The Zen of Reverent Rabbit

The Zen of Reverent Rabbit
written & illustrated by Joseph Kelly
Copyright 2025  Joseph Kelly Designs
First Snow - Winter
In the shadow of Mount Fuji, where winter descended first and lingered longest, and mountains pierced clouds like questions seeking heaven, a young white rabbit named Shiromaru huddled against the December wind. Unlike the other rabbits of Hakone forest who found contentment in their simple existence, Shiromaru's eyes reflected a restlessness that matched the churning waters of Lake Ashi below.
The scent of pine and snow filled his nostrils as he watched village children place small stone arrangements beside the frozen shoreline. Their laughter carried clearly in the winter air, each breath becoming visible testimony to life's ephemeral nature.
"Why do I feel this emptiness when others seem complete?" Shiromaru whispered to the indifferent moon rising over Owakudani Valley. His question hung in the air, crystallizing like his breath before dissolving into nothingness.
That night, as heavy snow silenced the world, Shiromaru dreamed of a perfect circle drawn in a single brushstroke, complete yet somehow unattainable.
The Hollow Mountain - Late Winter
The village of Hakone celebrated Setsubun with time-honored fervor. Children threw roasted soybeans to banish demons, chanting "Oni wa soto, fuku wa uchi" (Demons out, fortune in). Shiromaru observed from a distance, wondering which side of the threshold he belonged on, inside with blessing or outside with the demons.
It was during this festival that he first encountered Tanuki, the raccoon dog of folklore, disguised as an elderly monk counting prayer beads near Hakone Shrine.
"You seek something," stated Tanuki, his eyes twinkling with mischief and wisdom in equal measure. "Yet you haven't asked what you're truly searching for."
Shiromaru's ears twitched with surprise. "How did you—"
"The hollowness inside you echoes loudly," Tanuki interrupted, tapping his round belly. "Follow me. There's something you should see."
Through moonlit forest they traveled, snow crunching beneath their feet, the scent of cedar and shrine incense mingling in the cold air. They arrived at the entrance to Hakone's dormant volcano, where steam escaped from ancient fissures.
"What do you notice?" asked Tanuki.
"Heat emerging from coldness," Shiromaru replied. "Emptiness producing substance."
Tanuki nodded. "The mountain appears solid yet contains vast chambers of nothingness from which all its power flows. Remember this paradox."
In the predawn darkness, Tanuki led Shiromaru to an abandoned mountain temple where scrolls lay forgotten beneath fallen roof beams. The musty scent of aged paper and ink filled the small space as Shiromaru carefully extracted teachings that spoke of ma (emptiness), wabi-sabi (imperfect beauty), and yugen (mysterious depth).
Night after night, Shiromaru returned, the scrolls' ancient wisdom seeping into him like tea through water. Yet knowledge alone left him unsatisfied, like hearing about the ocean without feeling its vast presence.
The Green Awakening - Spring
Cherry blossoms transformed the Hakone mountainside into clouds of pink and white. Their fragrance—delicate and fleeting—carried both promise and inevitable loss. Shiromaru sat beside the Hayakawa River, watching as wind-loosened petals fell onto the water's surface, creating momentary patterns before being carried downstream.
"They are most beautiful precisely because they fall," observed a familiar voice.
Tanuki appeared beside him, now without disguise, his ringed tail swishing thoughtfully.
"Mono no aware," Tanuki continued, gesturing toward the ephemeral blossoms. "The pathos of things. Our hearts respond most deeply to beauty inseparable from its impermanence."
Shiromaru watched a perfect blossom touch the water, creating concentric ripples before being swept away. "If nothing lasts, why should we care so deeply?"
"It is because nothing lasts that we must care deeply," Tanuki replied. "Transience doesn't diminish meaning—it creates it."
As spring unfurled across Sagami Province, Shiromaru crafted a kimono that embodied his awakening understanding. Each stitch represented a question; each panel, a possibility. The silk captured the specific green of new pine needles after rain, while small white blossoms scattered across the fabric echoed the cherry trees' brief glory. His crimson obi—the color of shrine gates and autumn maples—completed the transformation.
