In the heart of the night I
am wandering the back streets
and alleys of old Kyoto when I
stumble across old Joshu staring
placidly at his acolyte monks
gathered closely around him.
“I ask you all again,” he says,
“does a dog have Buddha Nature?”
The monks consider this at length,
each afraid to respond incorrectly.
In this dream I am a cat out for
my nocturnal stroll and so I sit
at the feet of Master Joshu purring
as he gently smiles at me knowingly.
I know that in the morning I will
again be an aging man, my whiskers
grown short and thick, my true self
still searching for those missing pieces
of myself that will set me on the path
to nirvana that is always beyond reach.
I can laugh at my own foolishness,
knowing by searching I will never find
that for which I search, and at that moment
I am Joshu’s dog again, so I take my seat
on the zafu as the morning sitting bell rings,
and as I settle into zazen, the cat
ambles over, curls into my lap, purring
in what will become our own samadhi.