Exhortation to Cultivation

When the New Year arrives, pigs and sheep are slaughtered in the countryside. At the last feeding before slaughter, the pig still eats so merrily, utterly unaware that this is the final meal of its life. It has spent its whole life doing nothing, fattened up only to lose its life—the more ignorant the animal, the less awakened it is. Humans are just the same. All of humanity's disasters lie plainly before our eyes, glaringly obvious, with nothing concealed. Rely on mountains and the mountains collapse; rely on water and the water flows away; rely on people and the people run off—nothing can be relied upon. Yet even as disasters arise all around, people still have the heart to travel and sightsee, gazing at mountains, waters, and snow, playing whenever they can play and enjoying themselves whenever they can—just like a pig savoring its last supper. Where, then, lies the difference between humans and pigs?

Do not think that a lifetime is long—that is an illusion; in the eyes of the devas it amounts to only a few minutes or a few days. Do not think you are still young—on the road to the Yellow Springs there is neither old nor young, and the sight of white-haired parents sending off black-haired children happens all too often. Do not think you will be fine—among those struck by great calamities, many are people brimming with self-confidence, and only when they lie in bed unable to move do they shed tears of regret, but by then it is too late.

Having encountered the Buddhadharma, yet still not awakening, still unwilling to strive in practice and change this sorrowful fate of birth and death—what medicine could possibly save such a person? When I speak of someone, that someone should know it; if they still do not know, they are simply as stupid as a pig. And if they know yet still do not change, what kind words could there possibly be to say?