A young monk approached the master as the morning mist curled around the temple stones.
“Master,” he said, “I worry about the past and fear for the future. How can I find peace?”
The master looked up from sweeping leaves. “Bring me the past,” he said.
The monk blinked. “I cannot, Master. It is gone.”
“Then bring me the future.”
“Master, that too is impossible. It has not yet come.”
The master tapped his broom against the ground.
“Then tell me—what is here?”
“The present,” the monk whispered.
The master smiled. “There never is, or was, or will be anything except this. Drink tea while it is hot. Listen to the sparrow while it sings. Breathe while you are breathing.”
And the monk, for the first time, stopped searching.
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