I am wading through The Roaring Stream, a dense (for me) book that traces and describes the basic lineage of Chan or Zen starting with Bodhidharma. In skimming through the book before starting it, I ran across this little poem that pretty much describes me if you replace “rice” with ramen noodles, bundles of sticks with ‘half a tank of propane” and thatched hut with “trailer”, and so on. I feel all cuddly and validated.
For the Monk San-tsang on His Return to the Western Regions< – by the ninth-century Chinese poet Li Tung.
All my life too lazy to try to get ahead,
I leave everything to the truth of Heaven.
In my sack three measures of rice,
by the stove one bundle of sticks–
why ask who’s got satori, who hasn’t?
What would I know about that dust, fame and gain?
Rainy nights here in my thatched hut
I stick out my two legs any old way I please.
