"Ryokan represents something very special in the Japanese character...all who wish truly to understand Japan should study the life and poetry of this eighteenth-century hermit-monk. From a religious standpoint also, Ryokan is exceptional, exemplifying as he does the Zen Buddhist idea of attaining enlightenment and then returning to the world with "a serene face and gentle words." In his life he was indeed Daigu, the ‘Great Fool’ (the literary name he gave himself), one who had gone beyond the limitations of all artificial man-made restraints."

Ryokan practiced with Kokusen for twelve years, until the Master died. Then, he went on a pilgrimage, and after almost five years, he decided to return to his home area. He found an empty hut halfway up Mount Kugami and began living there, supporting himself by begging in the villages below.

Ryokan lived the hermit’s life from the age of forty to his death thirty-four years later in 1831. He became a masterful poet whose work has been translated into many languages and a master calligrapher whose work is now considered priceless.

Here’s one of my favorite Ryokan poems:

Translated by John Stevens

What an expansive view of one’s environment! I’ve always admired, and sometimes envied those who could be at home anywhere, and in this poem Ryokan presents himself as one of those people. Like a drifting cloud, he has no preconceived notion of where he’s supposed to be or go. Because he has no preconceived notion, his mind does not limit him, and he can be or go anywhere, with equanimity. This is complete liberation, freedom from all restraint. Wherever life takes him, he will go. How wonderful! Ryokan’s poem reminds me of the following koan:

A monk asked the master Sengcan: "Master, show me the way to liberation."
Sengcan replied: "Who binds you?"
The monk replied: "No one binds me."
Sengcan said: "Then why do you seek liberation?"

Here’s another poem by Ryokan along the same lines. This is one of his most famous ones:

Translated by John Stevens

This poem is bit more subtle than it first appears. As I read it this morning, I thought of how the mind is fundamentally clear, like the sky, and when thoughts leave, like clouds moving away, the mind is clear again, like the sky when it’s free of clouds.

When Ryokan speaks of purity, I think that he’s speaking of the heart (or the mind, for the character for both is the same one) that’s open and free of the defilements arising from greed, hatred, and delusion, the three poisons in Buddhism. When the heart is free of these, the mental state of nirvana, or perfect peace, arises.

How do we abandon this fleeting world? Well, first, we awaken to the fact that it is fleeting, that nothing lasts from moment to moment. If we cling to impermanent things – and all things are impermanent – we will suffer. The end to suffering is through non-clinging. Also, there is no self, so Ryokan is saying to abandon the notion we have of ourselves as fixed and permanent entities, and live your life guided by the moon and flowers, which will guide you along the Way, the Buddha’s Way, the way of the awakened person. The moon and the flowers come and go, unobstructed and impermanent, like us.

Ryokan truly loved the life he chose for himself, and the following poem illustrates that:

Translated by John Stevens

"Abandoning the world" is a phrase encountered frequently in Zen poetry and in Zen sutras and other texts. What does it mean? How can we abandon the world? We can’t step out of it; where would we go? Ryokan says near the end of the poem to abandon worldliness, and to me, this is key to living the Buddha Way.

Most people consider fame, status, wealth, power, security, comfort, and sensual pleasure to be the most important things in life. A person’s worth in the eyes of the world is determined by how successful he or she is in these areas. This is especially true in American culture. Monks are not thought of very highly in Omaha, or in any other part of America. In the words of the Catholic monk Thomas Merton, "In a materialistic culture which is fundamentally irreligious, the monk is incomprehensible because he ‘produces nothing.’ His life appears to be completely useless." And not only monks are looked at in this way. Anyone who does not strive for what most people consider most important in life is regarded as an "underachiever" and lives on the fringes of mainstream American Society.

"Abandoning worldliness" means transforming our basic attitudes toward life. It means to turn away from what most people hold dear and turn towards what the Buddhas, the awakened ones, hold dear. It means to refocus yourself and your aim in life. The example of Shakyamuni Buddha is one we all need to remember. He was a prince, and he had as much, or more, wealth, social status, fame, and power as anyone did in his culture, but he finally realized that these things could not bring him peace and contentment, so he renounced them.

