#601 The Two Monks and The Beautiful Woman

Image from 
Wellness and Wisdom Quest

One morning, two monks, a master and a novice, were traveling through a forest, walking in peaceful meditation when they came to a rushing river. Near the shore was a beautiful young woman who had started to cross, but the power of the current and slippery footing had paralyzed her. She could not take another step for fear of falling into the cataract and being swept away. The novice looked on wide-eyed as his master waded in, lifted her, and carried her to the opposite shore. There he set her down gently, blessed her with a respectful bow of his head, and with a kind, silent smile continued on his way while the novice hurried breathlessly to catch up.

The two traveled together without a word throughout the morning and into the afternoon. When the sun was overhead and the heat almost overwhelming, they stopped to rest in the cool shade of a grove of willow trees. The master saw that the young monk was uneasy and deep in thought. "What is troubling you, my son?"

"Master, you know that as monks we take a vow never to touch a woman. You broke your vow. How could you have carried that beautiful girl across the river?" His voice broke as confusion and disappointment in his master threatened to overwhelm him.

The elder monk smiled tenderly at his young companion. How well he knew the weight of the feelings and questions that burdened the earnest novice.

"Little brother, I left her on the shore of that river. But you have carried her all the way to this willow grove."

This is my own version of a traditional zen koan or parable. Like all great parables, it is complicated and sometimes troubling (Isn't the kid right? And why does she have to be a beautiful, young woman?)  We'll put those controversies in a basket for another day. For now, I have to acknowledge that this story has popped up like an echo in my life in several different  contexts over the past week, and today it seems particularly appropriate for me to spend some time with it.

I see myself in all three of the characters in this story. Once, when I was working in the theatre, I was on a scaffold with another rigger, high above the stage floor, helping to install new equipment in the ceiling. My partner needed me to cross a narrow plank that spanned the frame of the tower to help him operate a drill. I took two steps out, and froze. I could not move my feet, could not et go of the beam above me, certainly could not move my eyes to look down. If my partner had not stepped nimbly out onto the plank and taken my hands in his to walk me back to safety, I would still be up there. So, I understand the fear the young woman must have felt as the water rushed all around her.

In my current work as a personal trainer and coach, I am often part of conversations that remind me of my own experiences. The middle-aged man whose weight has gone up and down again and again for years - maybe his whole life. The woman whose struggling marriage has finally failed who can't stop accusing, regretting, and despairing. The cancer patient, newly diagnosed, who wants to know what's coming, and is terrified that he won't have the strength to face it. Or the caregiver who feels guilty for not doing enough, or for doing the wrong things. I have been blessed to have lived a long time, survived many trials, and made many mistakes. Those experiences have taught me compassion, like the patient old master whose young charge lashes out at him in confusion and disappointment

But mostly, I guess I recognize myself in the novice. I mean, hell, there are a couple of pretty, young girls I've been carrying for years. Failures remembered. Words I regret. Insults I've taken to heart. Old wounds. Old mistakes. It's a wonder I can walk at all, with all these things in my backpack.

I wish I'd had a wise old monk to remind me to set these things down gently by the river, bless them, and then continue on my way. But then, I wonder if my younger self would have listened or even understood his kind counsel. Its a little disappointing to me that, at a time in my life when I ought to be playing the role of the wise old master, I'm still weighed down with foolish, childish burdens, re-playing and re-writing movie scenes that were shot and in the can long ago.

My meditations have been difficult lately. Thoughts and images, emotions and memories have kept me drifting far away from Sophie the cat and my quiet chair. Some mornings, I don't even try because I just don't want to face the chattering inside that troubles me so. I'll turn on a video so I don't have to think, and try to go back to sleep. At night, I distract myself with idle eating, aimless scrolling, and one (or two) too many glasses of cheap chianti. It's been a difficult couple of weeks, and all it has done is to put a little more weight into my pack.

Anniversary dates are hard. February starts with the anniversary of my Father's death. It ends with the birthday of the finest woman I've ever known; one whom I loved - badly, but with all my heart - and failed so disastrously that I doubt I will ever really recover from the guilt and shame of letting her down. It's a hard time for me to be present. I'm not a very nice place to be this time of year.

Depression, that old booger-man doesn't make it any easier. A lifetime of faulty neurochemistry and destructive thinking keeps one eye fixed in the rear-view mirror, no matter how many miles I put between myself and yesterday. And sooner or later, I always seem to find myself passing through a town I've visited before, and the thorny past snatches out at me like briars. 

What's a gray-bearded novice to do? The burdens I've chosen to carry make it painful to walk, and setting them down seems impossible. I'd like to tell you I have an answer or even a plan, but to be honest, it's a little overwhelming. Here I am, in the cool breeze and lovely shade under these graceful willow trees, with my empty pack beside me, and its contents spread out at my feet. I know what I ought to do. I ought to bless it all, turn quietly with a bow and a smile, and leave them there on the dark mossy earth as I continue on my way. It's the only thing that makes sense. But I've been carrying them for so long, I'm not sure I know how to walk without them. I'm not even sure I know who I'd be without them.

I'm like a slave who is afraid to lay down his chains. 

I have no love for Depression, but it has taught me one important lesson. No matter how bad  things get, they do not stay bad forever. Change will come and I'll see sunshine again. But the dark times are hard, especially when they are self-inflicted.

When I read it again, I can't help but notice that the story of the two monks and the woman has no real ending. The novice doesn't learn a lesson. He doesn't let go of his fixation on the girl. He doesn't even condemn the old man as a hypocrite and abandon his service. We don't find out what he does. And maybe that's how it should be. It doesn't really matter if the young monk left his burden there, under the weeping willows.

What matters is, will we? Will I?

Do I dare?

"Little brother, I left her on the shore of that river. But you have carried her all the way to this willow grove."