Welcome to Zen Stories.
My name is Helen and thank you so much for journeying with me through these tales of Zen teachings.
We can see these stories like small windows opening onto a clearing and some of them have been told for centuries,
Perhaps up in the mountains,
Perhaps in monasteries.
Others are new while carrying the same timeless wisdom.
At the end of each story I will pause for approximately a minute just giving you time to perhaps reflect or simply just be in the space that you are in.
Of course there's no need to remember anything or analyze.
Simply listen just as you listen to the rain on the roof or the wind in the tree.
Let these words carry you into stillness.
So now taking a long slow breath in,
Softening the body and as you exhale let go of everything that is not needed right now.
Let's make space for receiving this first tale.
Chapter One.
The Salt and the Lake.
There once was a young woman who came to a Zen master with a heavy heart.
You see she had suffered a great loss.
Someone she loved deeply had passed on and the grief was unbearable.
It sat in her chest like a stone,
Heavy and hard.
She couldn't eat,
She couldn't sleep and she could not find a single moment of peace.
As she sat before the master tears were streaming down her face.
Please she said I have heard that Zen can help with suffering but my suffering is so much.
It is overwhelming.
The master listened with compassion and then said I would like to show you something.
Walk with me please.
He led her down to the shore of a large beautiful lake near the monastery.
The water was calm and clear reflecting the mountains in the distance.
They stood together at the water's edge.
The master reached into his robe and pulled out a small pouch.
He opened it and revealed a handful of coarse salt.
He poured the salt into the young woman's cupped hands.
Now he said take this salt and put it into the lake.
The woman didn't understand why but she did as he asked.
She waded a few steps into the water and let the salt fall from her hands into the lake.
It disappeared.
The master said now drink from the lake.
Tell me what does it taste like?
She cupped her hands and drank some water and returned to him.
It tastes fresh and clean like pure mountain water.
The master nodded.
Then he reached into his robe and brought out another small pouch identical to the first and he poured this salt into her hands as well.
Then he opened a small bottle of water and asked her to place the salt from her hand into the bottle.
She did so and watched the salt settle at the bottom.
The master said now take a sip and tell me what this tastes like.
She lifted the bottle,
Took a tiny sip and immediately spat it out.
Coffee.
It's undrinkable.
Tastes like pure salt.
Quite harsh.
The master looked at her and explained.
The same amount of salt.
Two different containers.
You see the pain of your loss is like this salt.
It is real but the size of the container into which you pour it makes all the difference.
A small container,
A small self,
A small awareness will find the pain undrinkable,
Overwhelming.
A large container,
Vast awareness,
A heart that has plenty of room can hold the same pain and the pain will not poison the whole.
The young woman looked out at the vast lake and then at the small bottle.
She understood.
Her grief had not been asked to shrink.
She was being asked to expand.
As we take a minute of integration you might like to consider for yourself your own expansive lake.
Bringing your awareness to your breath.
As we now prepare to move to chapter two entitled The Tea Kettle.
In a small temple in the countryside there lived an old monk who was known for his deep peace.
Visitors would come from far away just to sit with him,
To absorb some of his quiet presence.
But what they noticed always was that the old monk was never not doing something.
He swept,
He cooked,
He washed,
He walked,
He was always in motion.
Yet he radiated.
One day a young visitor who had been watching him all morning finally worked up the courage to ask.
Dear master,
He said,
I would like to understand something.
You are always moving,
Always doing something and yet you seem so peaceful.
When I try to find peace I have to sit perfectly still.
The moment I move or do anything I lose it.
How do you remain so calm and so joyful while doing all these mundane chores?
The old monk smiled.
He was just about to prepare tea so he invited the young man to sit with him in the small kitchen.
The monk filled the kettle with water,
Placed it on the small stove.
He lit a flame beneath it and then he sat down across from the young man.
Watch the kettle,
The monk said.
The young man watched.
At first the kettle sat quietly on the nothing happened.
Then after a few minutes tiny bubbles began to form at the bottom.
Then more bubbles and the water began to tremble slightly and soon the kettle was shaking,
Steam billowing from its spout,
The lid rattling,
The water churning violently.
The old monk reached over and removed the kettle from the heat.
Immediately the rattling stopped,
The steam subsided,
The water grew still.
He turned to the young man and said,
The fire is like the demands of life,
Things to do,
Places to go,
People to see.
When the kettle is on it will rattle.
That is its nature.
But the kettle itself,
The vessel does not change.
It is the same kettle whether it is rattling on the fire or sitting quietly on the counter.
Many people try to find peace by removing themselves from the fire.
They think stillness means no rattling.
True peace is not about the kettle leaving the fire.
It is more about the kettle knowing it is a kettle whether it rattles or not.
