[If credit has not been duly given please reach out to me so that I can make amends.]
The Empty Cup
A scholar, proud of his learning, traveled far to meet a Zen master. He arrived at the master’s simple hut and bowed, saying, “I’ve studied philosophy, scriptures, and the ways of the mind. I’ve come to learn what you know of truth.” The master nodded and invited him to sit.
Without a word, the master set out a teapot and two cups. He began pouring tea into the scholar’s cup. The tea rose to the brim, then spilled over the edge onto the table. Still, the master kept pouring. The scholar watched, uneasy, until he could hold back no longer. “Stop!” he said. “The cup’s full—it can’t take any more!”
The master set the teapot down and looked at him. “Your mind is like this cup,” he said. “Full of what you already know—opinions, theories, certainties. How can I show you truth if you don’t empty it first?”
The scholar sat in silence. For once, he had no reply.
A Chinese Bamboo Parable
A man, feeling discouraged in the world having neither achieved his goals or changed, sought out his mentor. The mentor asked him, “How long does it take for the giant bamboo to grow as tall as a building? During the first year the small shoot is watered and fertilised and nothing happens. In the second year the shoot is watered and fertilised some more, another year has passed. And another. And still nothing happens. Then on the fifth year, it shoots up to the sky. In six weeks the bamboo grows over 30m tall. So how long does it take for the bamboo to grow so high?”.
“Six weeks”, the man replied.
“That is your mistake”, said the mentor, “It takes five years. Had the shoot not been watered or fertilised at any point during those five years, it would have died. What was happening during all those years? Deep in the earth an enormous network of roots was developing to support the bamboo’s sudden growth. Growth takes patience and perseverance. Every drop of water made a difference. Every step you take makes an impact. You may not see the change right away but growth is happening.”
The Farmer Parable
A farmer used a horse to farm his fields. One day, the horse ran away into the hills. The farmer’s neighbours sympathised with the old man over his bad luck, with the farmer replying, “Bad luck? Good luck? Who knows?”
A week later, the horse returned with a herd of wild horses from the hills, and this time the neighbours congratulated the farmer on his good luck. He replied, “Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?”
Then, when the farmer’s son was attempting to tame one of the wild horses he fell off and broke his leg. Everyone again sympathized with the farmer over his bad luck. But the farmer’s reaction was, “Bad luck? Good luck? Who knows?”
War broke out in the country and some weeks later, the army marched into the village to draft every able-bodied youth they could find. When they saw the farmer’s son with his broken leg, they let him stay.
Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?
A Taoist Parable
During a time of great drought, a Taoist master was asked by members of a village if he could help bring rain to their dry fields. They confessed trying many other approaches before reaching out to him, but with no success.
The master agreed to come and asked for a small hut with a garden that he could tend. For three days, he tended the garden, performing no special rituals or asking anything further from the villagers. On the fourth day, rain began to fall on the parched earth. When asked how he had achieved such a miracle, the master answered that he was not responsible for the rain. However, he explained, when he came to the village, he had sensed disharmony within himself. Each day, as he tended the garden, he returned a little more to himself. When he returned to balance, the rain came naturally.
The Land Dispute Parable
Two men were disputing as to who was the rightful owner of a thin strip of land between their properties. After much fruitless fighting, they called in the Taoist sage as mediator.
The sage told them he would ask the land about the matter; he lay down on the ground and pressed his ear to the earth. The sage remained thus for what seemed an eternity. The agitated disputants fidgeted and repeatedly asked, “What is the decision? Who does this land belong to?” Finally, the sage rose slowly and said, “The land says it does not belong to either of you. You belong to it. No more is needed.”
The Stonecutter
There was once a stonecutter who was dissatisfied with himself and his position in life. One day, he passed a wealthy merchant’s house and through the open gateway saw many fine possessions and important visitors.
“How powerful that merchant must be!” thought the stonecutter.
He became envious and wished he could be like the merchant with his big house, wealth and importance. He wouldn’t have to live the life of a mere stonecutter.
Then, to his great surprise, he became the merchant. He enjoyed more luxuries and power than he had ever dreamed of, and became envied and hated by those less wealthy than himself. But then a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants and escorted by soldiers. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession – even him.
“How powerful that official is!” he thought. “I wish I could be a high official.”
Then he became the high official. He was carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by everyone who had to bow before him. On a hot day in summer, the official began to feel uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence.
