圓悟佛果禪師語錄 7.24

7.24

Ascending the hall to pray for rain, a monk asked, "How is it when not a single fleck of cloud hangs across ten thousand miles?" The Master said, "The old monk also blames it." The monk continued, "Even the blue sky must take a blow—how about that?" The Master said, "The dispatching has long been overdue." The monk continued, "I wonder where the fault lies?" The Master said, "Both of us are mountain-dwellers; let us not annotate and break it down again." The monk continued, "When good rain should fall, it does not; where skies should not clear, it clears up instead." The Master said, "Where have you been just now?" The monk said, "Rolling up and rolling out at once." The Master said, "Beneath your heels, I give another blow, straightaway making the rain pour like buckets emptying." The monk continued, "How is it when it is not like that at all?" The Master said, "Twisting around the nostrils." The monk continued, "What if it suddenly responds to the season and the moment?" The Master said, "Before the mountains the grain and wheat ripen, and together we sing songs of great peace." The Master then said, "On the road of Caoxi, the sky is high and the earth is thick; before the peak of Shaoshi, the ground is vast and people are scarce. Sitting solitary and upright, chilly and desolate; lying sprawled across the great wilderness, the wind soughs and sighs. Seen by the eyes, then blinded; heard by the ears, then deafened; spoken by the mouth, then struck dumb. Though it does not step beyond the tip of a single hair, it contains and spits out the ten directions of space without front or back. Since there are such spiritual powers and such functions, why is it so parched and dry? Strike a blow to the carp of the Eastern Sea, and rushing over the whole earth, torrential rain will fall!"