THE MONK & THE MOON

Returning after a day of begging for food and occasional play with the children of the village, Ryokan returned to the mountains where he slept most nights, sometimes under the stars, other times in his small, ramshackle hut where he liked to compose poetry mostly dedicated to the moon.

With enough rice to last him a few weeks and a decent supply of sake, he was all set to enjoy the last weeks of summer before the autumn arrived.

As the late August wind blew through the silver and gold susuki grass making it look like a vast ocean, Ryokan felt as if he was floating out at sea as he lay on the steep slopes of the mountain. He closed his eyes, falling into a deep sleep where he dreamt of his childhood fishing for Yamame trout.

He must have slept for a few hours because when he opened his eyes again the darkness was an inky midnight blue all around him, with only the fat yellow moon providing a source of light to help him find his way home.

As he got to his feet and stretched his arms, he could hear the sound of a nearby mountain stream trickling away followed suddenly by a distant groan not far from where he stood. He wondered for a moment if he had unconsciously made the sound himself for he could see no-one close by.

"Hello?!"

Silence. No-one responded to his call.

"Hello?!"

Still there was no answer.

But just as he was about to set off on foot back to his hut, he heard the groan again, only this time he could just about source the direction from where the noise was coming. Running barefoot down the mountain slope, he found an elderly monk who was collapsed in a heap. Ryokan immediately attended to the man in distress.

"Sir. How can I help you?"

"I broke my foot and need somewhere to rest for the night. I thought I would die here all alone like a wounded animal."

"You're not alone now my friend. Besides. My hut is not far from here."

The old monk groaned again.

"How will we get there?"

"I will carry you."

The monk couldn't imagine the short, funny looking man was even strong enough to carry him on his back but was happily prepared to be proved wrong.

As Ryokan hauled the man onto his back like a sturdy mule, he began his ascent up the steep mountain toward his home.

It was a strange sight as the smaller man carried the much taller, bigger man on his back as the golden moonlight illuminated their path toward the mountain hut.

When the elderly monk woke up, he found a beautiful cup of Sencha tea beside his bed.

Ryokan was sitting cross legged observing the monk attentively.

"You watched over me?"

"I made sure you slept without interruption. Only one, small jumping spider threatened to stir you from your slumber."

The monk bowed his head in gratitude.

"You are very kind. Why do you care so well for a total stranger like me?"

Ryokan smiled and nodded.

"Simple. I would want the same for me if I should find myself in similar peril."

The monk considered the poet's statement.

"I like this thinking of yours. Simple but beautiful."

Ryokan bowed his head as way of acknowledging the monk's compliment.

"I try to keep everything simple these days. When everything fell apart for me previously, it was always because I made things complicated in my head. Now I try and keep my mind as still as a millpond where I possibly can."

The monk turned to one side and rested on his arm.

"You are very wise. Why are you not a monk like me?"

Ryokan laughed.

"Because I like women and sake too much. I am easily tempted by earthly delights even though I know like most things they are an illusion."

The monk considered Ryokan's honesty with deep consideration.

"It's been a long time since I had sake."

"Would you like some now?"

"I shouldn't really, but if you think it would help with the pain then maybe we could call it medicine?"

Ryokan pointed his finger at the monk.

"I like your way of thinking."

Retrieving a bottle of sake from his satchel, Ryokan grabbed two cups and poured a good slug into each.

After the monk took his first sip, he let out a sigh.

"Why do I deny myself these pleasures?"

"Because you have far greater nourishment from your spiritual practice?"

The monk didn't really hear Ryokan's reply, too busy enjoying the sake.

"You know lying here in your lovely hut with this sake, I feel perfectly content. I almost forgot my injury so happy am I in this moment."

Ryokan topped up the monk's cup with more sake.

"Well, I feel the same way. Always better to have company. I enjoy drinking alone and gazing at the moon, but what is all this beauty for if not to share?"

"You're right. I wonder if you're not more wise than me, perhaps?"

"I am a poet. I see the lyrical in all things. Including getting drunk and idling."

The monk paused for a moment before taking his next sip and stared Ryokan directly in the eye with a look of utter seriousness.

"May I ask then young poet what exactly it is you're hiding from?"

Ryokan was unprepared for this shift of tone from the elderly monk and felt undone.

He looked at him as suddenly tears formed in his eyes and began to fall into his cup of sake, creating small ripples across the surface of his drink.

"I don't want to die!"

The monk sighed slowly as if he was gently exhaling empathy toward his new friend. He then put down his cup and looked with great sympathy toward the poet.

"Do you like the taste of sake?"

Ryokan nodded.

"Most certainly."

"Then you must also like the moments of anticipation just before you taste it?"

The poet found the monk's question unexpected.

" Yes."

"Well, this is why death is nothing to fear."

Ryokan put down his own cup out of respect for the monk.

"Why?"

"Because you'll always want more sake."

The two men said nothing for a few moments after their philosophical exchange as the moonlight streamed through into the tiny hut.