On the sixteenth day of spring, Shiromaru departed from Hakone forest, leaving behind the familiar for the uncertain path of seeking. The taste of young bamboo shoots, his last meal at home, lingered on his tongue, simultaneously bitter and sweet.
The Mountain's Teaching - Early Summer
Summer heat shimmered above the rice paddies of Shizuoka Prefecture as Shiromaru followed narrow pathways between fields where farmers worked in rhythmic harmony. The distinctive scent of mud and growing things hung heavy in the air, punctuated by the metallic tang of sweat.
Here Shiromaru encountered Yama-Uba, the mountain crone of legend, collecting herbs along the boundary between forest and field. Though her appearance startled him, hair wild as winter branches, skin weathered as ancient stone, her movements possessed extraordinary grace.
"You walk as if searching," she observed, her voice unexpectedly melodious. "Yet what you seek doesn't require traveling."
"Respectfully, grandmother," Shiromaru replied, bowing deeply, "if wisdom were as simple as staying still, all stones would be sages."
Yama-Uba's laughter cascaded like water over rocks. "Clever rabbit. Come, assist me. These herbs won't gather themselves."
For seven days, Shiromaru apprenticed himself to Yama-Uba, learning which plants healed and which harmed, how roots connecting underground reflected connections invisible above. The rhythmic snipping of her herb scissors and the earthy fragrance of crushed leaves became his constant companions.
On the seventh evening, as cicadas thrummed their summer symphony, Yama-Uba revealed her true purpose.
"You've studied ancient scrolls," she stated, her gnarled fingers sorting dried herbs with precise efficiency. "Tell me what they say about suffering."
"The Buddha taught that life contains inevitable dukkha, suffering arising from attachment and impermanence."
"Words," she dismissed. "Tomorrow you'll learn directly."
Before dawn, they descended to a village struck by fever. Children burned with sickness; parents collapsed from exhaustion. The air hung heavy with the metallic scent of illness and the sour note of fear.
For three days without rest, Shiromaru applied Yama-Uba's herbal knowledge—cooling fevered brows, brewing bitter medicines, comforting those beyond healing. His paws became stained with medicinal pastes, his fur permeated with sickness and sorrow.
When a child died despite their efforts, Shiromaru retreated to the forest edge, his body trembling with exhaustion and grief.
"Why continue when we cannot save everyone?" he asked when Yama-Uba found him. "The suffering never ends."
The mountain crone sat beside him, her silence as present as stone. Finally, she spoke: "The rains come and wash away part of the mountain each year. Should the mountain therefore consider itself diminished? Or should it recognize that what remains is more than sufficient for today's purpose?"
As typhoon clouds gathered above Fujisan, promising summer storms, Shiromaru absorbed this teaching like parched earth receiving first rain. Suffering existed not as problem to solve but as reality to engage with compassionate presence.
Before departing, Yama-Uba gifted him a simple herb pouch fashioned from indigo-dyed cloth. "Like this blue," she explained, "wisdom deepens through repeated immersion in life's difficulties. One dipping creates only pale understanding."
The herb pouch would become Shiromaru's first lasting companion, its faint medicinal scent reminding him that healing rarely came from grand gestures but from patient attention to immediate needs.
The Circle's Lesson - Late Summer
As summer reached its sweltering zenith, Shiromaru journeyed to Kyoto's western mountains where the Oi River offered cool respite. Here, the distinctive sound of bamboo water fountains, filled, tipping, striking stone, then rising again, marked the rhythm of contemplative gardens.
In the ancient temple of Tenryu-ji, Shiromaru encountered Master Ensō, an elderly crane whose calligraphy was renowned throughout the provinces. Each morning, the crane performed the same ritual: grinding ink with deliberate movements, preparing paper with careful attention, then attempting to draw a perfect circle in a single brushstroke.
"Why do you repeat this practice daily?" Shiromaru inquired after observing for several dawns. "Surely a master of your skill achieved the perfect circle years ago."
