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Integral World: Exploring Theories of Everything
An independent forum for a critical discussion of the integral philosophy of Ken Wilber
David Christopher LaneDavid Christopher Lane, Ph.D, is a Professor of Philosophy at Mt. San Antonio College and Founder of the MSAC Philosophy Group. He is the author of several books, including The Sound Current Tradition (Cambridge University Press, 2022) and the graphic novel, The Cult of the Seven Sages, translated into Tamil (Kannadhasan Pathippagam, 2024). His website is neuralsurfer.com

Zen and Tea

A Journey to Satori

David Lane

ZEN AND TEA, A Journey to Satori, Matuso Basho and the Aged Monk

Preface

Throughout my journeys across the globe, particularly in the spiritual heartlands of India and Japan, I've cultivated a profound fascination with how human beings perceive “enlightened thinking.” This timeless quest is beautifully encapsulated by the title of Richard Alpert's (later known as Ram Dass) seminal work, BE HERE NOW. In its simplicity, it reflects a wisdom that transcends cultures and epochs—a call to inhabit the richness of the present moment.

As creatures of remarkable cognitive evolution, we possess an extraordinary gift: the ability to imagine, simulate, and analyze. Yet this very gift often becomes our curse, as our minds perpetually wander—caught in the net of past regrets or future anxieties. Rarely do we inhabit the space where life truly unfolds: the now. However, when we step into the present moment—fully and without reservation—we unlock an infinite reservoir of energy and vitality, the essence of who we are at our core.

Meditation offers us the key to this doorway, urging us to quiet the incessant noise of our thoughts and embrace the stillness that lies within. In this state of profound awareness, we rediscover our natural heritage—a consciousness unburdened by distraction and alive to the wonder of existence.

The story that follows is a poignant reminder of how even the simplest act—making tea—can become a portal to the present. It invites us to savor not just the aroma of the tea, but the very miracle of being alive. In these moments of mindfulness, we reclaim the gift of consciousness itself, fully awake to the beauty and power of now.

THE STORY

The old monk's knees creaked like the worn timber floors beneath him. Outside, the evening sky was stained in shades of violet and amber, a lingering warmth from the setting sun still alive in the summer air. Beneath the thatched roof of the rustic hut, the aged Zen monk—his name was Sōfu—closed his eyes in silent meditation. Years had passed since he'd last made a journey beyond the borders of his temple's garden. Now in the twilight of his life, his body ached, and the wrinkles in his face told tales of long hours spent contemplating the Dharma beneath the old pine trees. Yet on this summer evening, fate was to guide an unexpected traveler to his door.

A gentle rustle reached his ears. He opened his eyes to see a thin figure, straw sandals stepping lightly onto his veranda. The visitor's robe was travel-worn, the ink-black of his kosode faded from the harshness of the road. He carried a pack slung loosely over one shoulder, and Sōfu noticed the ink-stained brush tucked neatly within. The visitor bowed.

“Honored monk,” he said softly, “I have been drawn to the light of your lantern. Might I share your quiet space for a while?”

Sōfu rose slowly. His body, though old, still held a certain grace. His robe, a simple brown hue, swished softly as he greeted the stranger. “Welcome,” said Sōfu. “Come, rest your feet. The night air is gentle, but a warm cup of tea could ease your weariness.”

The traveler's eyes, keen and bright, scanned the humble hut. “I am grateful. The road is long, and my body grows tired. My name is Matsuo Bashō.”

Sōfu's eyes widened. The name was known to him. Though he dwelled in a secluded temple deep in the countryside, whispers of the poet's renown traveled far—like incense smoke curling through empty corridors. Bashō, the master of haiku, a pilgrim who wandered the roads of Edo-period Japan weaving verses delicate as spider silk. He had come here, to Sōfu's humble hut.

Sōfu bowed low, pressing his forehead almost to the floor. “Master Bashō,” he said, “the pleasure is mine. This hut is poor and offers little comfort, but I am honored by your presence. Please, allow me to prepare tea.”

As Sōfu lit a small charcoal fire and readied the kettle, Bashō settled himself, placing his pack against a low wooden beam. He smiled faintly, watching the old monk's careful hands. In silence, they listened to water gently heat, to the wind whisper outside, to distant insects chiming in tall grasses.

