Ryōkan Taigu is remembered through a number of short, luminous sayings that distill his Zen insight into everyday images. One of the most frequently cited verses runs: “Too lazy to be ambitious, I let the world take care of itself. Ten days’ worth of rice in my bag, a bundle of twigs by the fireplace. Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment? Listening to the night rain on my roof, I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.” In a few lines, this poem gathers together themes of non-striving, trust in the natural unfolding of life, and a quiet joy in simple conditions. Rather than urging effort or achievement, it points toward a relaxed intimacy with the present moment, where even the sound of rain becomes a complete teaching.

Another well-known saying attributed to Ryōkan is: “The thief left it behind: the moon at my window.” Here, the story of a robbery becomes an occasion for gentle humor and profound non-attachment. Material possessions may be taken, yet the true “treasure” — the moonlight itself — remains untouched and freely available. This line suggests that what is most precious cannot be owned or stolen; it is given anew in each moment to anyone with eyes to see. The verse also reveals Ryōkan’s characteristic compassion for the thief, as if the real pity is not the loss of objects, but the thief’s failure to notice the moon.

Ryōkan’s self-descriptions often carry a playful humility. One such line is: “Last year, a foolish monk; this year, no change.” Rather than presenting himself as an enlightened sage, he speaks as an ordinary person who continues to stumble along the path. This disarming honesty undermines spiritual pride and invites a more relaxed, human approach to practice. The same spirit appears in his remark: “My hut is so small; only one person can live in it. When someone comes, I have no choice but to go out.” What might seem like a complaint about poverty becomes a subtle celebration of hospitality and self-effacement, as though the visitor’s presence is more important than the host’s comfort.

Other verses attributed to Ryōkan further illuminate his contemplative sensibility. “With no mind, flowers lure the butterfly” suggests a state in which the usual grasping mind falls silent, and the natural world moves in effortless harmony. His images of a hut in the forest, ivy growing longer each year, and the occasional song of a woodcutter evoke a life lived far from worldly affairs, yet rich in quiet awareness. Even when speaking of children gathering around as he begs for food, or of always being “it” in their games, the tone is free of shame and full of delight. Across these sayings, Ryōkan’s voice emerges as one of simplicity, poverty embraced without bitterness, and a childlike openness that allows each ordinary scene to reveal the heart of Zen.