The crane's laughter sounded like distant temple bells. "If I had, there would be no need to continue, would there?"
For forty-nine days, Shiromaru studied with Master Ensō, learning that mastery existed not in achievement but in approach. Each morning, he ground ink until its scent rose like night descending. Each afternoon, he practiced brushstrokes until his paw ached from holding the bamboo handle.
Yet despite dedicated effort, Shiromaru's circles remained stubbornly imperfect—too elongated, too compressed, too hesitant, too forced.
"I've failed again," he sighed one evening, looking at his day's work spread across tatami mats, the scent of ink and frustration heavy in the air.
Master Ensō considered the circles thoughtfully, the sound of evening cicadas intensifying in the garden beyond paper doors.
"Tell me," the crane asked, "which circle would you show if you could destroy all but one?"
Shiromaru studied his work critically. "None deserve preservation."
"Look again," insisted Master Ensō. "Not with eyes seeking perfection, but with heart recognizing authenticity."
Reluctantly, Shiromaru reconsidered each attempt. Gradually, one circle drew his attention, neither his most precise nor his most elegant, yet somehow containing a quality the others lacked.
"This one," he finally admitted, indicating a circle whose right side thinned where his ink had nearly dried. "Though I cannot explain why."
"That circle emerged when you forgot yourself," the crane explained. "It carries the truth of that moment—your concentration, your breath, your acceptance of limitation. Its beauty lies precisely in its honest imperfection."
As evening shadows lengthened across Arashiyama's bamboo groves, Shiromaru recognized that the perfect circle existed not as external form but as internal alignment, the moment when intellect and intuition, discipline and spontaneity, intention and surrender converged.
Autumn Mountains - Fall
Crimson maples transformed the mountains of Nikko into living flame. Here, where imperial shrines nestled among ancient cryptomeria trees, Shiromaru encountered the young fox philosopher Kitsune, whose nine tails marked her considerable age despite youthful appearance.
Unlike Shiromaru's previous teachers, Kitsune challenged rather than affirmed. The sharp, slightly bitter fragrance of chrysanthemums accompanied their debates, which often continued from sunset through dawn.
"Your reverence is excessive," Kitsune argued during one particularly heated exchange, her voice carrying through misty evening air. "You bow to peasant and emperor with equal depth? To significant and trivial with identical attention? Such practice disrespects genuine hierarchy."
"Respectfully, I disagree," countered Shiromaru. "True reverence recognizes the inherent value in each being regardless of station. The farmer's hands that grow rice deserve the same acknowledgment as those that govern provinces."
Their philosophical disagreement reflected broader tensions rippling through Japan, where ancient class distinctions faced challenging new ideas. Villages beside Lake Chuzenji struggled as taxes increased while harvests diminished. The metallic ring of samurai swords being sharpened echoed through forests once reserved for contemplation.
"Philosophy means little to those who hunger," Kitsune observed after they passed a child gathering fallen chestnuts for food rather than play.
This truth pierced Shiromaru more deeply than any debate point. For seven days, he helped local farmers harvest before early snow could claim their crops, his green kimono stained with soil and honest effort. The rhythmic swish of cutting tools and communal songs of workers replaced philosophical discourse with pragmatic wisdom.
When heavy rainfall threatened to flood the valley, Shiromaru worked alongside villagers to reinforce riverbanks with stones and woven barriers. The urgent shouting of directions, the grunting effort of moving heavy materials, and the collective sigh when waters finally receded these sounds taught lessons no scroll could contain.
One evening, as they warmed themselves beside a communal fire, the distinctive scent of roasting sweet potatoes rising through wood smoke, Kitsune approached with newfound respect.
"Your actions proved wiser than your arguments," she acknowledged. "I've been thinking about what you said regarding reverence."
Their subsequent conversations explored how traditional wisdom could address contemporary challenges. When village elders sought to exclude outsiders from their diminished resources, Shiromaru and Kitsune helped devise a system where those receiving assistance contributed according to their abilities, the strong through labor, the skilled through teaching, the elderly through counsel.
