Last night my mind wandered to the hang-heavy image of an old monk, trussed up by a what’s-right mood evoking purity and gravity and secret wisdom in the minds of passers-by. August, dour, sober and pious. When age has its way the monk sometimes forgets the free spirit that sets him on his search for joy.
You can know a master by both his age and his youth–wise on one hand, jovial on the other, the weight of knowledge balanced by the complete childlike freedom it gives. Again I thought about my dusty monk, leaning on the crutch of his practice, made rigid in the forgetfulness of his goal.
Some old crafty Buddhist monk must have realised this when he began the tradition of searching for the Bodhisattva, incarnated as a child. What better remedy for lugubrious ascetics than to throw an innocent child in their midst and call him enlightened. Something smart in that I thought.
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