“How powerful the sun is!” he thought. “I wish I could be the sun!”
Then (you know what’s coming) he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, rich or poor, scorching the fields. But then a huge black cloud drifted between him and the earth so his light could no longer shine on everything below.
“How powerful that storm cloud is!” he thought. “I wish I could be a cloud!”
And so he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But then he noticed he was being pushed away by a great force. The wind was moving the cloud.
“How powerful it is!” he thought. “I wish I could be the wind!”
Then he became the wind. He blew tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooted trees and was hated and feared by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that wouldn’t move no matter how forcefully he blew. A huge, towering stone.
“How powerful that stone is!” he thought. “I wish I could be a stone!”
Finally, he became the stone. He was more powerful than anything else on the earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the solid rock and felt himself being changed.
“What could be more powerful than I, the stone?” he thought.
He looked down and saw, far below him, the figure of a stonecutter.
The Emperor’s Wall
The emperor ordained the construction of a high wall on the border of the realm to block the entry of unsavoury elements and impure races. At first, he was satisfied with his wall as some suspicious characters were turned back. But over time, the emperor’s subjects voiced many complaints. Trade was impeded and families divided. Time was wasted while waiting at the gates.
Most troublesome was the chain of problems created because the deer, elk, and other animals could not migrate across the land with the seasons as they had done for ages. When too many deer accumulated on one side of the wall, the people could not cope with the numbers. Hordes of animals destroyed the trees and bush. Crops were destroyed and erosion problems were rampant.
The emperor sought the advice of the greatest minds in the realm but no solution was forthcoming. Finally, he called upon a Taoist sage for advice. Gently but firmly the sage said: “Your construction of a wall upsets the balance of Tao. This action of blockage is far too yang. You must allow the flow of Nature. Your Great Wall is great indeed. But greater still is the Tao.”
A Perfect Garden
A priest was in charge of the garden within a famous Zen temple. He had been given the job because he loved the flowers, shrubs, and trees. Next to the temple there was another, smaller temple where there lived a very old Taoist master.
One day, when the priest was expecting some special guests, he took extra care in tending to the garden. He pulled the weeds, trimmed the shrubs, combed the moss, and spent a long time meticulously raking up and carefully arranging all the dry, autumn leaves. As he worked, the old master watched him with interest from across the wall that separated the temples.
When he had finished, the priest stood back to admire his work. “Isn’t it beautiful,” he called out to the old master. “Yes,” replied the old man, “but there is something missing. Help me over this wall and I’ll put it right for you.”
After hesitating, the priest lifted the old fellow over and set him down. Slowly, the master walked to the tree near the centre of the garden, grabbed it by the trunk, and shook it. Leaves showered down all over the garden. “Ah, there,” said the old man, “you can put me back now.”
The Parable of the Starfish
There was once a young man who had recently moved close to the ocean. He began a routine of daily walks along the beach. He noticed how many sea creatures would wash up on the beach as the tide went out, particularly starfish. As he walked along he saw an old man bending down, picking up and throwing them back into the ocean.
“Hmm, curious work” the young man thought but thought nothing more. As he continued his routine of daily walks, he saw this old man each day bending and throwing. “What a pointless task, there are thousands of starfish on this beach. All toil, no reward.”
Eventually the young man felt the need for an explanation from the old man as to his actions. He walked up to the old man and said, “Old man, there are thousands of starfish on this beach, all your work and you throw back so little. Don’t you see want you’re doing doesn’t matter?”
The old man looked at the young man then bent down, picking up a starfish. The old man held up the starfish then threw the creature back into the ocean. He looked back at the young man and said, It matters to that one.”
A Zen Parable
A great, Zen Master travelled with his disciple to a small village that sat in the foot hills below their temple. The student was excited about their visit to the village, as leaving the temple was a rare treat and he longed for this quiet time walking with his Teacher. He was a devoted student and knew that every moment with his Teacher held the opportunity to learn from him. He also enjoyed the attention given to them by the villagers, as his Master was revered and respected by all who had contact with him. The Sensei’s wisdom flowed effortlessly from all his words and actions. He was sure to learn something of the Tao on this trip together.
During their walk down the mountain he remained quiet, as he had already been instructed that learning would not come from anything he spoke, but from being still in the moment and waiting for enlightenment to fall upon him. Through the long journey, his Master never spoke. As the Master and the villagers met, they exchanged kind greetings or common pleasantries, and he again remained quiet waiting for some profound moment to be revealed. They stopped at the shops where they could buy the few items they needed and still no great mystery had unfolded before him. He was frustrated and decided that he would find a way to learn something of importance.
