Shōdōka
Introduction
The Shōdōka — "song (歌) of awakening (証) to the Way (道)" — is a long poem composed by Yōka Daishi (永嘉大師, Yongjia Xuanjue, 665–713), a disciple of Huineng, the Sixth Patriarch. According to tradition, he composed it in a single night after receiving confirmation of his awakening.
This poem of great literary beauty expresses with sovereign freedom the reality of awakening: not as a state to be attained in the future, but as the very nature of the mind, here and now. Yōka describes his direct experience with a quiet assurance that has captivated generations of practitioners.
Among the most chanted and contemplated texts in Zen, the Shōdōka offers a panoramic vision of the way — from realization to compassion, from freedom in the face of death to service to all beings.
Do you see this man who has realized the Way — doing nothing, learning nothing?
He neither subtracts nor adds anything, yet his nature is without flaw.
The mind of the mirror is constantly pure;
it refuses nothing, accepts nothing.
Do you not see the true student without hindrance,
who does not reject the play of illusions?
Buddha nature is awakening — what else is there to seek?
Primordial emptiness is not the emptiness of nothingness.
For thirty years I searched, carried from inn to inn —
how many times did I leave the forest of branches and leaves?
Since I recognized the source in a single instant,
I know that birth and death no longer concern me.
Walking, stopping, sitting, lying down —
the primordial nature is always there, still.
Even if a sword falls upon my head,
I remain calm, incapable of being troubled.
Since I understood the transmission of the Sixth Patriarch,
I have seen clearly that buddha nature is at the root of all things.
Heaven and earth — how could they ever cover me?
The sun and moon — how could they ever hide me?
The lion roars, without fear;
all animals hear it and flee trembling.
The wild elephant also flees in confusion;
only the celestial dragon listens in silence, full of joy.
I crossed rivers and oceans, climbed mountains and rocks,
seeking my teachers and questioning the Way.
Since I recognized Caoxi — the master of Shaozhou —
I have known that birth and death are not the concern of the dharma.
Walking is Zen, sitting is Zen —
whether speaking or silent, moving or at rest.
Facing the tip of a blade or the edge of a precipice,
one can remain serene; nothing can disturb.
The poison and arrows of a bad teacher:
they cause one to lose the inner treasure and drown in confusion.
The mind of Zen is like the sun at its zenith:
all mist and clouds instantly disperse.
A single proof of the Way is more precious
than ten thousand years of reading sūtras.
Question the highs and lows of the gate of Awakening:
let the clouds part and the sun will appear.
Since I clearly saw the moon in the lake,
I left the stones and sand on the shore.
Essence is empty, nature is Buddha;
the five skandhas are vapor, the three poisons are clouds.
One who realizes this — what need is there for words?
One need only act according to one's original nature.
Neither rich nor poor, neither wise nor foolish —
one is simply present, without definition.
Ordinary beings and buddhas are of a single nature;
the dharma of awakening is not to be sought outside.
The moon in the mirror, the water in the lake —
always there, without effort, without withdrawal.
Those who study the Way should not seek far —
the Way is before you, in every step you take.
Wild beasts do not fear the lion;
hawks do not flee the sparrowhawk.
But foxes and jackals — hearing the roar —
lose their heads and know not where to go.
May this poem be a key for those who seek —
not words, but a mirror to see their own face.
Translated from classical Chinese. Yōka Daishi (永嘉大師, Yongjia Xuanjue, 665–713), disciple of the Sixth Patriarch Huineng. Poem composed after confirmation of awakening.