Stop Searching

Deep within a bamboo forest stood a small Zen temple.

The bamboo rose like green pillars into the sky. When the wind passed through them, they whispered to one another in voices older than memory.

The temple was simple.

A wooden gate.

A stone path.

A meditation hall.

Nothing more.

Yet seekers traveled from distant lands to find it.

One autumn morning, a young man arrived after many months of wandering.

He bowed before the old master and asked,

"Master, what is the purpose of life?"

The old master looked at him for a moment.

Then he pointed toward the bamboo forest.

"Listen."

The young man listened.

The bamboo swayed.

Leaves rustled.

A bird called in the distance.

After a while he said,

"I hear the wind."

The master nodded.

"And what does it mean?"

The young man thought carefully.

Perhaps it symbolized freedom.

Or impermanence.

Or enlightenment.

But before he could answer, the master raised his hand.

"No."

The young man looked confused.

The master pointed again.

"Listen."

So the young man listened once more.

The bamboo swayed.

The leaves rustled.

The bird called.

Nothing else.

Finally he said,

"It means nothing."

The master smiled.

"Good."

The young man frowned.

"If life has no meaning, then why do we live?"

The master stood and began sweeping fallen leaves from the stone path.

The young man followed.

"Master, please answer me."

The old man continued sweeping.

The bamboo moved in the breeze.

Sunlight flickered through the leaves.

The sound of the broom brushed softly across the stones.

At last the master stopped.

He held out the broom.

"What is the purpose of this broom?"

"To sweep."

The master shook his head.

The young man tried again.

"To clean the path."

Again the master shook his head.

The old man placed the broom back upon the ground.

"It is sweeping."

Then he pointed to the bamboo.

"What is the purpose of the bamboo?"

"To grow."

The master shook his head once more.

"It is growing."

The young man fell silent.

The master pointed toward a cloud drifting overhead.

"What is the purpose of that cloud?"

The young man opened his mouth, then closed it again.

The cloud simply drifted.

The bamboo simply swayed.

The bird simply sang.

The broom simply swept.

The master simply stood.

For a long time neither spoke.

Then the old man said quietly,

"You ask life to justify itself."

The wind moved through the forest.

"The bamboo does not ask why it grows."

A leaf spiraled gently to the ground.

"The bird does not ask why it sings."

Sunlight warmed the stone path.

"The cloud does not ask why it drifts."

The master looked into the young man's eyes.

"Only the mind asks what should be happening while life is already happening."

At that moment, a gust of wind passed through the bamboo grove.

Thousands of leaves shimmered together.

The young man heard the sound.

Not as a symbol.

Not as a lesson.

Not as an answer.

Just as the sound itself.

For the first time since arriving, he stopped searching.

The bamboo swayed.

The wind passed.

The temple stood quietly among the trees.

And nothing was missing.