The Great Final Nirvāṇa (II)

Know the proper measure in your own eating, treating it as one would take medicine — never let food become an occasion for craving or aversion to arise.

Food and drink exist only to relieve hunger and thirst, the way grease is applied merely to keep a worn-out cart running; and just as a bee gathers nectar from a flower without ever harming its color or fragrance, so too should a monk, going out to beg for alms, never do anything to damage the donor's own faith.

Should a person give with an open heart, one ought to accept only according to what one truly needs — never overloading an ox beyond its own strength, heedless of the injury such a burden would cause it.

Through the three watches of morning, midday, and evening, apply yourself in due order to right conduct; and during the first and last portions of the night as well, do not give yourself over to sleep — only in the middle of the night should you lie down, your mind composed, your thoughts fixed on the coming of dawn.

Do not sleep away the entire night, letting your body and this precious life pass by for nothing — the fire of impermanence is forever burning this very body; how, then, could you possibly justify such prolonged sleep?

The afflictions are themselves a whole host of enemies, waiting to strike the moment they find an opening — and when the mind lies dulled in sleep, who is there to notice death's own approach?

A venomous serpent hidden within one's own house can be driven out by a skillful spell; and the black viper that dwells within the heart can, in just the same way, be dispelled by clear awareness, itself a kind of skillful spell — but one who sleeps on and on with no such skillful means at all is a person entirely without shame.

Shame and conscience are themselves a fine and dignified garment; shame is itself the very goad that restrains a wild elephant; shame and conscience settle and steady the mind, while their absence destroys every root of goodness — one who has a sense of shame and conscience is honored by the world as truly wise, while one without it belongs among the very beasts of the field.

Even should a person cut your very body apart, joint by joint, with a sharp blade, you ought not to harbor anger or resentment, nor let a single harsh word pass your lips — for a mind full of ill will and a mouth full of harsh speech only injure yourself, and never the other person at all.

Of every kind of austerity one might undertake in disciplining the body, none surpasses the excellence of patient forbearance — for it alone possesses a firm and unyielding power that is exceedingly hard to overcome; and so you must never harbor resentment, nor direct harsh words at another.

Anger destroys the true Dharma, and destroys as well one's own fine and dignified appearance; it causes the loss of a good reputation, and its very fire burns one's own heart from within — anger is itself the enemy of every virtue, and so, cherishing virtue, you ought never to harbor resentment at all.

It is no great wonder that a layman, beset by so many worldly troubles, should feel anger arise in him — but for one who has gone forth from home to harbor anger runs directly against reason itself, like a raging fire somehow burning in the midst of cold water.

Should a thought of pride or arrogance arise in you, reach up and touch your own shaved head with your own hand — remember that you now wear dyed robes, carry a begging bowl in your hand, and sustain your own life on the margins of society, relying on others for your very food — why, then, should any thought of pride arise in you at all?

Even an ordinary layman, proud of his own fine clothes or noble lineage, is already at fault for such pride — how much more so, then, one who has gone forth from home, whose whole resolve is set on seeking the path of liberation, that he should give rise to a heart of pride and arrogance? This is something that must never be permitted at all.

Crookedness and straightness are, by their very nature, opposed to one another, no more able to coexist than frost and flame — one who has gone forth from home cultivates the straight and direct path, and flattery and deceit have no place in such a life at all; for flattery, falsehood, illusion, and deceit have no place where only the Dharma, which never deceives, is meant to reign.

To seek much is itself to suffer; to want little is itself to find peace — if peace alone is what one seeks, one ought already to have few desires; how much more so, then, one who seeks true liberation itself?

The miserly fear excessive demands, worried that their own wealth might be depleted; even the generous fear that their own means might prove insufficient to satisfy what is asked of them — and so you ought to keep your own desires few, and thereby grant others a heart free of any such anxiety.

It is through this very state of having few desires that one attains the path of liberation — and so, should you wish to seek liberation, you ought also to cultivate contentment.

One who is content is forever joyful, and this very joy is itself the Dharma; even should one's own material provisions remain humble and meager, contentment alone brings a lasting peace regardless.

One who lacks contentment, even should he attain the very pleasures of heaven, still finds his own heart forever scorched by the fire of dissatisfaction, precisely because he lacks contentment.

To be wealthy and yet without contentment is itself a kind of poverty and suffering; while to be poor and yet content is itself the truest wealth there is.

One who lacks contentment finds the realm of the five desires only growing ever wider before him, seeking still further without ever reaching satisfaction, driven on through the long night of existence by this very suffering.

Anxious and full of care, he is, in truth, an object of pity compared to the one who is content, and who, without gathering too large a following of his own, keeps his own heart forever at peace.

And it is precisely because of this peace and quiescent stillness that gods and humans alike come to serve and honor such a person — and so you ought to set aside entirely any attachment to followers, whether close or distant.

It is like a lone tree standing in a vast marshland, where every kind of bird gathers to roost — gathering too large a following works in exactly the same way, bringing suffering upon oneself through the long night of existence; for a great many followers bring with them a great many entanglements, like an old elephant sinking helplessly into the mire."