Ryokan did the same thing. He was in line to succeed his father as village headman, a position that would have secured him a comfortable life, but he gave it up and became a monk.

However, "abandoning worldliness" does not necessarily mean becoming a monk; it means "turning away and turning towards." Both the monk and the lay person must make this turn. The great Tibetan Master, Tson Ka Pa, put it this way: "When there is not the slightest ambition, even for a split second, for even the greatest successes in the world, the mind of renunciation has arisen." Renunciation is a state of mind, the mind of "no worldly ambition," which means no ambition for success in the areas of fame, status, wealth, power, etc. We seek success in the way we live, in what kind of person we are, and in following the Sixteen Bodhisattava Precepts.

As we’ve seen, Ryokan loved the life he had chosen, but it was not always sweetness and light. Sometimes, we who live busy lives in the city romanticize the hermit’s life and wish that we could go to the mountains and live it. Here’s a poem that illustrates the other side of Ryokan’s lifestyle:

Translated by John Stevens

Ryokan’s life was not free of hardship. In the above poem, he can’t sleep; it’s raining; the fire’s going out, and he’s alone. He needs to talk to someone, but there’s no one; his loneliness is palpable.

The next series of poems further explore this theme.

The long winter night! The long winter night seems endless;
When will it be day?
No flame in the lamp nor charcoal in the fireplace;
Lying in bed, listening to the sound of freezing rain.

To an old man, dreams come easy;
I let my thoughts drift.
The room is empty and both the saké and the oil are used up –
The long winter night

When I was a boy studying in an empty hall,
Over and over I had to fill the lamp with oil.
Even now, that task is disagreeable –
The long winter night.

Translated by John Stevens

Ryokan’s loneliness and sadness now verges on despair. Just getting through the night seems a monumental task, especially as he gets older and older. Eventually, his health began to worsen, and his friends felt that he had to leave his mountain hermitage. He moved to a small hut near a shrine down the mountain, and when he was sixty-nine and in poor health, he went to live with one of his disciples in the city of Shimazaki.

Ryokan frequently wrote about different aspects of Zen Buddhist practice. Here’s one of those poems:

Translated by Abé and Haskel

Zen Buddhist practice is about doing the work, not about talking about it, but that doesn’t stop people from doing so. I’m active on a Zen Buddhist internet forum, and a large number of people "try to make up for their lack of hard practice with easy talk." In fact many of them don’t practice at all, but yet they try to come across as experts! Sometimes, I think of the above poem and want to post it when one of these people is pontificating, but I restrain myself.

In Zen, we say that reading and talking about Zen Buddhism is like going to a restaurant and eating the menu. A person can receive no sustenance in this way. You can’t awaken to your own true nature by reading or talking about other people’s experiences. In Soto Zen Buddhism, we need to sit zazen regularly, practice under the guidance of a teacher, and connect with and practice with a group. There’s no way around this.

Here’s another of Ryokan’s poems, another of his most famous ones:

Translated by Abé and Haskel

This poem presents a picture of the Ryokan that the Japanese love so much: a playful, childlike person willing to interact with whoever crosses his path, especially children, whom he loved and who loved him. It also presents a picture of what’s most important for a Zen Buddhist practitioner: "This is it! This is it!"

"Just this," a famous Zen phrase, means that this moment is all we have and to live fully and completely, we need to engage fully in the issue at hand, with whatever is in front of us. In the above poem, Ryokan manifests this fully.

The following poem is another of my favorites. I used to keep a copy of it taped to the wall above my desk, so I would see it whenever I got the urge to slack off in practice.

Translated by Abé and Haskel

Ryokan died on January 6, 1831. He left behind a wonderfully varied collection of poetry and some masterful calligraphy. The two translations of Ryokan’s poetry into English that I like the most are John Stevens’ One Robe, One Bowl and Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf, and Ryuichi Abé and Peter Haskel’s Great Fool, Zen Master Ryokan.

I’ll leave you with the following poem, one of Ryokan’s last:

© Copyright Nonin Chowaney, 2011
Reprinted from Prarie Wind, Vol. 19, no. 2