! The Monk And The Tree

At dawn each day, as the monk awoke upon the polished floor, and rolled his bedding mat, the Way – the way things are, the way they follow – walked its way beside him. Later, he would take his brush, the ink-block, paper, and the water-pot he filled each day with water from the river, and find a place, among the woods, or by the river bank; where the Way would teach him old things, seen as if now new. Most often, he would sit near an ancient tree which had so much to teach him; its trunk and branches gnarled and twisted with the wisdom of the Way. The tree was, as great trees are, the most adventurous of artists: every Spring, it would put forth new twigs, as awkward as a newborn deer on stick-like legs, trying to stand and walk; the tree would let the Way make it as awkward, unsymmetrical, as inartistic as could be… then slowly through the year, the tree, the Way would make of this, a new and daring beauty; and the monk would learn of it, take up the brush, moisten the ink-block, and – brush gently swishing black on white – draw his daily lesson through the year… and because he was so loved and famed, connoisseurs of that most ancient art would beg his paintings; find their breath held, at his daring; their eyes would learn the Way. When the monk, now old, joined the Immortals, his many students gathered near that ancient tree. They said, the tree did not seem sad at all; threw out new leaves, seemed to rejoice; as teachers do, whenever pupils shine.