Drifting pitifully in the whirlwind of birth and death,
As if wandering in a dream,
In the midst of illusion I awaken to the true path;
There is one more matter I must not neglect,
But I need not bother now,
As I listen to the sound of the evening rain
Falling on the roof of my temple retreat
In the deep grass of Fukakusa.
Precious form and existence: to awake from the dream is given to so few of us. To bloom in the mud pit, cultivating the non dual path, neither mud nor gold. The matter not to be neglected is the practice- awakening, this boundless treasure in which time collapses , subject and object both vanish. The end- gaining of fools, makers and kings doesn t rule here, the body- mind in Kannon, listening, enjoys the hues of the real and its fabric, rain in rain, given and given again, embracing each drop, singing silently in unisson with the clamor.Nothing between flesh and rain, nothing left, just this flesh- rain , not knowing, selfless presence unfolding. The open opening itself.