Ryōkan

In any of our spiritual traditions, there are those who inspire us to continue in the Way. In the best of spirituality given me in my Christian path, I will name one – Francis of Assisi. In my spiritual path now, there is this one, not unlike Francis. He is Ryōkan – Zen Priest, hermit, poet, master calligrapher.

I rented a car in Niigata and drove 60 km down the western coast of Japan to see his birthplace in Izumozaki and then to the Tsubame area to see where he spent many years living alone in a small hut – Gogoan. I did this because I’ve read many of his written works, mostly poems in a Japanese style, and discover in them, as many have, evidence of a life lived in utter faithfulness to the spiritual traditions he received from his Buddhist ancestors.

As with many inspiring religious figures, including Francis, Ryōkan did not follow a usual path. That path would have had him become ordained and then spend the rest of his career caring for a temple somewhere in Japan – an entirely honorable way of life.

He chose to step off this path. He wandered for years as an itinerant monk, no one quite knows where his travels took him. Then, for many years he lived as a hermit, alone, in a small hut and walking with his ringed staff and begging bowl to obtain what townspeople would offer him.

He was friend to farmers, enjoying spending an evening with them drinking sake.

Midsummer -
I walk about with my staff
Old farmers spot me
And call me over for a drink.
We sit in the fields
Using leaves for plates.
Pleasantly drunk and so happy
I drift off peacefully
Sprawled out on a paddy bank.

He was especially friends with the children, spending hours playing a ball game with them in the streets. They would flock to him.

First days of Spring - the sky
is bright blue, the sun huge and warm.
Everything's turning green.
Carrying my monk's bowl, I walk to the village
to beg for my daily meal.
The children spot me at the temple gate
and happily crowd around,
dragging at my arms until I stop.
I put my bowl on a white rock,
hang my bag on a branch.
First we braid grasses and play tug-of-war,
then we take turns singing and keeping a kickball in the air:
I kick the ball and they sing, they kick and I sing.
Time is forgotten, the hours fly.
People passing by point at me and laugh:
"Why are you acting like such a fool?"
I nod my head and don't answer.
I could say something, but why?
Do you want to know what's in my heart?
From the beginning of time: Just this! Just this!

At the end of the day he would retreat to his hut up in the hills, and practice zazen in the manner prescribed by Master Dogen. There, he suffered from poverty, hunger, cold and snow in winter, summer heat, and sickness.

No luck today on my mendicant rounds;
From village to village I dragged myself.
At sunset I find myself with miles of mountains between me and my hut.
The wind tears at my frail body,
And my little bowl looks so forlorn -
Yes this is my chosen path that guides me
Through disappointment and pain, cold and hunger.

Read his writings, though, and you will find one completely in wonder at the natural world surrounding him – the flora and fauna of abundant life. I sense, even through his suffering, a joy in life until the end.