Not Mine to Give

There once was a monk who lived alone on a remote hill beyond any of the known villages. He lived in simplicity and cared for all things he made with the same respect and intention as the care he gave to himself. All his food he grew himself, his broom was crafted by his own hands, along with the stone floor of his little shack, the tin roof, and the beautifully crafted, remarkably tall wooden fence that kept the mountain winds at bay.

One night, a thief appeared upon the monk’s remote hill. The thief had spotted an opportunity to take whatever the monk happened to have inside his humble dwelling. The thief waited for the sun to set, and when the darkness of night settled in, he made his way to the fence. The thief climbed the fence with ease, but upon descending the other side of the fence, found the monk waiting to receive his feet with upturned palms. The thief was startled, and looked down at the quiet monk who offered his open hands to the intruder.

“Let me help you, it’s a long drop from the top of my fence and you could hurt yourself.” The monk motioned with his hands. “Please, don’t hurt yourself.”

Confused, the thief descended upon the monks open hands with muddy sandals. The monk helped him down, and stepped back with a smile. “You must be searching for all kinds of riches.” The monk sighed. “But I do apologize for your efforts. There are only simple things here for you.” He shrugged. “But you can take them anyway. Here, please.” The monk began to hand the thief his broom, his dust pan, his sack of vegetables, and simple clay pots. Each of the items had taken years to craft. 

The thief stared in confusion before he said, “I don’t want them.”

“Too simple?” Asked the monk.

“No. No. I no longer want them anymore.”

“You are not stealing,” replied the monk. “I want you to have them. They are gifts now.”

The thief resisted. “How can they be gifts when I came to take them?” 

“And yet, you won’t have them.” The monk shrugged. “Why?”

“Because…,” He looked at the monk’s muddied hands that he had stepped on, then at the simple things in the dwelling. He looked at his own hands, outstretched and empty. “These things are not mine.”

“Nor are they mine.” The monk smiled. “So take them if you will, or leave them, but know that they will never belong to you or me. Nothing does.”

The thief stood and confessed to the monk in the dark, “I’ve stolen so much of my life that doesn’t belong to me.”

“Then spend the other half of your life, giving back,” replied the monk. “And you will no longer feel the need to steal. Then, you are free.”

None of what we believe is ours, truly is. To think that we are the one’s that own our lives seems to be a bit silly at this point, isn’t it? Though we move through our days invested in the ideals of conquering the world, acquiring our wealth, even owning our future, the reality of it all is simple: you do not own a thing.

You do not own your future. 

You do not own your past. 

You do not own your car (even though you paid it off last year) nor do you own your emotions or the very nature of yourself. 

You do not own anything. 

It may be a bit scary to surmise this particular truth so give yourself some time to process it but when you’re done, you’ll realize it’s true.

This life of your’s is part of everything else in this massive, unfathomably large place we call existence. And, not to sound terse, but your life is just like anything else around you; the phone that you’re listening to this podcast with, the steering wheel you grip, or the pair of shoes on your feet (mind you, if you are wearing shoes, be thankful for them, not that many of your fellow human beings have a pair to call their own). The leftovers from last week, same as you, the fractured cement block you park in front of everyday when you go to work, same as you. 

Step back and think bigger now.

The massive forests that cover the Earth, the ocean that rages in the middle of the night, the stars that once shown so brightly in the depths of space, the sun, the moon, the air, the rain, the passionate young lovers that keep you up at night across the wall, are you. We can not own anything because we are everything. 

You are the very essence of this existence, and thus, you cannot own yourself more than you can own the stars themselves.

Let’s go bigger.

You are even beyond existence itself. We are part of something so great, so massive, so absolutely all encompassing, that we, as individuals, as in, you dear listener or reader, are beyond the comprehensive levels of existence alone.

That’s right.

You are beyond existing alone.

Because, as far as the nature of reality is concerned, you are forever and always a part of all things that have ever existed, or will exist, and eventually end, and then start over again. Thus, you as an individual being, a separate life, cannot exist.

Ok, reality check, are you still with me?

Fine, I’ll say it in a different way.

We cannot own a life that does not belong to us; as all things are complete unto themselves, including you, you beautiful universe. When we find ourselves in wanting, envious of others, wishing for control of our lives, our careers, or our emotions, remember, even if you owned these things, even if you owned the world, it would never belong to you. 

When we realize we cannot own anything, the desire to want them, vanishes.

And then, you are free.