When Sōfu presented the tea—thin, green, and somewhat bitter—Bashō sipped and then placed the small ceramic cup down. He offered a gentle, knowing smile. “This tea, it is humble and honest, like the soil from which it was born. Yet, I sense longing in your spirit, venerable monk. Tell me, what troubles you?”

Sōfu hesitated. He had spent decades refining his inner calm, learning to empty his heart of needless chatter. But something in Bashō's manner was disarming. “Master Bashō, I am old, and soon my days will fade like autumn leaves. I have lived devoted to the Zen path. Yet I fear I have failed to taste the true sweetness of satori. My mind is still cluttered with small doubts, attachments—tiny as tea leaves, yet persistent.”

Bashō nodded. “We all seek clarity. Such is the nature of this fleeting world.” With a slow breath, the poet closed his eyes. Then, quietly, he recited:

“Green leaves, hot water—
A bitter cup's gentle truth.
In stillness, pure mind.”

The words drifted through the hut, each syllable like a drop of dew. Sōfu listened, heart seized by a curious tension. Bashō's haiku spoke of tea, yet beneath its surface shimmered a deeper meaning. In the making of tea—its leaves, its water, its quiet ritual—there might be a path to that elusive satori.

“Sōfu,” said Bashō, his voice now as soft as the night wind, “life's truths often reside in simple acts. The boiling of water, the whisking of leaves—through mindful attention, even the bitterness of tea can become sweet enlightenment. If you wish to find satori, perhaps strive to perfect the making of your tea. Therein lies your koan.”

The old monk's heart swelled. A koan. A puzzle without a logical key, a finger pointing at the moon of awakening. Sōfu bowed. “Master Bashō, I will heed your words.”

Soon after, Bashō departed, fading into the darkness of the countryside. Sōfu remained, mind spinning like a potter's wheel. The haiku: “Green leaves, hot water— / A bitter cup's gentle truth. / In stillness, pure mind.” The old monk saw now that perfecting tea could be more than a culinary endeavor—it might be the doorway to satori he had so long sought.

The next morning, he decided to leave his solitary hut. Slinging a simple pack over his shoulder, he started down the narrow footpath that wound into the forests. He would find the secrets to the perfect tea—its leaves, its water, its soul. Each step became a prayer, each day a verse in an unfolding story.

His first destination was the tea garden of Master Yamaoka, famed for cultivating leaves of unparalleled subtlety. After days of walking through gentle valleys and over ridges, Sōfu reached a small estate where tea bushes blanketed the hillsides, their shiny leaves glistening in the midday sun.

Master Yamaoka, though elderly, was still strong in build and sharp in eye. He received Sōfu courteously. After hearing the old monk's request—that he sought the perfect tea leaves for an enlightened brew—Yamaoka ran his calloused fingers through the leaves of a nearby bush.

“Monk,” he said, “tea's character begins in its leaf. One must know which plant, which leaf, and at what time to pluck. The right leaf is a child of the right season. Harvest too early, and the bitterness overwhelms. Too late, and the flavor fades like distant memories.” He led Sōfu through neat rows of tea shrubs. Birds sang from tall cedars, and dragonflies danced above the leaves.

They came to a single tea bush standing apart from the others, protected by a bamboo fence. “These leaves,” said Yamaoka, “I pick only at dawn, under early spring mist. They hold the essence of silent rain and distant snowmelt. Taste one.” The master plucked a small leaf and handed it to Sōfu. The monk placed it on his tongue. The freshness was startling—like breathing the first breath of morning. There was a gentle sweetness hidden beneath a mild bitterness.

“This,” said Yamaoka, “is tea's soul in green form. Take some leaves, treat them well. But know that leaves alone cannot create perfection. They are the beginning—like a fine ink for a poem. It takes skill to bring out their true character.”

Sōfu bowed deeply. He gathered a small pouch of leaves, grateful beyond words. As he prepared to depart, Master Yamaoka placed a rough hand on his shoulder. “Monk,” he said, “remember that the world's best leaf means nothing if brewed with careless heart. Look after your intention as well as your ingredients.” Sōfu nodded, and with that gentle lesson ringing in his ears, he continued his journey.

