Nothing had changed in the small Chinese village at the foot of the Himalayas since the last time I had been there. I got off the bus at the square in front of the only inn in town. The owner received me with the same indifference as always. I made the payment, and she handed me the room key without saying a word. I left my backpack and went to Li Tzu’s house, the Taoist master. On the way, to stave off my hunger, I bought a momo, a kind of cheese dumpling steamed and sold on the streets, much appreciated in the region. As usual, the gate of the house was open. I crossed the bonsai garden with recurring enchantment. I wondered if the Taoist master’s dedication to the plants was the cause of the captivating serenity he expressed in his gestures and words. When I entered the kitchen, Midnight, the black cat who also lived in the house, stretched, bristled its fur, jumped from the top of the fridge, and vanished in a split second. I was startled. I had heard that some animal species possessed heightened sensitivity, capable of identifying people’s feelings. Though they are energy transmuters, when the feeling is too dense, cats sometimes prefer to move away. Since there was no one else in the kitchen, I found it strange. I was living a moment of tranquillity. No significant conflict tormented my days. Not understanding Midnight’s reaction, I sat at the table waiting for Li Tzu, who did not take long to arrive. Always reserved in the way he expressed emotions, I saw in the Taoist master’s eyes the joy of meeting me. Without delay, he placed some herbs to infuse for tea. He asked for news of the Elder, as we affectionately called the most senior monk of the Order. They had been contemporaries at an English university in the 1960s. A friendship that had overcome the turbulences of time. I commented on my admiration for such meetings, capable of transcending the setbacks and roughness common to existence. The Taoist master smiled and said: “We are kindred souls, with a similar level of consciousness and attuned to the same goal”. I asked what that goal would be. He revealed: “The great philosophical traditions teach that the meaning of life is the liberation from suffering”. I asked if the main motivation would not be spiritual evolution. Li Tzu nodded and added: “To evolve is to love more and better. Love requires the necessary learning about the origin, functioning, and deconstruction of sufferings, to definitively end the tormenting cycles of continuous emotional pains. Otherwise, love will fall short when it could go further. Suffering records the lost potential of love still unknown”.
The Taoist master brought the subject back to the Elder. He pointed out that I had not answered the question he had asked. The conversation had taken another direction without my giving news of his friend. I said he was well, directing the Esoteric Order of the Mountain Monks and guiding the various courses taught at the monastery. I did not go beyond the basics. Li Tzu looked at me seriously and asked: “Tell me what happened”. I insisted on saying that everything was fine. The Taoist master gently considered: “I know the importance of the Elder in your philosophical formation, as well as the affection and respect you have for him. However, I have never seen you so brief when speaking of someone with such luminosity. To corroborate my impressions, the sudden change in your features also betrays you. Something is out of place,” he stated. Then, he put me at ease: “Do not feel forced to talk about what you do not wish to or what makes you uncomfortable”. I explained it was nothing serious. I had only disagreed with the Elder regarding some administrative decisions. For some years, I had been part of the Order’s board of directors and was responsible for one of the courses offered at the monastery. It so happened that he had invited another monk. as the members of the brotherhood are called, Alex, to a newly created position, that of general coordinator of courses and studies. He was a studious and well-prepared monk, but very young. One could not deny the value of the new ideas he brought, nor his intense dynamism in implementing some changes. I confessed I had attended some of Alex’s classes and did not like his loud tone of voice nor the excess of pyrotechnics, as I referred to the many technological resources he used in the classroom. I considered them unnecessary. The important thing will always be the content, I argued. I defined myself as someone more classical and traditional. I decided to step away from the board and gave up teaching the course for which I would be responsible in the next study period. I communicated my decision to the Elder in a written message. I understood I needed to step aside to provide space for the indispensable renewal. Evolution requires change, I concluded.
Li Tzu furrowed his brows and observed: “The discourse is perfect, but without any connection to the heart. You were polite, and almost gentle, but not at all sincere. The repressed feeling about the matter generates the suffering that torments you. The balance you show is part of the persona of someone apparently well-resolved, without the necessary support of a consciousness at peace with itself”. I said he was mistaken. I commented that I was going through a period without any suffering. A moment of great emotional stability. All pressing matters were settled. I was at peace, I stated. Li Tzu commented that he had seen Midnight dart away the moment I entered. I admitted I had also found it odd, since I felt fine. He warned: “Some sufferings are so old that we already consider them an inseparable part of who we are. Others manifest with such recurrence that they go unnoticed. There are also those we deny because we consider their presence absurd, given the spiritual development we believe we have already attained. We grow so accustomed to these pains that we do not even consider they exist. We create a thick crust of protection around the heart, like the calluses formed on bare feet forced to walk on rocky ground. Both heart and feet become insensitive to life’s and the road’s roughness. In extreme situations, becoming insensitive may present itself as the only possible defence for the individual not to be destroyed by unbearable pain. However, we must not forget that this is a temporary mechanism of self-preservation, never to be confused with a definitive solution”. He filled the cups with the tea just steeped and added: “Sensitivity is an essential part of consciousness. Therefore, it is directly important to how we process experiences and make use of our days. With diminished sensitivity we lose the ability to discern and value feelings. Pains and loves will narrow in the same measure. To suffocate life’s pains does not bring back life’s colours. Denial has never been an effective method of deconstruction. Not without reason, a wise alchemist from Kesswill taught that we will not be defeated by the adversaries who arise in the entanglements of relationships, but by the feelings and sufferings we insist on ignoring. A practice that allows them to run free until they dominate us completely. Just as with the illnesses of the body, the ailments of the soul spread for lack of treatment. Insensitivity does not symbolize any victory, but a sad reduction of potentialities. A way of shrinking in order to survive in a timid manner instead of growing to live in the best way possible”.