"Perhaps this is kokoro," Kitsune suggested as they watched children and elders working together to repair typhoon damage, "when heart and mind unite in both compassion and practical action."
As autumn leaves surrendered to inevitable gravity, Shiromaru recognized how his understanding had deepened through engagement with real suffering. Philosophy embedded in daily life possessed vitality absent from pure abstraction.
Winter Mountain ~ Early Winter
First snow transformed the landscape into profound simplicity as Shiromaru journeyed back toward Hakone. Each pawprint marked temporary testimony to his passing; each breath plumed visible evidence of life's warming impermanence.
The distinctive hollow thunking of bamboo deer-scarers punctuated winter's silence, water freezing and thawing within them creating nature's timekeeping. Smoke from village hearths carried the comforting scent of miso and the distinctive aroma of burning hinoki wood.
Near a mountain crossroads blanketed in snow, Shiromaru encountered an unexpected sight—a young white rabbit attempting to drag a fallen traveler toward shelter. Without hesitation, Shiromaru joined the effort. Together they managed to bring the elderly pilgrim to a nearby tea house, where the proprietress immediately set water boiling, filling the small space with rising steam and the promise of warmth.
The young rabbit, who called himself Yukine, possessed an earnestness that stirred memories within Shiromaru.
"I seek enlightenment," Yukine explained as they shared modest bowls of rice porridge, its ginger-scented steam rising between them. "I've heard of a temple where ancient scrolls contain perfect wisdom."
Shiromaru recognized his younger self in Yukine's burning eyes and restless paws. The cycle had completed its revolution; spring within winter revealing itself.
"What would you do with this perfect wisdom once obtained?" Shiromaru inquired.
Yukine's answer emerged without hesitation: "I would become a great teacher, respected by all provinces for my profound understanding."
Rather than criticizing this ambition, Shiromaru simply invited Yukine to accompany him. Their journey back to Hakone followed forest paths where ice-laden branches created natural temple gates and frozen waterfalls stood as monuments to water's patient transformation.
Neither spoke much, the crunch of snow beneath their feet and the occasional distant call of winter birds provided sufficient accompaniment. This "ma", the space between words carried as much significance as anything they might have said.
At appropriate moments, Shiromaru demonstrated rather than explained. When they encountered an elderly woman struggling to gather fallen wood, he immediately assisted without comment. When they passed a snow-covered shrine, he bowed with equal reverence to both the official structure and the simple stone marker beside it.
On their final evening before reaching Hakone, as they sheltered in a cave warmed by a small fire, the dancing shadows emphasizing rather than diminishing darkness beyond their circle of light, Yukine finally asked directly: "What is the most essential teaching you've discovered in your journeys?"
Shiromaru remained silent, the crackling fire punctuating the stillness between them. Finally, he reached for his tea bowl, cracked from years of use yet still functional. With deliberate movement, he filled it with snow, then placed it near enough to the flames for gradual melting.
"Watch," he instructed.
Together they observed as snow transformed to water, the same substance in different form. No moment of precise transition could be identified, yet the change was undeniable.
"Wisdom isn't something to achieve," Shiromaru finally said, "but something to notice. It exists not in scrolls but in paying complete attention to ordinary moments—this melting snow, this crackling fire, this hunger, this shelter."
He paused, selecting his next words carefully.
"The circle is never perfect, Yukine. Its beauty lies in the honest attempt, the acceptance of limitation, and the willingness to begin again tomorrow."
Full Circle - New Year
Snow blanketed Hakone village as the year completed its cycle. Temple bells rang 108 times, each resonant tone dissolving into silence, marking "joya no kane", the ritual bonging away of human desires and attachments.
The distinctive scent of pine decorations and fresh-pounded mochi filled the air as villagers prepared for renewal. Children's laughter punctuated the reverent atmosphere as they chased one another through snow-covered paths.
