The Real Monastery

"We still need to sort the donation bags," the Busy Monk says, sealing a container of dried chilies. "The ones from yesterday are sitting in the storeroom. And someone left the brooms out in the rain again."

"Wasn't me," the Lazy Monk says.

"It's never you."

"That's because I don't use brooms."

The Old Resident sweeps past them both without looking up.

"Did you hear the Venerable's talk last night?" the Busy Monk asks, reaching for the next container. "The sutta about the burden."

"I was there," the Lazy Monk says.

"Were you awake?"

"Mostly."

The Busy Monk lines up the containers by size. "He said the five aggregates are the burden. The body, what you sense, what you perceive, your thoughts, the whole field of sensation. That's what we carry around."

"Heavy," the Lazy Monk says, without conviction.

"And then — who carries it? The person. You, me, this one right here." He taps his own chest. "And what makes you pick it up? Desire. Wanting pleasure, wanting to become something, wanting to not exist. Those are the three."

"And when desire ends, the burden goes down."

"When it ends completely. Yes." The Busy Monk picks up a bag of dried mushrooms and checks the label. "Anyway, these mushrooms need to go on the top shelf before they get damp."

Silence. The Old Resident's broom moves across the concrete in slow strokes.

"So which one are you?" the Old Resident says, not looking up.

The Busy Monk pauses. "What do you mean?"

"The sutta says the burden is the five aggregates. And desire is what makes you pick it up." The Old Resident stops sweeping and leans on the broom handle. "So which kind of desire have you got?"

The Busy Monk reaches for the mushroom bag again. "I don't know about desire. I just know these bags won't sort themselves."

"That's an answer," the Old Resident says.

The Lazy Monk shifts his weight against the doorframe. "He wants to become something. The man who keeps the whole place running. That's his desire."

The Busy Monk looks at him sharply. Then back at the bag.

"And you?" The Old Resident turns to the Lazy Monk.

"Me? I'm not wanting anything. I'm perfectly content."

"The sutta mentions three kinds. Wanting pleasure. Wanting to become. Wanting to disappear." The Old Resident looks at the cloth in the Lazy Monk's hand — the cloth that has not touched a surface since the meal ended. "You don't want to become anything. You don't especially want pleasure. But you want to be left alone. You want the world to stop asking you for things."

The Lazy Monk's ease shifts slightly. "That's not desire. That's just being tired."

"Is it different?"

A bird calls from the trees behind the kitchen. The Busy Monk has stopped sorting. He is watching the Old Resident.

"And what about you, uncle?" the Busy Monk says. "You've been here thirty years. What are you carrying?"

The Old Resident picks up the broom again. "Same as both of you." He starts sweeping. "The sutta says there's a verse at the end. The burden-carrier puts the heavy load down, doesn't pick up a new one, pulls out desire by the root, and is satisfied." He stops. "Satisfied. Not enlightened, not holy. Satisfied. Like a man who's been carrying sacks all day and finally sits down."

Nobody speaks for a moment.

The Busy Monk picks up the next donation bag and carries it to the storeroom. The Lazy Monk stands there, cloth in hand. After a moment he folds it — carefully, the right way — and hangs it on the hook by the door. The clean-cloth hook, not the dirty one.

Nobody notices. But he put it in the right place.

"They say this was his first teaching," the Earthy Master says. "After he woke up. The first thing he told anyone."

"Yes," the Zen Master says.

"Two roads are wrong. The pleasure road and the punishment road. He tried both and neither worked. So he found the middle."

"Mmm."

"It's like landing a big fish." The Earthy Master walks a few steps in silence. "You pull too hard, the line snaps. You hold too loose, the fish swims off. You have to feel it — not too tight, not too slack. That's the middle. Not a compromise. A balance you find with your hands, not your head."

"The middle is not between the two extremes," the Zen Master says quietly. "It is before them."

The Earthy Master glances at him.

"Before you decide to chase pleasure or punish yourself, there is just this. Walking. Breathing. The middle way is not a correction. It is where you already are, before you leave it."

The Earthy Master laughs — short, warm. "True. But you leave it. That's the whole problem. So you need something to hold to find your way back."

"Holding is the difficulty."

"Holding the wrong thing is the difficulty. Holding the practice is fine — for a while. Like a cup of water. You hold it long enough to drink. Then you put it down. If you carry the cup all day your arm gets tired. But you needed the cup."

They walk in silence. A kingfisher calls from somewhere in the trees near the pond. The Earthy Master picks up a fallen leaf and turns it by the stem.

"He talked about suffering," the Earthy Master says. "The first truth. Birth is suffering, ageing is suffering, sickness, death. Being stuck with what you don't like. Being separated from what you love. Not getting what you want. And then he says — in short, the five grasped aggregates are suffering."

"Everything," the Zen Master says.

"Everything you grab and call yours. Not the things themselves — the grabbing. Wanting pleasure, wanting to become something, wanting to disappear. He called those the three kinds of desire. That's the second truth — where the suffering comes from."

"And the ending of desire is the third truth."

"Yes. Letting go completely. No remainder." The Earthy Master drops the leaf. "People hear that and they get scared. They think letting go means losing everything. But it's like this — you've been carrying a heavy sack on your back for so long you've forgotten it's there. Someone says 'put it down' and you think they're asking you to cut off your legs. No. Just put the sack down. Your legs are fine. You've just been carrying something you didn't need to carry."

The Zen Master nods. "When you put the sack down, you do not become empty. You become what you were before you picked it up."

"And the path — the eight factors. Right understanding, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right attention, right meditation. People hear that and they think it's a list. Do this first, then this, then this." He turns to the Zen Master. "You know mangoes?"

"I know mangoes."

"A mango starts as a flower on the branch. Then a hard green fruit. Then it softens. Then it ripens. But it's the same mango the whole time — you just call the different stages different names. The eight factors are like that. They grow together. You don't practise right speech on Monday and right effort on Tuesday. When one ripens, they all ripen."

"In our tradition we say: when you sit, just sit. When you walk, just walk. It is not eight things. It is one thing, seen from eight angles."

"Yes." The Earthy Master clasps his hands behind his back again. "One thing. Different angles."

They reach the bend in the path and turn. The hill with its weathered image is visible through the trees, catching the last of the afternoon light.

"The part that interests me," the Zen Master says, "is what happened to the student. Koṇḍañña. He heard the teaching and he saw just one thing: 'Whatever arises is subject to cessation.' Not the four truths. Not the path. Just — whatever comes, goes."

"That's all of it," the Earthy Master says. "The whole teaching in one sentence. If you really see that — not with the head but with the whole body, the whole being — you don't need the rest. The four truths are the map. What Koṇḍañña got was the territory."

"He did not understand the four truths. He just — saw."

The Earthy Master stops walking. He looks at the Zen Master. A long pause. Then he nods, once.

"You know," the Earthy Master says, walking again, "people ask me — how do I practise the path? And I say: you're breathing right now, aren't you? They look at me like I'm joking. But it's not a joke. If you breathe, the practice is right there. Every breath in and out. They want something to write in a notebook and follow step by step. But the wheel doesn't need you to push it." He taps his chest. "It's already turning."

"The wheel was already turning," the Zen Master says. "He did not start it. He pointed to it."

"Pointed to what was already there."

"Yes."

They walk the rest of the path without speaking. The evening bell has not rung yet. The air is beginning to cool. Somewhere near the kitchen, someone is boiling water for the monks' evening drinks.