Note: My dear pal Robert Bletter, who passed away all too soon, in 1976, told me this lovely story. I miss him! Life Is Like A Fountain There is an ancient, seldom-told tale about a young Buddhist monk who dwelled in a tiny mission on the island of Ceylon. He lived a spare, ascetic life; scrubbing the floors of his hut, tilling the unrewarding soil, swathing the sores of the sick. One evening, after ten years of such labor, he sat upon his rock-like bed and stared at the clay wall where candlelight threw flickering, gloomy shadows. “Is this how life should be?” he wondered to himself. And plagued by this question, he continued to work for another year, until he could stand it no longer. One night of full moon, he stole away from the mission and, in a flimsy fishing vessel, fought his way across the raging Indian Sea in an arduous two-month journey. For months on foot and upon oxen, he plodded along the blazing jungle trails of India, across windswept plains, and finally up into the freezing mountainous wastes of Tibet. Then, in the distance, glittering like a gem in the sunlight, he saw his goal; the lamasery of the Grand Dalai Lama. After a day’s trek, he stood in front of a giant golden gate which parted for him, and then walked down a cool blue carpet, a hundred yards long, to a jewel-encrusted throne. There, seated atop a velvet pillow was the Grand Dalai Lama, a wrinkled, yellow-skinned man of indeterminable years and inscrutable features. Falling to his knees, the young monk said, “Oh, almighty Grand Lama, for ten years and more I have struggled in our Ceylon mission; tilling the soil, tending the sick, praying. But now, my mind is tortured by doubts, doubt which only you, all-powerful Grand Lama, can answer for me. Tell me, what is the meaning of life? Quaking with fear over his boldness in confronting the Grand Lama, the young monk waited. Finally, after a long silence, the Grand Lama raised his eyelids and parted his lips to speak. Staring directly into the young monk’s eyes, he said, in a barely audible voice: “Life…life is like…a fountain.” And with that, the Grand Lama closed his eyes and fell silent, signifying the end of the visit. Elated over having heard his master’s voice, charged by their simple eloquence, the young monk bowed, rose and strode out of the lamasery. In a few months, after struggling along the same difficult route by which he had come, he was back in Ceylon. He prayed, he scrubbed, he tilled the soil, he helped the sick. And always, burning in his mind, were the Grand Lama’s words: “Life is like a fountain.” Ten years later, however, the monk, now approaching his middle years, suffered vague feelings of inquietude. He still remembered the Grand Lama’s fateful words, but they no longer satisfied him. Life still puzzled him. And once again, spurred by the gnawing urge for wisdom and knowledge, he undertook the terrible journey; the turbulent ocean, the snake-infested, steaming tropical trails, the vast deserts. Once more, he stood on that hilltop and peered towards the horizon to see the lamasery glittering in the sun. And when he entered through the mammoth doors and walked down the cool blue carpet he saw the Grand Lama still sitting there quietly, as though he were expecting him. He looked closely at the Grand Lama and could find no difference in him though ten years had passed. Old, yellowed, withered, but the same. “Oh mighty Grand Lama,” said the monk, “ten years ago your words ‘Life is like a fountain’ breathed new life into me and have sustained me until this time. But being a mere mortal, I am in need of further spiritual nourishment so that I may continue to labor in behalf of our holy cause. Tell me, oh almighty one, tell me what do you mean by ‘Life is like a fountain’?” The aged Grand Lama opened his eyes. Then, shrugging his shoulders, cocking his head to one side and motioning with his hands, he said, in a rich Second Avenue accent, “Vell, maybe it’s not like a fountain.” ***
Posted on: Mon, 19 Aug 2013 17:47:06 +0000
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