The Nature of a Temple (That's the actual title) Part 3 (Finale)

The life of a monk is one deeply steeped in tradition, or so I told myself as I watched our friendly neighborhood monk share the formal eating ceremony. Yes. There was a ceremony for eating. The process itself was not as daunting as keeping the creeping stillness that threatened to take me every time I retreated within myself, at bay. It looked easy in comparison. Once we had been taught, we were dismissed. We had time to prepare, in whatever way, for meditation and then lunch.

Meditation had been…painful. My hips, I am sure, have never been the same since. Lunch had been…interesting. Monks, I realized, did not eat for leisure. They ate to live. So we ate quickly. In all of this, the complete stillness, the void, had attempted again and again to break ground with me. I fought it actively. It distracted and undid me. I was afraid, I realized at some point. I had lived my whole life as the chaos of sunshine. My nature was not still or dark—I could not accept the void! But it wrapped around me like a burial shroud; my old ways were dying. I was afraid. And worst of all I was weary: I needed work, mindless distraction or I would not last.

A twinge of despair passed through me as I glanced down at my task.
“Really. You want me to clean this.” The walkway was near immaculate. I hid my lack of enthusiasm beneath a delicately placed glass mask, one of many that I had carefully crafted for the stage, now serving me in life. “Alright, I might as well start.” I set to work, vigorously scrubbing the wooden panels, replacing the water, and before I knew it my mask had cracked and crumbled into some abyss, perhaps never to be seen again. I was enjoying the work and my mind was blissfully blank. The stillness that took me beneath the fading sun was warm. The void became the inside of an egg, sunlight streaming through the film like white, illuminating the place. The pond water was golden and slick like raw egg whites. And just as quietly the sky beyond the shell shattered. The heavy patter of rain soaked through and I watched the shell shimmer into non-existence. Dark clouds roiled, lighting flashed and thunder cracked. I could see the sky and was instantly still.
“I like your spirit.” Tenrai, the monk I assisted declared matter of factly at the end of the work day. I smiled a peal of lighting as was my nature; a new nature perhaps, but mine.
“What’s next?”

The nature of a Temple is likened to that of a thunderstorm: Dark and old as time within, with flickers of enlightenment to guide the way. And on the outside, majestic but always hiding something, like curling clouds heavy with drink. Perhaps is it appropriate then that the temple caught me at this transition in my life. I am no longer sunshine so much as a passing tempest.