Ikkyū regards young Sōgi’s calligraphy as golden hour yields to white. “Your hand is inelegant, as always. It’s … bold, though.” Magpies screech disapproval from a nearby pine. A horn echoes through the courtyard. Sōgi looks in the direction of the disturbance. Ikkyū bows his head and sighs. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Master Ikkyū, but it would
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Sōgi bows before Ikkyū. “Master Dōken rebuked me this morning,” he says. “What did you do this time?” replies Ikkyū. “Nothing. I merely asked why the bird sings in its gilded cage.” Ikkyū sighs. “What was the Master doing?” Sōgi reflects for a moment. “At the time he seemed rather agitated at a pot of water.” “What did he say
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“Output is finite,” says Sōgi. “Input is eternal.” Sōgi sits at a small table. Before him are several papers covered in numbers, formulas, scraps of text, and … well, doodles. “What’s all this?” asks Ikkyū. “A meditation on creativity and the infinite,” Sōgi replied. Ikkyū spends a moment looking over the materials before his young friend. “You’ll pardon me for
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How can a thing be both path and obstacle at once?
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We must be prepared to laugh with the universe at the banality of our own immolation. Full moon. Snowfield, vast beneath the mountain: to understand the truth of people, study their contradictions. This morning I posted this little koan (minus graphic) to Facebook: I’m hardly the first to trot out a “there is no future” Zen meme. My grasp of
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lullaby pit 