緇門警訓 2.12

2.12

I left home at nine years of age, and until now I have passed sixty. As for strolling at ease through vast halls, pacing leisurely along fragrant courtyards, the body resting in softness, living in leisure and peace: before the morning stars fade, exquisite foods of the ten benefits are already laid out; when the sun is directly at its zenith, delicacies of the three virtues are fully gathered. I know not the exhausting toil of plowing and harvesting, nor the strenuous labor of cooking in cauldrons. For my six-foot body to grow and preserve its century-long life—by whom was this brought about? It is by the power of my fundamental teacher's vows. Estimating roughly for fifty years, food and drink in the court have consumed more than three hundred piculs; clothing and medicine for winter and summer have cost more than two hundred thousand coins. As for high gates and deep chambers, blue-glazed stairs and cinnabar pillars, the retinues of carriages and servants, the kinds of desks, tables, beds, and mats—the expenses are further boundless. Or again, when ignorance secretly arises and wrong views crop up in profusion, unlawful squandering and improper eating and drinking—the expenses are further difficult to measure. All of these come from others' strength to support and complete my use. Compared with those struggling anxiously for official ranks, how could one even compare their suffering and joy? Thus we know that the teaching of great loving-kindness is supreme, and the power of great compassion is profound. What is more, the Tamer of the Ten Epithets treats me as his child and shelters me; the eight classes of devas and nāgas treat me as their teacher and honor me. Though emperors and kings are noble, they dare not treat me as a subject—thus its nobility is evident; though respected parents are weighty, they dare not view me through filial duty—thus its veneration is clear. As for the drifting world of the four classes of commoners and the vast nine realms, whose storehouse is not my granary, and who is not my descendant? Therefore, when I raise my bowl to enter a house, sealed provisions are immediately uncovered; when I shake my staff upon entering the street, arrogant countenances become solemn and respectful. Ancient men, for the favor of a single meal, could still pledge their fidelity; for a single word of regard, they would still sacrifice their lives. How much more so when from head to foot, all is the Tathāgata's sustenance; from birth to death, all is the Tathāgata's shelter! Had I not encountered the Buddha's Dharma, had I not encountered pravrajyā, I would be braving frost and dew morning and night, toiling diligently in fields and furrows day and dusk, galloping in ten thousand pursuits, hard-pressed in a thousand schemes; tattered clothes and dusty rags might not suffice to cover my form; bean leaves and coarse weeds might not suffice to fill my mouth. How would I have had leisure to stay late beneath broad eaves, lean on a staff in tranquil courtyards, drag my shoes, engage in pure conversation, bare my chest in idle banter, avoid cold and heat, select sweet and bitter, scold the youth, demand water to be brought, letting loose the wild horse of the mind to harm the herd, or giving rein to the monkey of feelings to climb the trees? Yet the clouds of the three hindrances tower up, and the ten fetters entangle me; delusion and craving confuse the mind, while madness and folly cause distress. Self-regret and self-reproach alter within an instant; lament and sorrow change quickly over ten days or a month. Or again, ascending the hall to offer homage, I weep profusely in shame before the venerable forms; opening texts before the lectern, I shed tears in embarrassment before the noble teachings. Or I discipline myself through ragged clothing and dog's food with hardship and humiliation; damaging wealth and casting off friends, I torment myself with solitary poverty. In the end, I still cannot subdue the mountain of arrogance or quench the fire of desire, cast off crude sights and sounds, or escape the deep punishment of boiling cauldrons. Is this not painful? Is this not painful? Therefore, ever sorrowful and weeping, bitter suffering knows no end; Ākāśagarbha and Kṣitigarbha are powerless to rescue me. Furthermore, I turn back to examine myself, stroking my body: my ears and eyes are no less than those of ordinary men; my understanding and clear spirit are not inferior to celebrated contemporaries. What merit allowed me to be born in the Central Land? What good allowed me to join the pravrajyā? What sin causes me to breach the monastic precepts so often? What fault makes me obstinate and hard to transform? Hence, troubled day and night, I stand sighing at midnight, not knowing the way to be saved, not discerning the method to reform. Yet having received family instruction in youth and having early tasted the Śākya teachings, I have heard much of the departed words of elders and often visited the lofty discourses of eminent monks. Men of three reflections rely on leather and bowstrings for restraint; guests of nine twists await proverbs and inscriptions for guidance. Therefore, I have thoroughly investigated successive eras and browsed through various works, gathering the lowly who share this affliction and visiting those stranded at the bewildered ford. Those who slighted the noble words, made light of the burden of karma, indulged without shame, and were stubborn and undisciplined—those that may serve as warnings or exhortations—I have compiled and recorded them all. I have classified them into ten sections and divided them into three scrolls, to observe morning and evening in the hope of benefiting one in ten thousand. As for sitting and receiving the retribution of a dragon, instantly manifesting the body of a snake, an ox weeping as it ascends the slope, galloping and lowing around the monastery; or rods and whips falling together while the entire body burns with fire; or spears and halberds thrusting back and forth while blood flows at once; or the tongue dissolving and eyebrows falling off; or losing one's senses and going mad; or taking a handful of greens and becoming a slave; or encroaching upon a bundle of firewood and having one's feet burn; lodging the spirit in garden trees, slicing one's flesh to repay the dānapati's kindness; taking refuge in the prison, having one's bones transformed to receive the punishment for slandering others—what was not seen in the past is seen now; what was not known before is known at last. Wailing to heaven and knocking on the ground cannot undo it; broken gallbladders and shattered livers are of no avail. At such a time, even if parents had a hundred bodies, they could not redeem it; relatives and guests rushing from four quarters cannot save it; bribes and wealth piled high are displayed in vain; attendants beating their breasts—how can it help? Where is former joy and pleasure now? On what can former companions and kin rely? Alas! In the morning, a person of flourishing virtue chants hymns along the long corridor; in the evening, he is an injured soul, weeping bitterly in a dark room. This does not happen to that person alone; when I reflect upon myself, it may well be my turn. If in a hundred years this should happen to me, when will my shame and regret ever end? How could one not be heartbroken? How could one not be terrified? Therefore, I have compiled their beginnings and ends, keeping it ready at my side, earnestly encouraging myself with the admonition written on the sash, hoping for the merit of victory in battle. Those containing the elegant proclamations of eminent sages, the extraordinary deeds of wise men, the decline or flourish of the Way's transformation, and the right or wrong of contemporary affairs are also appended and recorded to impart to those of broad understanding. The ancients said: 'Though the form vanishes after a hundred years, the mind remains for a thousand years.' I truly hope that after a thousand years, people will know where my mind resided.