His next step was to find the right water. Bashō's haiku had hinted at hot water, and Sōfu knew that water's purity could transform the character of tea. He ventured north, following a winding stream that locals claimed led to a pristine spring flowing from an ancient rock face. The journey took him through cedar forests and across mossy stones. He slept beneath branches that hummed with cicadas, and in the quiet hours before dawn, he meditated by the moonlight, the pouch of tea leaves safe in his possession.

After many days, he reached the fabled spring. A small shrine, worn by centuries of rain and wind, sat nearby. Before it knelt a figure dressed in a simple kimono the color of river stones. He was Master Haruki, known for his discernment of water quality. At first, Haruki seemed indifferent to Sōfu's arrival. He sat contemplating the spring, its crystal waters emerging from a fissure in an ancient granite cliff.

Sōfu bowed. “Master Haruki, I have come seeking guidance. I hold fine tea leaves, but I lack the knowledge of the right water to release their true nature.”

Haruki turned, eyes half-lidded, as if awakening from a pleasant dream. He rose and gestured to the spring. “Water that flows from deep within the earth carries secrets of ancient soils. To brew tea that enlightens, you must find water that is pure, balanced—neither too mineral nor too bland. Taste this water.”

Sōfu cupped his hand and drank. It was as if the world's harsh edges had softened. There was a clarity, like mountain air after rain.

Haruki continued, “Not all pure waters are equal. You must listen with your tongue and your heart. The water's subtle energies interact with the tea's essence. When harmony is achieved, the bitterness of tea is balanced by sweetness, and the fragrance blooms in your mind. This spring is known for such balance.”

Sōfu filled a small flask with the spring water. He bowed again. “My gratitude is immeasurable.”

Haruki gave a faint smile. “Monk, remember that water and leaf must unite like old friends meeting after a long absence. The leaf yearns to reveal its true nature, and the water yearns to carry it forth. When you brew, treat them as honored guests, neither lording over them nor neglecting them.”

With these words, Sōfu departed, the flask of precious water in his pack, and the secret of water's role in his heart.

Next, Sōfu journeyed to meet the maker of vessels—Master Kaede, a potter known for crafting bowls that not only served tea, but also expressed its spirit. He traveled through a small village famous for its kilns. The air was thick with the smell of clay and smoke. Everywhere, artisans shaped and molded, fired and glazed. Sōfu followed the sound of a potter's wheel until he found Kaede's workshop: a modest shed backed by a bamboo grove.

Inside, Kaede, a slender woman with hair tied up in a cloth, hummed as she shaped clay on her wheel. The spinning clay looked like a miniature whirlpool in the center of the known universe. The monk introduced himself and explained his quest.

“A tea bowl,” Kaede said, her voice rich and warm, “is not merely a container. It influences how the tea sits, how it breaths, how it finally meets the lips. The shape, the glaze, the thickness of its walls—these subtleties channel the senses. To achieve perfection, you must have a bowl that resonates with the tea's spirit.”

She took him to a shelf lined with finished bowls. Some were dark and rustic, others pale and delicately painted. Kaede ran her fingers along them. “Some bowls are too proud, dominating the tea with flamboyant designs. Others are too meek, failing to support the tea's fragrance. You must find the bowl that humbly embraces the tea, that allows it to speak without shouting.”

Sōfu picked up a simple bowl. It was roughly finished, with a subtle spiral in its center, and a gentle curve at its lip. Its glaze was uneven, showing the raw clay's texture beneath. Kaede smiled approvingly. “Yes, that bowl was made to whisper poetry. In silence, it sings.”

Sōfu bowed, grateful to possess this bowl, which felt like holding the wind itself. “Master Kaede,” he said, “I shall treasure it.”

As he turned to leave, Kaede gently touched his sleeve. “Remember: a perfect bowl cannot fix an unbalanced heart. When you brew tea, your own spirit is the potter shaping the final taste. The bowl will assist, but it cannot replace your mindful presence.”

The monk bowed once more, internalizing the lesson. He set forth again, now with leaves, water, and bowl.

Sōfu's quest next led him to seek the perfect charcoal to heat the water. He had learned during his years in the temple that fire, too, shaped the nature of tea. Without proper heat, the leaf's character remained hidden. Rumor had it that in a remote forest, a charcoal burner named Ikkei produced charcoal so pure that it burned evenly and steadily, imparting no unwanted flavors.

