, and embodied the free spirit of a spiritual traveller with few worldly concerns. This poem epitomizes his spirit, which is not one of indifference to the world of beauty and sorrow, but the acceptance of things as they are.

Such acceptance of the impermanence of the things we love is a most difficult practice, and it is at the heart of Buddhist teachings.

Finding Balance
    
The real difficulty is finding the balance, or middle way, between being fully engaged in the world and letting go of what passes or change.

Either extreme spells disaster for our inner and outer lives: if we are too attached, we suffer when things change; if we are too removed, we become cold and indifferent to the world of others.

Ryokan points to this balance when he opens his poem by telling us that he has, indeed, raised plants and flowers around his hut. He cared about his surroundings and wanted to beautify them. I imagine him watering them every day with care, checking their leaves, trimming and pruning them with fatherly attention. He wasn't afraid, literally and metaphorically, to get his hands dirty.
    
In a wider view, these plants and flowers are all the efforts we make in this world. It could be in our job, our relationships, with our children, or our own creative endeavours. It could be a meal we're planning, a floor we're sweeping, or a paper we're writing. We work on these things with care and concern, and then comes the time when we have to let go of the results.

Letting Go

If we can't do it, make that crucial turn, then we'll be pretty tense and anxious about our 'plants and flowers.' When I studied creative writing, one of the maxims the instructor used was "Kill your darlings." This meant that the lines and sections of your work you are really attached to, you might just have to cut out. Sometimes it was a big relief to do so, as it meant letting go of my tight grasp of my work as "mine", and instead I began to think of my writing as something for others to read and enjoy.
    
I find dusting is a good lesson of this balance of effort and release. I live in a particularly dusty area, and when I dust in the morning, there is a fine coat of dust over everything in the afternoon again, even when the windows are closed tight.

I don't give up and stop caring to dust, which would be one response. I also don't neurotically keep a rag in my hand whenever I'm in the house, running it over whatever surface I happen to be near. I accept that my 'plants and flowers' - the dusting job, in this case - is temporary, and will need to done again and again. 

Cycle Of Life
    
There is a cycle of life going on here, even with the dust, which is simply unstoppable. It is the flow of change, impermanence, which is the truth underlying all of existence.

The Buddha's final words, and teaching were, "Remember, all things are impermanent." Everything else in Buddhist thought is a footnote to this statement.

When Ryokan writes that he surrenders to the will of the wind, it is the wind of change which is constantly blowing, sometimes in a gentle breeze, and sometimes in a terrible gale. 

Acceptance Of What We Do Have
    
There is a poignant story about Ryokan's dealing with the local samurai lord who had heard of Ryokan's reputation as a Zen monk, and wanted to build him a temple. The samurai went to visit Ryokan at his hermitage, and he had to wait until Ryokan returned from gathering flowers. The samurai requested that Ryokan would be the abbot of the temple he planned to build, but Ryokan remained silent. After a pause, Ryokan took out his calligraphy set and brushed a haiku on a piece of paper, then handed it to the samurai. On it was written:

The wind gives me
Enough fallen leaves
To make a fire.

The samurai nodded his head in acknowledgement and returned to his castle. Ryokan did not need more than he already had, a bowl full of fragrant flowers.
    
In this haiku Ryokan reminds us that the wind, or impermanence, is not just the force which takes, but that which gives as well. Change in our lives brings new opportunities and moments to savour and experience.

Impermanence makes room for all the living we have yet to do, as one breath replaces another, one day follows the next. With our attention focused on the present, we can appreciate change and remain open to the fullness tthat his moment offers.