We drank the tea unhurriedly and silently. Li Tzu was urging me to think about my behaviour, the way I dealt with my feelings and processed experiences as I lived them. An indispensable exercise in self-discovery, fundamental to genuine transformations. The foundation of evolution. Everything else is make-up and playacting. I confessed that there were a number of situations that had made me suffer. Some had been left behind, belonging to the past. Others, such as some professional and family relationships, persisted because they remained active. However, I had settled them within me. Willing to put my heart before the mirror of truth, the Taoist master asked: “Did you grow accustomed to the suffering, making it bearable, or did you achieve the victory of dissolving it completely?” I said I did not know how to identify the difference. Li Tzu clarified the doubt: “If when recalling the facts you are taken by a feeling of discomfort, it means there was only accommodation. It is stored, but active. If, on the other hand, the memory brings the joy of learning and overcoming, then the suffering has been dismantled completely. It no longer causes harm”.
In different ways, everyone suffers. I mentioned that I would like to better understand the workings of emotional pain. Li Tzu was didactic: “We have been conditioned to feel fear, to hold grudges, to react badly in the face of insignificant situations. To use things, such as cars and houses, as representations of personal image. Material possessions are used as a ruler of success. Social, political, and legal privileges function as sources of power and superiority. We idolize the perfect contours of the body to the detriment of the beauty of the soul. We have inverted the values of life. We have created an environment conducive to frustrations and setbacks. We go from one annoyance to another without rest or respite. The behaviour of others bothers us excessively, to the point that a person disregards themselves as the generating centre of their own well-being. We foster intolerance and impatience. We establish as a goal of happiness achievements that do not depend on our will or capacity. We relinquish the power to redirect life. Our very own life. Without realizing it, we exhaust ourselves without leaving the spot. We are the ocean of sufferings that drown us”. He drank a sip of tea and continued: “Suffering grinds feelings down to the limit of the unbearable. It unbalances, weakens, saddens, makes one impatient, leads to false conclusions, reduces possibilities, and makes one waste opportunities. It stimulates either aggressiveness or discouragement according to the individual’s mental and emotional structures. A dangerous vicious cycle that feeds itself with continuous and growing pains”.
I asked how I could become able to reverse the process. The Taoist master explained: “There are pleasures that generate unmeasured pain; there are pleasures that bring sincere joy, but we have unlearned how to distinguish which is which before suffering takes hold. The difference establishes the pier or the chaos. Where we can dock in safety, or the seas in which we will sink”. I asked if he referred to any specific situation. Li Tzu clarified: “I speak of all situations, but I also speak of a specific one. In this case, of your act of renouncing the positions you held in the Order. By not knowing how to identify, or by refusing to accept, the feeling that engulfed you upon learning of the Elder’s decision to appoint Alex to a role in which you would be subordinate, you reacted poorly. However, in the attempt to hide from yourself and conceal from the other monks the authentic feeling that moved your choice, you devised a renunciation with noble ideas of abnegation and renewal. If there were sincerity, peace would overflow. As there is not, a veiled tension remains in your gestures and words”. I contested. He was mistaken. I asked how he had come to that conclusion. The Taoist master showed his insight: “Pyrotechnics,” he said simply. Yes, I had used this word to describe Alex’s way of teaching, but I didn’t understand what he was trying to show me. He clarified: “The sarcastic tone in the use of the term to illustrate the facts showed that there was an incomprehended feeling and revealed repressed pain. Sarcasm and irony are harmful avenues of disguised aggressiveness, yet socially accepted. Even applauded as supposed demonstrations of good intellectual wit. However, social acceptance does not erase the violence embedded in the act. Depending on the individual and the situation, suffering has the power to compress or to tear, to implode or to explode, to make us crestfallen or impetuous”.
Disconcerted, I set the teacup down on the table and asked if he was claiming that I had decided to step down from the positions of director and teacher out of jealousy or envy. I spoke in a tone of indignation. The accusation was severe. Li Tzu did not change his demeanour, kept his serenity, his eyes fixed on mine, and returned the question: “Define the pier you will dock at or the chaos you will live… You tell me”.
