It was during the break between classes. The afternoon sun warmed the cold autumn breeze in the mountains. I decided to rest on the balcony while all the other monks went to the cafeteria in search of a mug of coffee or a bowl of hot soup to warm their bodies and lift their spirits. Almost everyone. I found Paul, a monk who had joined the Order at the same time as I had. We were very close friends, often discussing personal matters—work, family, purposes, and projects. On many occasions we had met outside the monastery. Our wives and daughters got along well too. We treated each other as genuine brothers.
Despite the surprise of finding me on the balcony, he smoked his cigarette with ease. I immediately reproached him. Paul was a sweet and cheerful man, a lover of life, a luminous soul, and an extremely pleasant person to be around. From the start, he had always had a carefree attitude toward healthy eating and was equally averse to physical activity. He loved soda, cookies, and hot dogs—staples of his diet. He claimed to feel tired just watching someone exercise. Prioritizing the power of the mind and heart, he had never cared for maintaining his body.
However, by the time he turned fifty, several health problems began to surface. He rejected what he called undue interference with his lifestyle, despite doctors warning him of the serious risks he faced if he didn’t change several of his habits. During exams conducted more due to his devoted wife’s insistence than his own, among other issues, his lungs signalled they were on the brink of collapse.
I spoke harshly. I reminded Paul that taking care of one’s health was an act of love—not just for oneself, but also for the family he so dearly loved. Paul argued that he had drastically reduced his smoking, limiting himself to one or two cigarettes a day instead of the pack he had smoked for years. I reminded him that the recommendation was to quit the habit altogether. He questioned whether life was worth living without small pleasures. I replied that greater pleasures could be found in moments with his enchanting daughters, joyful times with his wife, pleasant Sundays with friends, and in the exceptional work he performed with uncommon mastery. I asked if he, a man of extraordinary intelligence, would allow fleeting pleasures to steal his time and dilute the sweetness of life.
My friend countered that time had no fixed schedule; everyone must learn to face it with the certainty of its inevitable end. I partially agreed, noting that time was the raw material of the Great Art—the construction of oneself. Cutting time short irresponsibly would leave the work incomplete, intensify suffering, squander opportunities, and delay achievements. He knew what I meant. I added that he would never truly be a free man as long as he remained a prisoner of his own vices.
Before he could respond—and Paul never lacked intelligent arguments to defend his lifestyle and beliefs—I left the balcony without saying another word.
I returned to my studies. Although the subject was interesting, I couldn’t focus on anything discussed in class that afternoon. That night, my sleep was restless. I decided to rise early. Heading to the cafeteria for a mug of coffee, I found Paul seated at a table with a can of soda as his breakfast. Without even greeting him, I reminded him of his looming diabetes. He shrugged and said it was a sugar-free soda. I pointed out how sodas increase the body’s acidity levels and the harm this causes. Paul was also beginning to have issues with his pancreas. He argued that a few glasses of water would suffice to normalize the levels. He defended his choice, insisting he wasn’t drinking a goblet of poison as I made it seem. I maintained that he was slowly killing himself—a kind of slow suicide that could cause unnecessary problems for his family should he become seriously ill, physically limited, before the endless day arrived. Paul emphasized that balance is a virtue, asserting that it was possible to enjoy the pleasures of minor vices without relinquishing life’s great accomplishments. As we escalated in tone in our argument, I told him he could only heal if he first addressed the Cowboy Syndrome he suffered from. Like a character from a Western, Paul couldn’t resist a duel. He insisted on challenging doctors, common sense, and life itself. Unlike the movies, this was a futile fight because he would never overcome death without making the transformations only time allows.
Paul was ready with another response, but as he withdrew an argument from his endless catalogue, he fell silent. I turned toward the direction of his gaze. Standing at the cafeteria door was the Elder, as we affectionately called the Order’s oldest member, silently listening. He waited for our discussion to end before entering. Without a word, he crossed the room, filled a coffee mug, and sat by the window. He made no comment on our debate, merely discussing the day’s activities.