The rattling does not harm the kettle.
It is what happens when water meets heat.
I sweep,
I cook,
I move.
My kettle rattles.
But underneath I am the same kettle whether I am in motion or still.
The young man sat quietly watching the kettle.
He understood.
The rattling had stopped.
But the kettle had not become something else.
For it had always been itself.
As we move into our pause time now,
Can you feel the space,
The awareness that holds thoughts,
Emotions,
Sensations.
The kettle that is always there.
Returning the awareness now to your whole body.
And as you relax down even further,
We move to chapter three.
Chapter three.
And the story about the missing ox.
There once was a man who owned a beautiful ox.
This ox was his pride,
His livelihood,
His companion.
Every day he would lead it to graze in the fields.
And every evening he would bring it safely home.
But one day the man was careless.
He left the gate to the field open.
And when he returned in the evening,
The ox was gone.
He searched everywhere.
The fields,
Along the river,
In the forest.
But no ox.
He called and called.
But no ox.
He heard only echoes.
As you can imagine,
The man was devastated.
He spent days searching.
Which turned into weeks.
And eventually months.
He asked everyone he met if they had seen a beautiful ox.
He followed leads and rumours.
He travelled far from his home through villages and mountains.
Always hoping.
And the search became his life.
He forgot about his home.
He forgot about his friends,
His simple pleasures.
He was a seeker now.
Defined by what he had lost.
One day,
Exhausted and despairing,
He found himself back where he started.
In the field.
The field that he used to know so well.
He sat down beneath a large tree to rest.
He had been searching for so long,
He could barely remember what he was searching for.
The face of the ox had grown dim in his memory.
He closed his eyes.
And decided to just let it go.
He let his intense focus go.
He felt his body relax.
When he opened his eyes and looked around.
Would you believe that there,
Grazing peacefully,
Not ten feet away,
Was his ox.
It had been there all along.
While he had travelled the world searching for something that had never left him.
The gate had been open,
Yes.
But the ox had simply wandered into the nearby woods.
And then it had returned.
It had been waiting for him.
The man laughed.
He laughed and laughed.
Tears streaming down his face.
Oh,
All that searching.
All that suffering.
And the ox had never been lost.
Only his awareness of it had been missing.
He stood up.
Walked over to the ox.
And together,
They ambled home.
Is there anything that you perhaps have been searching for that has never really left you?
Ponder on this for a few moments.
As you quietly return your focus to your breath.
Let's turn our attention to chapter four,
Entitled,
The Two Arrows.
The Buddha asked his disciples a question.
Tell me,
He said,
If a person is struck by an arrow,
Is it painful?
The disciples nodded.
Yes,
Very painful.
The Buddha continued,
And if that same person is then struck by a second arrow,
In the same spot,
Is that also painful?
Of course,
They replied,
Even more painful.
The Buddha said next,
This is the nature of human suffering.
The first arrow is the pain that life brings.
Sickness or loss,
Discomfort,
Aging,
Disappointment.
This arrow is not in our control.
It comes to each one of us.
It is part of being human.
But the second arrow,
That's the one we shoot ourselves with.
Second arrow is our reaction to the first.
It is the story we tell about the pain.
It is the resistance,
The anger,
The fear,
The wishing it were different.
The first arrow may hurt,
But the second causes lasting suffering.
A wise person feels the first arrow.
They do not pretend it doesn't hurt,
But they do not reach for the second arrow.
They do not add their own resistance to the pain that is already there.
They let the first arrow be,
And in doing so,
It passes through them without leaving the same wound.
One of the disciples asked,
But how can we stop shooting the second arrow?
When pain comes,
The mind reaches for it.
The Buddha replied,
By seeing it,
By noticing.
In the moment you reach for the second arrow,
Notice that you are reaching.
By seeing the thought,
This shouldn't be happening,
Or the emotion of fear,
To recognize it as just a thought,
Just a feeling.
The second arrow can only wound you if you believe it is real,
If you believe it is necessary.
It is not.
The second arrow is optional.
So as we bring our story time to a close,
Ask of yourself now if you can feel the first arrow without reaching for the second.
Can you let sensation just be a sensation,
Or a thought just be a thought,
Without adding the story to it,
That then turns pain into suffering?
Gently notice your responses without resistance,
Accepting them and honoring whatever comes through for you.
Once you've considered this for a few moments,
Gently let it go,
And relax your body,
Your mind,
Your heart,
Your whole being.
Feeling gently present as you continue to drift with the gentle sounds.
I will gently leave you now as I thank you for journeying through these tales together.
This was volume three,
And if you enjoyed this,
I look forward to meeting you again in another volume.
A thousand bows and deep blessings to you,
My friend.
