every thing.

”What is good?” I asked.

“Everything,” he answered.

“What is evil?” I asked.

“Everything,” he answered.

“Who can I trust?” I asked.

“Everyone,” he answered.

“Who is my enemy?” I asked.

“Everyone,” he answered.

“Where should I go?” I asked.

“Everywhere,” he answered.

“Where should I stay away from?” I asked.

“Everywhere,” he answered.

“This isn’t helping. Are you trying to be confusing on purpose?”

The teacher laughed. “Your confusion I’m afraid, is your insistence on believing another kind of lesson. I can only tell you that when you understand this one, it changes everything, everyone, and every place you go or find yourself.”

bias.

 A man once came to a new country to speak on some of the most controversial topics of the day and to answer questions from the crowds. He was a good man. A nice man. But, a very mis-informed man. As he did not know the native language, he, of course, needed a translator.

The man spoke well. But his translator spoke even better. Much better. In fact, his translator give rousing speech after rousing speech and the crowds laughed and nodded their heads and left believing everything the man said.

When it came time for questions, each question, via the translator, seemed well thought out and beautifully worded - and always attached with compliments on the man’s position and affirmation of his viewpoints. The man always felt good after a speaking tour but after this one, in particular, he felt as though he had been given the moon. He was full of confidence and zeal and energy for thousands more tours.

Upon returning to his home country, when asked about the tour, he said this: “I have never ever received such adoration and acceptance on my views. I realize they are sometimes controversial but I have never ever heard such encouragement and confirmation from the crowds. The world truly is changing. The world truly is beginning to see. I am happy.”

His translator was interviewed the same day, still in his home country: “It was an honor to translate for the best comedian we’ve had in years.”

xianity.

“Sometimes you will hear them complain about the loss of Christ from their religion’s name, never realizing as soon as Christ was in the name, it was no longer a religion worthy of his followers.”

“Why do you care about Christianity?” I asked.

“I don’t. There is only one religion worthy of devotion. It is the one that always begs us to keep searching for the treasure on the map. It is the value that is not yet known. It is the one that worships mystery and adventure and questions and kisses more than answers and rites and rituals and instruction. What would a god require or a christ wish for his followers? X.”

“Is that your religion?” I asked.

“Why do you care about my religion?”

history. (or the past)

“They say that those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it. And yet, they say we are supposed to bury the past. Which is it?” I asked the teacher.

“There is no good?” he smiled.

“The good?”

“There is no doom in love. Why would we bury joy?”

“True. What about the bad?” I asked.

He smirked. “To some, studying the past is a film projector. They simply see it repeated. They are entertained and maybe even moved. To some, studying the past is a microscope. They analyze the overlooked details to try and understand. To some, studying the past is a telescope. They look into the universal truths that affect us still.

“To a select few, the past is a mirror. They see themselves. They see their nations, their cultures, their systems, but most importantly their own reflection. They see who they were, who they may still be, and what they are capable of, both good and bad. This the most useful way to look at the past. To better know the person that lives inside of us. To know who we are. Only then can we begin to decide if we want to live with them still.

“It is these who understand how to bury what was done and to still learn what there is to be learned.”

money.

A little boy used to love the color of the stones that would wash up on shore. He would go daily to collect the stones: yellow stones, blue stones, red stones, and green stones. He would bring them home and stack them in piles, according to size and color and smile at their unique shapes and intricate textures.

As the boy grew, he continued to love his stones. He continued to collect them, to stack them, to build with them, to find such pleasure in them.

The boy fell in love, the boy had children, and the man taught his family how to find the most colorful, the most unique, the most delicate and the strongest stones. His home, and the grasses surrounding it, were soon filled with all manner of stone and art forms built with them. People came from all over the country to see the stones, to marvel at them, and the man was proud and satisfied.

Eventually, the man grew sick, like many do before death. He found it hard to walk and he could no longer do his favorite thing. His children agreed to take him, one final time, to the shore to see what he could find.

After a long and tiring journey the old man finally arrived. Being as old as he was, he found it hard to bend over. Being as old as he was, he found it hard to move fast and they ended up staying much longer than usual, until the sun began to set and the air grow a bit colder.

It was then the man began to cry. Tears, like rivers, streamed down his cheeks, His children gasped and his wife tried to comfort him.

“Papa, what is the matter?”

Rarely had anyone seen him cry as he was.

Rarely had anyone seen him smile as he then did. “The sunset. The ocean. How could I have never seen such beauty until now?”

passion.

“How do I find my passion? How do I merge it with my career? How do I get out of bed—”

“Stop,” the master interrupted. “I’ve heard enough. Why don’t you ask the politician or the evangelist?”

“I’m asking you.”

“Well, the evangelist selling lies seems to have found more than I. The politician spouting empty promises, too. Yet, so has the blind woman I pass every morning smiling at the pigeons as though they were her children and the disabled man who sings all day while picking rice under the hot sun. You see, passion is only a horse. Or a violin. The more important question is where do you want to go? What song do you want to learn to play?”

“How do I do that?”

“Stop asking how to smile. Learn to be happy.”

cynicism.

“Tell me about cynicism,” I said to my teacher.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“I don’t want to be known as a cynic. They say cynicism is a wound, not wisdom.”

“Hmm,” he whispered. “Tell me... is the free man a cynic when he mistrusts the invitation of the warden to live in his beautiful prison? Is the warden a cynic when he mistrusts the invitation of the free man to his woods of wild creatures and flowing rivers?”

“Yes?” I answered.

“Cynicism is an excuse to resist change. Always resist building bars and never resist tearing them down. Yes, the bars do wound. As they should. And that is wisdom. Do not worry what they call you, only if you are always becoming more free.”