Quote

When your consciousness has become ripe in true zazen-pure like clear water, like a serene mountain lake, not moved by any wind-then anything may serve as a medium for realization.

Matsuo Basho

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Matsuo Basho
Age: 50 †
Born: 1644
Born: January 1
Died: 1694
Died: November 28
Artist
Poet
Writer
Vaxjo
Matsuo Basho
Bashō
Bashô
Basho
Matsuo Bashou
Water
Realization
True
Serve
Become
Mountain
Serene
Anything
Moved
Lake
May
Pure
Ripe
Like
Wind
Lakes
Consciousness
Medium
Clear
Mediums

More quotes by Matsuo Basho

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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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Make the universe your companion, always bearing in mind the true nature of things-mountains and rivers, trees and grasses, and humanity-and enjoy the falling blossoms and the scattering leaves.
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The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
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Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
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Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
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When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
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He who creates three to five haiku poems during a lifetime is a haiku poet. He who attains to completes ten is a master.
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Orchidbreathing incense into butterfly's wings
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Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
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Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
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A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
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Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.
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The fact that Saigyo composed a poem that begins, I shall be unhappy without loneliness, shows that he made loneliness his master.
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto
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Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.
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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
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My body, now close to fifty years of age, has become an old tree that bears bitter peaches, a snail which has lost its shell, a bagworm separated from its bag it drifts with the winds and clouds that know no destination. Morning and night I have eaten traveler's fare, and have held out for alms a pilgrim's wallet.
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