I restrained the impulse to get up and leave. He wanted to help me. For that, I had to stay and face it. Not him, but myself. As the alchemist taught, Narcissus finds ugly whatever is not a mirror. Jealousy and envy, never. Dark feelings already transmuted and overcome, I declared. Jealousy is characterized by the discomfort of not being the main focus of someone’s interest. Envy is restricted to individuals who cannot accept the achievements of others. In both cases, they insist on reacting instinctively without allowing the most beautiful feelings to emerge. My stance did not fit either jealousy or envy. I simply did not align myself with the new guidelines set by the Elder. So as not to hinder, I stepped away. Simple as that, I explained. Li Tzu shook his head as if to say no and countered: “Simplistic, yes. Simple, never. If it were, it would unveil the mistakes you fear to admit”. I asked why I would fear admitting my mistakes. In response, he only looked at me. No words were needed. I lowered my head. I knew that there is no greater or graver lie than the one we tell ourselves. Hence, chaos instead of the pier.
I closed my eyes and remained silent for a time I cannot measure. The Taoist master showed no haste. He remained seated in front of me with unshakable calm and patience. To turn chaos into a pier, I had to admit the genuine feelings that moved my decision and begin to work with the truth. I took a deep breath and confessed that, although until then I had not admitted it, I had felt jealousy because the Elder had chosen Alex, and not me, for the role of general coordinator. I had felt envy upon hearing so much praise about his pedagogical method, as well as about the differentiated perspective he offered on the subject he taught. Yes, Alex was very good. However, instead of embracing the uncomfortable yet liberating truth, I had chosen a way out of elegant words to hide deceitful feelings. It was the short-term pleasure with long-term suffering that Li Tzu had spoken of moments earlier. I had to overcome all my inner dragons to verbalize that, yes, I had acted out of jealousy and envy!
Contrary to what I had imagined, I was enveloped by the freshness of a pure feeling of self-compassion and self-love. When one feeling arises to replace another, transmutation occurs without delay. Only then could I undo the feeling that drowned me in suffering. Alex and the Elder deserved all my love. They were wonderful people and they liked me. I understood, in practice, that jealousy and envy are internal misunderstandings that create unnecessary disputes and conflicts, in uncontrolled movements of self-betrayal. Then we make life bitter, we extinguish the light. It becomes indispensable to bring envy and jealousy to the surface of consciousness, to recognize their presence and reach, as well as the mistakes and disasters they provoked, as a means to halt their actions and influences. To forgive oneself through sincere repentance provides the perfect conditions for the transmutation of these feelings into others, such as affection, respect, and admiration. From resentment, love is born. Then the light shines again. Recognizing one’s own fragility makes the seed of strength sprout. If truth offers the remedy, love makes the healing. The renewal that Alex brought to the monastery would also serve my improvement, as long as I did not lack humility and simplicity. Regeneration consists in the rebirth and reconstruction of oneself with different and better foundations. This is what awaited me.
I ended my confession with tearful eyes, citing a popular axiom: we learn through love or through pain. Li Tzu disagreed: “Pain teaches nothing. Pain is life’s borderline resource to awaken the unknown or neglected love. Until love arrives, the individual will not learn. Suffering narrows the mind, clouds the vision, and poisons the heart. If one insists on staying distant from love, pain will make them sink after successive collisions with the rocks of misunderstanding and bitterness. Only when pain accepts love as its helmsman does the vessel of life adjust its course, leaving the stormy seas of chaos to dock at the safe pier of peace”.
At that moment, Midnight, the black cat who also lived in the house, entered the kitchen, leapt onto the refrigerator, looked at me for a few moments, yawned, and fell asleep, a clear sign that he approved of my new vibrational pattern. We laughed. I pondered that that conversation had fulfilled the purpose of the journey. My heart asked me to set off toward the monastery. To meet the Elder and Alex, to embrace them, to admit my mistakes, and to ask that I be allowed to rejoin the Order. I had betrayed love and joy with pride, vanity, jealousy, and envy. It all came down to my mismatches with myself. Li Tzu pointed out: “All conflicts are external projections of our internal dissatisfactions and misunderstandings. In truth, no one stumbles because of anyone else, except due to their own inability to walk on their own feet”. He offered me a beautiful smile and said: “Now, go! Do what needs to be done. Do not let life wait. When we do not understand the pier, we are engulfed by chaos”.
As I left, I passed through the bonsai garden. I remembered having wondered, upon entering, whether caring for the plants was the reason for Li Tzu’s great serenity expressed in his gestures and words. Although contact with the plants was salutary, the answer was no. Long ago, the Taoist master had learned to discern the road that leads to chaos from the path that leads to the pier.
Translated by Cazmilian Zórdic.