That afternoon, I met the Elder tending the roses in the monastery’s inner garden. Seeing me, he paused and invited me to sit beside him on a stone bench. Alone, the wise monk went straight to the point: “A cowboy can’t meet another without feeling tempted to measure their strength. The mistake of all cowboys has always been their failure to identify their true opponent. Until they understand this, regardless of the duel’s outcome, they’ll never defeat themselves—the only true challenge there is. This is the movie Hollywood never wanted to make.”
He paused before continuing: “There are many kinds of cowboys, in countless shades. Men and women, from every social and cultural background, ready to show who’s stronger. Their Colt 45s, legendary in the Old West due to their lethal power, now manifest in words and actions designed to put others in their place. Of course, as they see it, that place is beneath their pedestal—ideally, on their knees or in a position of submission.”
He gave me a moment to process his thoughts before adding, “With different plots and allegories, from serious matters to mundane situations, we witness this sad spectacle in family, romantic, and professional relationships.” I then asked him if he wasn’t exaggerating on his analysis. The Elder explained: “When we duel to prove who’s right—about which truth, interest, or desire will prevail—we unwittingly accept a foolish challenge to determine a winner, when, in reality, everyone loses. Instead of the polished revolvers of old movies, the weapons now are rhetoric justifying pride and vanity, intelligence devoid of virtue, manipulation of knowledge and information, professional coercion, economic power, and other means bereft of love, due to a lack of perception and sensitivity.”
I interrupted the Elder to disagree. I saw Paul as a genuine brother. True fraternal love. The kind monk pointed out: “Yes, undoubtedly. I am not questioning your beautiful friendship. However, love alone is not enough; one must learn how to love. This is why relationships are fundamental for personal growth. Notice that when Paul refuses to adopt the truth or lifestyle you consider best for him, his refusal is interpreted as an invitation to an imaginary duel, as if an adversary had appeared before you to be defeated. This is an illusory situation, created by misunderstandings that distort the intentions behind your actions. Reality becomes blurred, like a foggy road on the edge of a cliff.”
He then added: “It’s important to note that it wasn’t your friend who challenged you. He merely exercised his sacred right of self-determination, to make the choices he deems fit for his own life. It was you, driven by intellectual pride and vanity, coupled with emotional imbalance—typical of those who try to impose their views on others—who created an unnecessary duel where understanding and respect would have sufficed.”
I argued that I couldn’t simply stand by passively and watch my friend destroy or shorten his life without taking action. The Elder agreed: “Of course not. That would mean abandoning one of love’s fundamental pillars: commitment. Without commitment, it is impossible to deepen or broaden any relationship. It will remain a short, shallow love, with some sparkle but no light. On the road of evolution governed by time, we can always offer help to others; however, we must never drag anyone along. It is a journey each traveller must make on their own. Otherwise, there will be much showing and little being.”
I reflected that the advice he gave was a common practice in my routine. The wise monk did not disagree: “Certainly. When words align with actions, we lead by example; we become trustworthy. You acted this way.” Before I could delude myself, he added: “As a good friend, you offered your truth. However, this is the last frontier of freedom. Up to that point, everything was fine. But when you insisted he should make choices he didn’t want to, adopting your truth as a way of life, you became an unwanted intruder, attempting to coerce Paul’s free will. Without realizing it—like an unacknowledged vice—you tried to dominate him. This is how many conflicts that destroy beautiful friendships begin. Domination isn’t only physical; it also occurs in intellectual, emotional, professional, and economic realms. We dominate whenever we impose our truth, interests, will, or desires on someone else. These situations are common even among friends and family who love each other. In most cases, the intruders are unaware of their inappropriate interference—or worse, the damage they cause. Every invasion is a form of violence.”
Damage? I said I didn’t understand. The Elder clarified: “Truth shapes reality. Each person lives in a world shaped by their perception and sensitivity. This determines the extent of their suffering and joy, regardless of the difficulties and obstacles they face. The ability to solve equations will determine how well problems are resolved. Problems grow and accumulate in direct proportion to each person’s misunderstandings about themselves.” He gestured with his hands before adding: “At this point, we return to the beginning of our conversation. When faced with opposition or dissatisfaction, the cowboy takes control of who we are; a duel is provoked and accepted. This means allowing a new, unnecessary problem to arise. Confronted with a mountain, instead of gently contouring it like a breeze or irrigating it with soft rain to nurture flowers when the soil becomes fertile, we decide to blow it up with dynamite just to avoid anything that challenges the truth we insist on imposing, in the vice of believing that if others don’t do things our way, the journey will be ruined. This is a lamentable mistake and the cause of so many conflicts. We forget that the mountain has the right to be there; there is no reason to destroy it. Just as the wind has the right to continue forward; nothing will stop it.”
