Teacher and Disciple
I have unexpected disciples, who are teachers to me and always give me a test.
Some disciples bow down before me, while others show the courtesy of Buddhism.
I, too, bowed down at someone's feet, because I needed a word from someone alive
in the temple, not a doll resembling Buddha.
I was desperate for someone in those days, but there was no one. Only under the shadow
of the Dharma ambassador, carved on a large, cold rock, prayed, meditated, at one point
angry and resisted.
Even a shabby-looking teacher, who was looking for such a teacher who would bring all of me
down at once, they would have the same mind as me.
So I do to be their willful place, whether I wanted it or not.
However, I do not teach them, that is "my teaching."
A man born without a father misses his father, it doesn't matter what kind of man he is.
Desperate for longing, desire the name of his father.
Whatever you want, it can be a father, a teacher, or a husband or wife.
But, as a good carpenter doesn't blame tools, a bright nature, wherever we depend,
will eventually bring us back to the orbit we saw.
The Buddha's name is but the Buddha's; the disciple's name is but the disciple; the father's
name is but the father's, and the mother's name is but the mother.
This is what Buddha said in the Diamond Sutra, but Buddha's words are also words.
Easier to understand, this is the Buddha, this is the teacher, this is the disciple, this is
the caring father, and this is the very wicked father, in that, what you only have to care is "this"
So, if you find just one "this," you find everything. If someone asks you what "this" is, you'll lift
one finger and show it to them, and if you ask again, you'll punch them in the face.
This is the benevolent heart of the Zen masters of all time.
I also will continue to play a Buddha on stage, sometimes the disciple, and also the father or
mother.
And I'll be the stage, I'll be the tree, I'll be the stone, I'll be the road.
It has no gender, no nationality, no age, and is also a creature and an object.
But whatever you imagine, whatever it has become, it's definitely not.
It is "this," the place where even Buddha dare not go by thought.
Right between the teacher and the disciple, this
The teacher speaks, and the disciple listens, and here the name is only a name; except
for the name, one person speaks and one person listens.
Person is also a name, so what remains except for the name of name again?
Once again, what remains, except the act of speaking and the act of listening?
In this text too, except for the writer who wrote, except for you who read, and the ink that formed
the letters, and the paper also, Then what remains?
Don't rush to say that there is nothing, based on nothing,
everything in the world exists, and so do you.
The only thing that is "nothing", It is the truth. Others are fiction.
At this time, where are you?