As they began their walk back up the hillside, they passed the shop of an artisan close to the edge of the village. There in the shop were beautiful paintings and calligraphy for sale. The artist was a talented one and hardly a person could pass without stopping to take in the beauty displayed in even rows. The artist had carefully hung each just beyond the awning of his shop, so it would be enhanced by the natural light of the sun on this beautiful day. The colours seemed to almost glow in their depth and shading. The scenes of countryside, still life, people, and even the characters painted black on white, captured the passer-by’s attention. He saw in this a chance to gain some insight and asked his Master which of the items he thought was the most beautiful. Certainly whichever painting he chose would have some deeper meaning of the Tao that he could then reflect on in meditation with the hopes of discerning its hidden truth.That Master carefully looked at each, studying and admiring the beauty of colour and form. When the Sensei would spend great time at any one painting, the student readied himself for his Teacher’s answer and the wisdom it would contain. Eventually, the Master entered the shop, and after a formal bow and greeting from the artisan, he walked to a blank canvas sitting in a darkened corner of the shop. He paused and pointed to the blank canvas and said, “This is, by far, my favourite of all the works I see here”. The baffled student asked, “But Master, how can this be? With all of the beautiful paintings outside with fine detail, practiced stroke, and mastery of colour and shade, how can this be your favourite? It contains nothing.” The Teacher replied, “My devoted disciple, you see in the others only that beauty which is. In this blank page, I see all the beauty that can be.” The student again walked quietly beside the Master as they returned to the temple, his lesson learned.
The Parable of the Fishermen
Daijun, was the eldest son of a prosperous fisherman in the small port town of Mancu. He had watched his father work the seas his whole life and wanted nothing more than to be a great fisherman in kind. When he was old enough, he told his father of his desires to follow in his footsteps and his willingness to learn the craft. His father was proud of the family tradition and set out to teach his son, just as he had been taught by his father and his father before him, for generations.
The next day, he sent Daijun to the harbour to work with the labourers scraping barnacles from the ships at dock. It was hard, tortuous work. When Daijun returned home, he complained of the hard work and questioned what it had to do with fishing. His father explained that to fish the sea, you must sail. And to sail, you need a boat. And to own a boat, you must know how to fix and care for it. Daijun could not argue the logic and continued his work at the docks.
He spent the next weeks teaching his son every knot, pulley, winch, and sail of the old trawler they owned. He became quite the proficient sailor, but in time, Daijun asked his father when he would learn to find and catch the fish. His father had seen his son become a proficient sailor and explained to Daijun that there was but one more important lesson to learn. He gave Daijun the daily task to take the small and unsellable fish by hand cart, up the long hill to the village and give the fish to the poor and hungry who lived there. Sensing the end of his training and the beginning of truly fishing in the near future, Daijun took to his task the first day with glee.
He returned at the end of the day feeling quite differently about his lesson. Muscles aching from pushing the laden cart up the long hill, smelling of rotting fish, and feeling beleaguered by the throngs of needy who so greedily took of their kindness, he asked his father what this could possibly have to do with fishing.
His father simply repeated his mantra, “To fish, you must sail. To sail, you need a boat. To own a boat, you must know how to fix and care for your boat. And to take fish as a gift from the sea, you must first learn to give.”
The Parable of ‘Enough’
Master Hua had painted for many years and had become a renowned artist in the province. A farmer by trade, he worked his fields as hard as any man through the seasons. But when winter set in and the fields needed no tending, he found the time to show his appreciation, through his fine art, for the nature he communed with daily. He would sell these works locally to help stave off the lack of income in the leanest months.
One day a travelling Prefect from the capital city happened upon the man, as he and his eldest son set out his display in a small shop in town. For the shop owner, the art not only caught a passer’s eye, but also drew people into his shop to look. And for this convenience to Master Hua, he charged but a small pittance of the sale. Master Hua was appreciative and was glad to know that the shop keeper would also benefit from this in these hardest times of the year.
