The Monk and the Temple

On a misty dawn, a Zen monk stood before the temple.

He had been walking toward it when, without knowing why, he stopped.

The temple rose quietly through the morning mist. Its tiled roof was damp with dew, its wooden doors still closed. Beyond the walls, the world was barely visible—a few dark trees, the faint outline of mountains, and the soft gray light of morning.

The monk stood perfectly still.

Then a strange thought arose.

Who is it that is walking toward the temple?

He looked down at his robes.

Was he truly a monk?

Was there a self beneath the robes—a person who had chosen this path, who had decided to seek enlightenment, who would eventually enter the temple and sit in meditation?

Or had he simply become accustomed to calling himself a monk?

He looked at the temple.

Perhaps he had not come to it at all.

Perhaps the temple had called him.

What is a temple without someone sitting within it?

Was the monk completing the temple by entering it?

Was the temple completing the monk by giving him somewhere to sit?

For a long moment, he considered this.

Then another thought appeared.

Perhaps neither was true.

Perhaps there was no monk.

Perhaps there was no temple.

Perhaps there was only mist, stone, wood, breath, and the indifferent turning of the world.

The mountains did not care whether he was enlightened.

The trees did not care whether he understood himself.

The sun would rise whether he meditated or slept.

The temple would remain standing whether anyone entered its doors.

The monk smiled.

He had spent years searching for answers to questions that perhaps had never needed to be answered.

He looked again at the temple.

It was still there.

He was still there.

Or perhaps not.

The mist drifted between them.

For a moment, the distinction seemed unnecessary.

The monk stood quietly until the question itself disappeared.

No enlightenment arrived.

No revelation descended from the heavens.

There was simply the morning.

The monk nodded.

Then he turned away from the temple.

A disciple watching from the doorway later asked him, "Master, why did you not enter?"

The monk looked at him thoughtfully.

"Because," he said, "I suddenly realized I had nowhere to go."

The disciple waited for something profound to follow.

Nothing did.

The monk scratched his beard.

"Besides," he said, "it is cold."

He started down the path.

After a few steps, he stopped and looked back.

"And I think," he added, "I would like some tea."

Then he continued walking.

The temple remained behind him, quiet in the mist.

Whether it was waiting for the monk,

or the monk was waiting for it,

neither seemed particularly important anymore.