The forest lay far to the east, and as Sōfu traveled, the roads turned to narrow trails, and the air grew cooler. On the journey, he met fellow travelers: merchants, pilgrims, farmers. Each time someone asked his purpose, he answered simply, “I seek perfection in tea.” Most offered curious smiles; a few thought him mad. But Sōfu pressed on, driven by Bashō's words and the dream of satori shimmering like a distant star.

At last, he found Ikkei's hut deep in the forest. It was a modest structure, half-hidden by ferns and tall pines. Smoke drifted lazily from a kiln behind the hut. When Sōfu approached, Ikkei, a stout man with charcoal-blackened hands, nodded a greeting. His eyes were kind beneath soot-streaked brows.

When Sōfu explained his quest, Ikkei laughed heartily. “You come far for mere charcoal, monk. Surely any wood fire would do?”

Sōfu shook his head. “Not when perfection is sought. I've learned that each element must be pure and in harmony. The leaves, water, bowl—all chosen with care. The fire that boils the water must be equally pure.”

Ikkei grinned, stroking his beard. “I admire your dedication. Very well, I have charcoal from old pine wood that was dried for years, then carefully burned in a sealed kiln. It burns steady, hot, and clean. Let us share some tea, and you will understand.”

With a makeshift kettle, Ikkei heated water from a nearby stream and offered Sōfu a crude version of tea. Although the leaves weren't special, the fire's heat was steady, and the water boiled gently. The resulting tea was simple but honest.

“This charcoal,” said Ikkei, “introduces no flavor of its own. Its role is to provide steady heat. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Sōfu nodded. “In Zen, often the greatest virtues are found in doing one's duty without seeking glory. Your charcoal embodies that principle.”

Ikkei wrapped a small bundle of charcoal sticks in cloth and handed it to the monk. “Take this, monk. But know that the fire itself is not enlightenment. Without your intention, it's just fire. With mindfulness, it becomes a tool of awakening.”

Sōfu departed, now carrying all the essential ingredients: leaves, water, bowl, and charcoal. He believed the time had come to practice brewing and finally unlock the secret of Bashō's haiku. Yet, deep in his heart, he felt something was still missing—some intangible quality. He had the best ingredients, but had he fully understood the message?

Hoping to find clarity, Sōfu decided to stop at a small temple nestled near a village. He asked the head priest for permission to use their tearoom. The priest, a soft-spoken man named Ryûshin, agreed, intrigued by the old monk's mission. Inside the tearoom, with its tatami mats and hanging scroll, Sōfu set about preparing his tea. He lit the charcoal, measured the water, placed the leaves into the bowl, and performed the whisking ritual with utmost care and mindfulness.

The result was… good. The aroma pure, the taste balanced. But as Sōfu sipped, he felt a pang of disappointment. While this tea was indeed excellent, he did not feel the lightning flash of satori. The stillness was there, but not the sudden breakthrough he had hoped for. He felt like a traveler glimpsing a distant mountain peak but unable to ascend it.

Ryûshin observed quietly and spoke after a thoughtful pause. “Perfection in material elements is commendable, but the Zen way also values emptiness. To achieve satori, one must let go of striving. Perhaps in your pursuit, you have become attached to the idea of perfection itself.”

Sōfu lowered his head. Could it be that he was clinging too tightly to the notion of perfect tea? Zen teachings often reminded him that clinging was a hindrance, a chain that bound the mind. Yet, how could he reconcile that with his quest?

He thanked Ryûshin and left, troubled but not defeated. He would continue his journey until he understood.

The next morning, Sōfu decided he must find Bashō again, to ask the poet's guidance. He knew Bashō was a wanderer, never resting long in one place. Villagers said Bashō had been seen heading southwest, towards a rugged coastline. Sōfu followed old roads, crossed wooden bridges, and climbed rocky hills. Days turned to weeks, the summer heat giving way to cooler evenings. His straw sandals wore thin. He shared humble meals with kind strangers, traded some of his dried mushrooms for rice balls, and slept beneath shrines and trees.

One afternoon, as he descended into a small fishing village by the sea, he spotted a figure sitting on a pier, writing in a small notebook. The waves crashed gently, and gulls cried overhead. Drawing closer, he recognized the poet. Bashō's eyes rose from his page, and he greeted Sōfu with a calm smile.

“You have traveled far, Sōfu,” said Bashō. “Your robes are worn, and yet you persist. Tell me, have you found what you seek?”

