One autumn, a wandering beggar came to the temple gates. His clothes were rags, his face weathered, but his eyes were calm as still water. The disciples, eager to prove their worth, mocked him. “Even pigs know better than to beg here,” one sneered.
The beggar only smiled.
Sesshin wept. He drank the broth. And in that ruined temple, under a roof that no longer kept out the rain, the master became the student. buta no gotoki
The beggar knelt. “Master, a pig does not know it is called a pig. But a man who calls another buta no gotoki — he forgets that even pigs have the Buddha-nature. Mud is not a curse. It is where lotus roots grow.” One autumn, a wandering beggar came to the temple gates
From that day, he never again called any living thing buta no gotoki — except himself, with a smile, when pride whispered in his ear. “Even pigs know better than to beg here,” one sneered
Once, in a crumbling temple at the edge of a forgotten village, there lived a monk named Sesshin. He was known for his harsh discipline and his even harsher tongue. To his disciples, he often said, “You are buta no gotoki — like pigs. Rooting in mud, blind to the sky.”
He entered the master’s room, carrying a bowl of broth made from muddy yams.