Budai Monk
```markdown In Mingzhou Fenghua County lived a Cloth Bag Monk: short and stout, with a belly remarkably large. His speech was quirky, jumping from one offhand comment to the next, and he slept wherever he laid his head.
In Mingzhou Fenghua County lived a Cloth Bag Monk: short and stout, with a belly remarkably large. His speech was quirky, jumping from one offhand comment to the next, and he slept wherever he laid his head.
He often shouldered a wooden staff, a tattered cloth bag and a frayed straw mat dangling from it, all his possessions stuffed inside the bag. He took whatever he came across, eating every kind of food—chicken, duck, fish, and meat included—without a second thought, but he always set a small portion aside to toss into his cloth bag with every meal.
The Cloth Bag Monk had a song that ran, in essence:
I carry a cloth bag, empty as the void, free of all ties. Unfurled, it spans the ten directions; drawn close, I dwell in serene awareness.
He also had a gāthā that ran:
The world overflows with right and wrong, hatred and desire— Ponder it closely: what can they ever do to me? Widen your belly, learn to bear all insults; Open your heart, let all things run their course. If you meet a kindred spirit, hold to proper bounds; Even if you clash with a foe, dwell in harmony with them. If you can lay these heart-troubles to rest, You will naturally attain the six pāramitās.
He had another gāthā that went:
One alms bowl holds rice from a thousand households, A lone body wanders ten thousand leagues. Few return my gaze with warmth; When I lose my way, I ask the white clouds for the path.