Bowl of Life

In my early teens I complained to my uncle about how busy I was; how I couldn’t get everything done. Now, I knew that my uncle was a very wise man. He had his PhD., had been a college president and was now the head of a department in a nearby university. I don’t quite know what advice I expected but he invited me to sit beside him on a bench and he told me this story of a young Buddhist monk:

The young monk arose each morning,
spent time in meditation,
picked up a large empty bowl
and journeyed out around the countryside.

As he travels from place to place,
people come out to him and
place things in his bowl.

Some days his bowl is very full
some days his bowl is empty
every day, he eats the food that people have put in his bowl

When night comes
if there is no food in his bowl
he goes to bed hungry
if there is food left in his bowl
he eats it all --- nothing is to be wasted.

He is to begin each day
fresh and new
with an empty bowl
and accept what the day brings.

My uncle did not explain the story. Obviously, he was not really talking about food. I began thinking about my bowl of life.

As a teenager I wandered around examining my bowl, wondering a lot about the bowl, not necessarily holding it out but keeping it to myself, thinking about what someone might put into it.

During my college years, I did let a few things slip into my bowl, rather than using them; I continued to examine not just the bowl but the things that were inside, wondering what I should do with them. I wanted to understand…. From my bowl I hoped to find answers. Admittedly, I didn’t know the questions but I did want the answers.

When I was a young mother, I found my bowl so full that I turned it upside down so no one could put anything into my bowl.

After my children left home, I discovered that my bowl seemed to have grown clear. Everyone could see the contents of my bowl. Regularly people, even strangers, would approach and tell me what they thought about the things they saw in my bowl. To my amazement, on occasion, someone would walk up to me, remove what they wished from my bowl and replace it with something else.

My boss gave me a ring that fit on the edge of my bowl. It was fitted with hooks all around the sides, where people could attach the myriad of things that would not fit inside.

Suddenly I became ill; too ill to carry my bowl, it dropped and shattered. Some people tried to help me pick up the pieces but there were too many. Finally the contents of the bowl were distributed to many people.

Today I have a new bowl. Although tempted to carry the bowl upside down again, I do carry it right side up but I find myself carrying a bowl with a small opening so that I can choose what I will let people put inside.

What is happening to your bowl of life?