The Two Monks and the River

Two monks were walking in silence along a forest road. They had taken vows of celibacy and of not touching women. They walked from one monastery to another, with several days of road between them.

They came to a river. The bridge had been washed out. The water ran fast, but not deep — they could ford it carefully.

At the riverbank, a young woman in fine clothes was standing, distressed. She had to cross the river but could not, in her good clothes, on her own. She was on her way to a wedding.

The older monk, without speaking, walked over to her, picked her up in his arms, carried her across the river, set her down on the other side, and bowed. She thanked him, gathered her skirts, and went on her way.

The two monks continued their walk in silence.

For an hour, the younger monk said nothing.

For two hours, the younger monk said nothing.

After three hours, the younger monk could no longer hold it. "Brother," he said, sharply, "you carried a woman. You carried a woman in your arms. We have taken vows. How could you?"

The older monk smiled.

"Brother," he said, "I set her down by the river three hours ago. You have been carrying her ever since."

What the story is for

This is one of the oldest stories in the Zen canon, and the most useful. It points at the simplest mistake we make in difficult moments: we set down the action long before we set down the thinking about the action.

You had a difficult meeting at 10 a.m. The meeting ended at 10:45. By 11:00, the room is empty, the slides are closed, the people have moved on. Most of them are not thinking about the meeting now.

You are still thinking about the meeting at 4 p.m. You are still thinking about it at 9 p.m. You are thinking about it again at 4:45 a.m.

The thing happened, briefly, in the morning. It is happening, repeatedly, in your head, all day. You are carrying the woman across the river, and the river is six hours behind you.

A small practice

When you notice you are still thinking about something that happened earlier — a conversation, an email, a small embarrassment — ask yourself, gently: am I carrying the woman?

If yes: imagine setting her down. Bow, the way the older monk bowed. Continue the walk. The thing happened. It does not need to keep happening.

You will pick her up again, of course. Probably within the hour. Set her down again. As many times as needed.

The practice is not to never pick her up. The practice is to keep noticing when you have, and to keep, gently, letting her go.

It is a long road, and you have many monasteries still to walk to.