Читать книгу Fairytales for adults in the fourth dimension - Slava Sarazhin - Страница 7

At the riverside, an old monk sat and slowly carved a statue of the Buddha. Wooden curls littered the grass beside him. In the branches of the tree under which he sat, taking refuge from the heat, the birds were singing, enjoying the warmth of a summer day. Nearby a small boy, a novice from the monastery, gathered edible herbs and roots. Work progressed slowly, but the bright face of the Buddha was already recognizable in the warm piece of wood, which the old monk held in his rough hands. He sang something to himself, humming softly, so that only the spirits of the river could hear the song that flowed from his mouth.

The grass rustled, and the novice approached the old monk. In his wicker basket he had a poor crop, just enough to cook a lean soup, which should be ready before noon. The boy stared attentively at the steadily moving hands of the old monk. He watched on with a smile on his face, watching the work of a skilled carver, and he could already make out the contours of the future statue. "Your carving knife behaves like it has a life of its own, teacher," he said, watching as the wood shavings fell gently to rest on the grass.

"How skillful your actions are – they are perfect. Your hands do not experience fatigue and your eye does not miss a single crease in our spiritual mentor's robes. Someday I will reach the highest level of skill, and my art will be the equal of yours."

The Monk sighed, stopped working and looked at the bright glare on the surface of the river running by. Here and there large fish burst through the silvery surface, hunting for unwary insects. The Monk held out the almost finished carving and shook his head.

"We will never reach perfection! We are committed to try to achieve it and take the steps needed, but they are endless. Look at the flowers and herbs that you have gathered. They are almost perfect, nothing more, but the nature of things is such that no matter how much we try to improve, there is always room for improvement."

"In our inherent desire to learn and develop, we always want to become something bigger and better. If we yield to this tendency to self-improvement, our life becomes a chain of incessant achievements and satisfaction. The path to perfection is endless. Just like this river."

"But it falls into the great sea," the boy replied, carefully looking at the shiny surface of the river.

"You're right, my boy," said the Monk, patting the boy on the cheek. "Just as my mind and soul and experience will soon join the ocean. Then your time will come, and it will be your turn to enjoy all this priceless knowledge."

He rose with difficulty, and the ghostly spirits of the water in the bay disappeared into the rushes. He went to the riverbank, observing the colored stones rounded by the river with a satisfaction, in a way that only a river could, imbuing them with pattern and meaning. Carefully, he lowered the statue of the Buddha into the water. He gently pushed it away, and the river's current picked up the priceless gift, and carried it away to the vast expanses, toward infinite perfection.