I was looking for a poem last night, a short piece written in 1573 by the Buddhist monk Han-Shan Te’-Ch’ing. It took me until this morning, with The Beatles’ “Help!” playing at my desk, to find it. (Overnight, I dreamt that I’d dreamt the poem, a hazy fragment from a mushroom trip or a Tom Robbins novel read long ago. But no! It was real!)
This silly mountain doesn’t go around aping people,
Playing the clown, society’s fool.
It sits here alone, contented in solitude, perfect in peace.
I should be so silly.
The reason I was looking for it last night has come and gone, so I share it with you now. Maybe it will change everything. Maybe it’s the answer to the question you’ve been asking.