Shiromaru, his green kimono now weathered by seasons of experience, had established a simple tea garden where the mountain met the forest. Neither grand nor pretentious, it featured five stones arranged to suggest mountains rising from mist, a bamboo fountain whose repetitive filling and emptying marked time's passing, and a carefully raked gravel area where he practiced drawing circles each morning.
Yukine had stayed, his initial impatience gradually yielding to appreciation for daily practice. Together they maintained the garden, prepared tea for visitors, and assisted nearby villages with practical needs. When spring illness swept through the region, Shiromaru's herb pouch, its indigo now faded from repeated use—provided remedies born from Yama-Uba's knowledge.
On New Year's morning, as sunrise illuminated Mount Fuji with promising light, three unexpected visitors arrived—Tanuki from the mountain temple, Kitsune from Nikko's shrines, and most surprisingly, Master Ensō from distant Kyoto.
"We felt it appropriate to witness the completion of your circle," explained the crane as they gathered in Shiromaru's modest tea room, where winter light created natural calligraphy through paper windows.
The tea ceremony Shiromaru performed contained no wasted movement, no artificial flourish. Each action, from heating water to whisking bitter matcha into momentary sweetness, emerged from centered presence rather than calculated technique. The distinctive sounds of water heating, ceramic touching ceramic, and bamboo whisk against clay bowl formed kinesthetic poetry.
When a village child suddenly appeared at the entrance, breathlessly reporting that his grandmother had fallen ill, Shiromaru immediately set aside the ceremony. Without apology or hesitation, he gathered his herb pouch and departed, leaving his distinguished guests with Yukine.
Hours later, returning through snowfall that transformed the landscape into transitional beauty, Shiromaru found his tea room exactly as he had left it, the ceremony paused rather than abandoned. His guests had waited in meditative silence, understanding that interruption itself constituted essential practice.
As they resumed the ceremony with the distinctive sound of hot water meeting cold ceramic, Tanuki voiced what each recognized: "Your greatest teaching has become the seamless integration of reverence into ordinary action."
Master Ensō, who rarely offered praise, added: "You have discovered "kokoro", the unity of heart-mind where wisdom resides not in intellect alone or emotion alone, but in their inseparable wholeness."
That evening, as New Year's constellations emerged above Mount Fuji, Shiromaru sat beside the garden's stone arrangement with Yukine. Neither spoke as nightfall transformed visible reality into suggestion and implication. The cold air carried crystalline clarity while distant village celebrations provided gentle counterpoint to silence.
"I still don't understand completely," Yukine finally admitted, his breath visible in moonlight.
"Understanding is neither complete nor incomplete," Shiromaru replied, his voice soft as snowfall. "Like this garden, wisdom requires constant tending—removing what doesn't belong, preserving what matters, always with attention rather than fixed expectation."
He gestured toward distant Fuji, simultaneously present yet unreachable. "The mountain appears unchanging, yet every snowflake alters it. We too are mountains being continuously transformed by each encounter, each decision, each moment of attention or neglect."
As midnight approached, Shiromaru took brush and ink and drew a circle on fresh paper. The brushstroke began confidently, thinned slightly where his paw naturally lifted, then concluded with acceptance of this characteristic pattern. The resulting circle, neither perfect nor flawed but simply authentic, contained within its form everything Shiromaru had learned.
Wordlessly, he offered the brush to Yukine.
Under the first stars of the new year, the young rabbit began his own circle, not copying his teacher's but discovering his unique expression. The circle closed imperfectly where brush first touched paper, creating not an end but a continuing spiral.
Shiromaru bowed deeply to his student, to the stars above, to the mountains beyond, and to the questions that remained unanswered yet somehow less troubling. The emptiness he had once fled had transformed into spaciousness, room for both certainty and doubt, for both wisdom and its absence.
For in Shiromaru's final understanding, all paths of wisdom converge in the practice of reverent attention to what is. When we bow completely to each being, each moment, each breath ,the whole universe bows in return, and in that reciprocal recognition, we discover that what we sought has been present from the beginning.
Like the circle, we return to where we started, seeing it for the first time.