The Prefect raved to Master Hua, “The beauty and craft of your art is amazing. What price are you asking for this painting?” When Master Hua answered, the Prefect exclaimed, “You could sell this art for five times that price in the capital.” Master Hua humbly thanked him for his kind words and stated, “I have no interest in moving to the city to sell my art.” The Prefect merely shrugged and paid Master Hua twice the given price, making sure he reserved enough to get back home. When Master Hua tried to refuse his overpayment, the Prefect simply turned and continued on his way feeling he had struck quite a bargain.
As they finished their work, Master Hua’s son asked, “Why would you not want to give up the hard work of the fields and move to the city to paint all day instead? With the money you would make we could live a very comfortable life, wanting for nothing.” Master Hua reminded his son, “We already have no want for anything. All our needs have been sufficiently met in our lives, and always have been.” His son replied, “But, we could have so much more”.
Master Hua paid the shop owner his share and then added a few more coins, as the Prefect had been so generous in giving more. As they left the shop, his son asked, “Why did you give Master Wong the extra money? If you had paid him just his fair commission, there would be more for us. Now we may have to do with less through winter.” “Don’t worry son, we have enough,” assured his father.
As they left the small village, they came across a beggar huddled under the eave of a temple. Master Hua walked over and placed a handful of coins into his bowl. The beggar blessed and thank Master Hua for his kindness. “Why did you give away even more of our money?”, complained his son.
Master Hua recognized the chance to impart a great wisdom to his son, and told him, “Son, your misperception of these transactions is skewed by the accepted idea that ‘more’ and ‘less’ truly exist. But that is not the case. ‘More’ and ‘less’ are a myth created to perceive some people above and others below. But this, too, is not the case.” As his son listened intently, still somewhat puzzled by his words, he continued, “More does not mean better, nor less mean worse. We are measured by who we are, not by what we have. The only true measure is ‘enough’. The true path to the best self is learning to be mindful, thankful, and appreciative of having ‘enough’. Any craving for ‘more’ or dismissal of ‘less’ leads to unhappiness.”
His son’s mindset wrestled with understanding and Master Hua could see it in his eyes. He tried to make it clearer and said, “Let’s follow the thought of ‘more’, my son. When the Prefect first approached us, you see him as having ‘more’, his purse filled with coins. I sell him a painting and he keeps enough to get back to the city safely and well fed. Happy to have enough and the painting under his arm. It would not appear that keeping the ‘more’ would have made him happier. Now the ‘more’ is mine. I give some of the ‘more’ to the shop keeper. Now he has enough to fix his leaking roof before the next snow. He is happy to be warm and safe having enough. And, we still have ‘more’ leftover. Then we meet someone who does not have enough. We give him our ‘more’ and he is thankful to have enough. Now, we no longer have ‘more’, but we are no less happy and thankful because we have enough. The true balance of the Tao is that for every ‘more’ there is a ‘less’ and the centre point of true happiness in life is everyone having enough.”
The Parable of the Tree
Just outside the city lived a tree in the forest. He had lived there many years, and the time shown on his weathered and bent body. His full and mature mane of branches and leaves balding in places from the passage of time. But he was as strong and healthy as any of the younger, straighter, and taller trees around him.
A small town popped up near the river that the tree drank from. As the city had grown, so had its need for lumber and clear land. The town also grew, as more workers arrived daily to provide both. He watched with sadness for the young, straight, tall trees, that would never see the perspective of longevity, as they were fell around him.
One day, as the line of cleared land neared where he lived, a worker approached with an axe. He feared his time had also come. Before the axe could rise, another man stopped the worker and told him to leave the old, weak, crooked tree. They were here for lumber. The two moved past the tree and continued with their taking of others.
Although temporarily reprieved, the tree could not help but feel useless. Suddenly, he could feel the bark that peels from his trunk and the knots in his arms. Moaning and creaking with each gust of wind. Even the animals to whom his friends had given shelter were gone and the silence was only broken by the timeless murmur of his neighbor the river.
As the days passed, the workers would often rest under him to eat, shaded from the heat of the sun by the canopy of his bent body. As they moved on, and the town grew, others sought him out to provide company. Travelers, some as old and weary as him, would find sanctuary and song from his leaves whispering the cooling breeze. Lovers would kiss listening to the song of wren or jay visiting in his safety. Children would hug his gnarled limbs and climb, laughing with adventure. Even poets would sit under him to compose, in the hopes of catching the beauty of his fall rainbow.
Many, many more years passed, and he remained. Standing just as bent and bowed as ever. Left to ponder why he had to become useless to become useful.
TheForceOfDao 