Sōfu bowed deeply. “Master Bashō, I have discovered the finest leaves, the purest water, a perfect bowl, and ideal charcoal. I have brewed what I believe is the best tea I can possibly make—and yet, satori eludes me.”

Bashō nodded sympathetically. “The wind passes through bamboo, playing its silent music. Does the bamboo yearn for a better wind, or does it simply bend and sing? You have prepared everything. Perhaps what you lack is not a material element, but a spiritual understanding. True satori cannot be forced, even by perfect tea.”

“Then what must I do?” asked Sōfu, frustration creeping into his voice. “I have given my entire life to the path of Zen. I have followed your haiku as a koan. Should I give up?”

The poet gazed at the horizon. “There is a secret in the simplest of places. Seek not only masters, but also listen to those whom the world considers ordinary. In poverty and humility, you may find wisdom unadorned.”

With that cryptic hint, Bashō rose, gathered his belongings, and walked away down the beach. His figure grew small against the setting sun, until he vanished around a rocky bend.

Sōfu pondered these words. He had learned from recognized masters of their crafts, each renowned in their field. Could it be that the final piece of wisdom lay with someone uncelebrated, someone overlooked?

He returned inland, wandering aimlessly through small hamlets. He no longer asked for great masters; instead, he simply watched people living their lives. He saw farmers tending rice paddies, carpenters shaping wood, mothers cooking humble meals. He asked himself: were they not also masters of their own arts, though unheralded?

Late one afternoon, Sōfu entered a village struck by hardship. Many of its houses were worn, the walls patched with straw, and the fields looked parched. The sound of coughing came from a few huts, and children with hollow cheeks watched him pass.

He saw a woman sitting outside a ramshackle hut, sorting a small pile of tea leaves that looked dry and brittle. She wore tattered clothing, her hair streaked with gray and dust, her face etched with worry. Yet her hands moved with gentle care, as if these leaves were precious jewels. Sōfu paused.

The woman looked up at him. There was a softness in her eyes, despite her apparent poverty. The monk bowed. “Good day, honorable lady. May I ask what you are doing?”

She gave a weary smile. “I am sorting tea leaves I gathered from wild bushes by the stream. They are not fine leaves—tough and small. But I hope to brew something to warm my bones as evening falls.”

Sōfu knelt beside her. “I have traveled far to perfect the art of brewing tea. I have found rare leaves, pure water, fine bowls, and perfect charcoal. Yet, I still lack understanding. Bashō suggested I learn from someone humble.” He looked at her dusty leaves. “You seem to treasure these leaves, though they are meager.”

She nodded. “I have nothing else. My husband died last winter, and my children left to find work in the city. These leaves are bitter and coarse. The water here is hard, and my firewood smokes. Yet, I do my best. The tea warms me, even if it is not perfect.”

Sōfu gently touched her hand. “Would you share a cup with me?”

The woman looked surprised but nodded. Inside her hut, a cracked clay pot served as a kettle. The fire was smoky, fueled by damp twigs. She scooped water from a muddy bucket. The leaves, she crumbled them softly between her palms before dropping them into the pot. The aroma was faint and not particularly pleasing.

Sōfu watched intently. There was no technique here that he recognized as refined. Her leaves were not the prized gems he carried. The water was not from a pure spring. Her bowl, a chipped cup. The fire too smoky, imparting a musty smell. Yet, in her gestures, he saw care and acceptance. She was fully present, making the best of what she had. In her poverty, there was a certain purity of intention.

When she handed him the tea, Sōfu sipped. It was bitter and rough. He felt the leaf's toughness, the unbalanced minerals in the water, the smoke from the fire. Yet he also felt warmth and kindness. A tear slipped from his eye.

“Are you all right?” she asked gently.

Sōfu nodded, overcome by realization. All this time, he had assumed perfection lay in controlling the conditions and mastering the external elements. He had tried to force satori through refinement and exclusivity. But this woman, with nothing but hardship, brewed her tea with complete acceptance. She did not resist the bitterness; she embraced it. In that moment, Sōfu understood Bashō's words: True satori does not arise from perfection of external elements alone, but from perfect acceptance of reality as it is.