I asked whether the wise monk agreed with how Paul managed his health. The Elder reminded me of something fundamental: “The consequences, whatever they may be, are his to bear. Therefore, it is his choice and his preferred method of learning. Hence, no one has the right to complain. Guiding someone is enlightening; insisting, as a form of interference, is harmful. It disrupts the lightness of relationships and can infringe upon another’s freedom. Many give in to pressure without necessarily agreeing with the offered perspective. In such cases, the invasion is complete. Even when using good arguments and sincere feelings, the insistence on adopting our truth reveals a covert intention—almost never admitted or recognized—to impose our will on others.”
The Elder continued: “We carry with us an atavistic behaviour, an irrational ancestral conditioning lodged in the subconscious, believing that we must dominate others or be dominated by them. Believing this premise reflects a lack of self-awareness, ignorance about truth, and the Path. Those who genuinely know themselves understand the source and essence of authentic power, which is lost if one diverges to take control of others. All conflicts, in their various magnitudes, arise from not knowing who we are or how to access the light that makes us whole.” He concluded: “We repeat mistakes without understanding the root cause of all fears and suffering. Sweet vices, old prisons.”
I remarked that I didn’t understand that last phrase. The Elder explained: “Definitive truths are the matrices of all vices. As long as we believe they are secure ways of being and living, we will remain imprisoned in a stagnant mind and a rigid heart. Fixed ideas and dried-up feelings, whose foundations we see no reason to transform, form the genuine existential prisons.” I asked how someone could recognize they were imprisoned within themselves. The kind monk was didactic: “Conflicts. If you have a problem, a grievance, dissatisfaction, or impatience that stayed with you for more than a day, it means there’s a mist clouding your vision, a thought needing expansion, a feeling crying for freedom. The absence of solutions signals incorrect equations.”
I said it wasn’t easy. The Elder agreed: “I’m not talking about ease. I’m talking about achieving freedom and lightness in life. It’s a simple yet complex work, constructed both within and outside oneself, simultaneously, with many nuances and singularities. The truth demands the unveiling of deeper layers of interpretation. Such a thing is not for the weak, the complacent, or the stubborn. It’s a practice in which a part of who we are is deconstructed—or in some cases, when urgency is greater, demolished—so that a new way of thinking and feeling, of being and living, has space to flourish in both mind and heart. In the mind, the pillars of perception; in the heart, the foundations of sensitivity. Clarity and impulse, balance and strength, truth and virtues, wisdom and love—these are the cornerstones of transformation and evolution.”
Then he concluded: “There are vices of different origins, forms, and severities. From poisons to balms, understanding pleasures is the first step toward comprehending vices and identifying prisons. Tobacco and sugar cause dependency; so do ideas, emotions, and behaviours. Some belong to the body, others to the soul.”
I fell silent. I needed time to process those new concepts. I asked if he could help me deconstruct the cowboy in me, the one who never refused a challenge and thus became embroiled in endless conflicts. The Elder handed me a pair of pruning shears and suggested: “Start by tending to the roses. They will teach you the art of delicacy, the virtue of causing no harm even when motivated to do good. For this, keep a watchful eye, maintain a serene heart, and steady hands. Then, practice this with all people. You will understand that only those who truly belong to themselves know the value of freedom and have learned to cultivate life’s lightness. Only the strong can be delicate with the world. Only those who respect themselves can retire the cowboy who duels unnecessarily, feeling challenged by every contradiction, and suffering so much from their own misunderstandings hidden behind their best intentions.”
After that, he excused himself and left. I watched him walk away with slow but assured steps.
Translated by Cazmilian Zórdic.