He thanked the woman and prepared to leave. But before he stepped outside, she whispered, “I know what you seek, monk. You seek to know the secret of tea that leads to enlightenment. It is this: Tea is life itself. Sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet. One must drink it all.”

Sōfu bowed, tears still on his cheeks. “You have given me the final lesson I needed. I am forever grateful.”

He left her hut and sat beneath a leafless tree as dusk fell. He set down his fine bowl and took the special leaves and water he'd so carefully collected. He lit the perfect charcoal, heated the pure water, whisked in the superb leaves. But now, he understood that these were not steps to force awakening; they were simply the elements of a moment in time.

When he sipped his tea this time, the bitterness danced with sweetness, the aroma spoke of distant hills and the passing of seasons. He closed his eyes, and in that quiet pause, his mind opened. There was no fanfare, no lightning bolt. Just a gentle, unforced realization: everything is already as it should be. The perfection he sought was not in altering the world, but in accepting it. In that acceptance, he felt the quiet bloom of satori within.

As the monk prepared to return home, he decided to share his newfound understanding. He walked back to the destitute woman's hut to thank her once more. The sky was clear, stars visible like silver nails tapped into the heavens. But as he approached, he found the hut empty. The woman was gone. The leaves she had gathered lay scattered on the ground. Confused, he asked a neighbor where she might have gone.

The neighbor looked at him oddly. “What woman do you speak of?”

“The poor woman who lived here,” said Sōfu, gesturing. “She brewed me tea this very afternoon.”

The neighbor shook his head. “This hut's been abandoned for months. Its occupant died last winter. No one has lived here since.”

Sōfu felt a chill. He stepped inside again. The fireplace was cold ashes, not recently used. No water, no leaves. Dust and spider webs covered the corners. Had he dreamed it?

He knelt in the darkness, heart pounding. He remembered every detail of their encounter: her worn clothing, her gentle smile. The bitter tea. Yet, there was no sign of her existence now. Was she a ghost, a bodhisattva in disguise, or a manifestation of his own awakened mind?

A strange laughter rose within him. It no longer mattered. Her lesson remained. Sōfu stepped out into the night, bowing before the empty hut.

Days later, the monk returned to his temple hut, weary but at peace. He placed the special tea leaves and the fine bowl on a simple shelf. His home felt small and comforting. He brewed a cup of tea—this time using ordinary leaves and water from his garden's well. He breathed slowly, focusing on the steam rising, on the taste passing over his tongue. There was no difference now between the finest leaves and the simplest. All was the path; all was Zen.

He sat in silence, remembering Bashō's haiku:

“Green leaves, hot water—
A bitter cup's gentle truth.
In stillness, pure mind.”

A smile crept across the old monk's face. He understood now that the haiku was not merely about tea. It was a mirror reflecting his innermost struggle. He had chased perfection, thinking it resided in external mastery. But in fact, satori bloomed the moment he stopped struggling and accepted the bitter and the sweet with equal grace.

As he sipped his ordinary tea, the door creaked open slightly, letting in a whisper of evening breeze. In that gentle, ironic twist of fate, he realized that all his grand efforts and wanderings were, in a sense, unnecessary. The enlightenment he sought had always been within his heart, waiting for acceptance rather than achievement.

Yet, it was the journey itself—the seeking, the failures, the learning—that allowed him to see this truth. The koan was solved not by an answer, but by surrendering the question.

That evening, under the old pine tree beside his hut, the aged Zen monk placed his palms together in gratitude. He could still taste the memory of that bitter, imperfect tea brewed by a woman who vanished like mist. He could still see Bashō's knowing smile and hear the wise words of all the masters he had met.

In Zen, the path is the goal. The taste of tea—bitter or sweet—points to the present moment, to what is. Perfection is not in the details alone, but in embracing the whole of reality without preference.

The monk closed his eyes, breathing in the night air. He no longer needed the finest leaves, nor the purest water, nor the perfect bowl. He possessed the secret he had sought. Tomorrow, he would brew his tea again, as always, but now he would taste the universe in each sip. He would find satori in bitterness and sweetness, in emptiness and fullness.

And so, with ironic tenderness, after a lifetime of austerity and spiritual striving, his greatest teacher turned out to be a poor, possibly non-existent woman offering coarse leaves. The universe had laughed softly at his efforts, showing him that what he sought was always at hand. In that laughter, in that final irony, the old monk truly awakened.






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