I once walked with purpose. My footsteps echoed in the mountain monastery halls, and my name was always called with respect. I had studied the scrolls, lit the incense, and sat in silent meditation for many years. My robes were folded just so. My cups were cleaned without a single drop left behind. I was a monk—Serious. Focused. Important.
But one cool morning, I woke up and could not remember my name.
At first, I laughed. Perhaps I had slept too deeply. I looked around my room and remembered the mountain, the monastery, and even the sound of Master Li’s walking stick—a soft tap, tap, tap. But my name? Gone.
I asked the other monks, “Do you remember my name?”
They looked at one another and shrugged. “You’ve always just been… Brother,” said one. “You sit beside the tea shelf,” said another. “But no, we cannot remember your name.”
I went to Master Li. He was very old, with long white eyebrows that curled like little clouds. He was sweeping the courtyard with slow, gentle strokes.
“Master,” I said. “I believe I’ve lost my name.”
He smiled and did not stop sweeping. “Perhaps it has gone to find peace.”
I waited for more, but he said nothing else. The broom followed its path, brushing fallen leaves into a neat little pile.
I left confused. I wandered the garden near the koi pond, looking at my reflection. Still me. I still had two eyes, one nose, one chin. But who was I if I had no name? I was not the scholar, because I had forgotten what I studied. I was not the cook, because I had no recipes. I wasn’t the gardener, though I liked the plum trees.
Days passed. I spoke less and listened more.
I watched the clouds drift across the sky. I noticed how the wind bent the bamboo without breaking it. When a sparrow landed on my shoulder, I didn’t flinch—I just stayed still. It sang a note and flew off.
Then one evening, I heard a new student ask, “Who is that?”
Another replied, “Oh, that’s the quiet monk. He doesn’t have a name, but he’s always peaceful.”
Peaceful.
Hmm.
I returned to Master Li. He was sitting by the fire, pouring tea.
“Master,” I said slowly, “I still don’t know my name.”
He looked at me with eyes like the moon—soft and bright. “Then maybe now, you are ready to live by the Tao.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
He handed me the cup. “The Tao is the Way. A river has no name, yet it moves mountains. A tree grows tall with no praise. Stillness is its secret. You have become like the Tao—not needing a name to be full.”
I didn’t say anything. Only sipped the tea. It tasted like nothing and everything.
That night, I sat outside under the stars.
I was no longer trying to be wise, or good, or famous. I just breathed in the air… and listened to the silence.
Maybe I never needed a name.
Now, each morning I rise with the sun, tend the garden, sweep the stones, and sit with my breath. I help the new monks when they are confused. They ask me questions, and I smile.
Some still call me Brother. Some call me Peaceful Monk.
But I don’t mind.
In the stillness, I’m just me.
And that is more than enough.
I once walked with purpose. My footsteps echoed in the mountain monastery halls, and my name was always called with respect. I had studied the scrolls, lit the incense, and sat in silent meditation for many years. My robes were folded just so. My cups were cleaned without a single drop left behind. I was a monk—Serious. Focused. Important.
But one cool morning, I woke up and could not remember my name.
At first, I laughed. Perhaps I had slept too deeply. I looked around my room and remembered the mountain, the monastery, and even the sound of Master Li’s walking stick—a soft tap, tap, tap. But my name? Gone.
I asked the other monks, “Do you remember my name?”
They looked at one another and shrugged. “You’ve always just been… Brother,” said one. “You sit beside the tea shelf,” said another. “But no, we cannot remember your name.”
I went to Master Li. He was very old, with long white eyebrows that curled like little clouds. He was sweeping the courtyard with slow, gentle strokes.
“Master,” I said. “I believe I’ve lost my name.”
He smiled and did not stop sweeping. “Perhaps it has gone to find peace.”
I waited for more, but he said nothing else. The broom followed its path, brushing fallen leaves into a neat little pile.
I left confused. I wandered the garden near the koi pond, looking at my reflection. Still me. I still had two eyes, one nose, one chin. But who was I if I had no name? I was not the scholar, because I had forgotten what I studied. I was not the cook, because I had no recipes. I wasn’t the gardener, though I liked the plum trees.
Days passed. I spoke less and listened more.
I watched the clouds drift across the sky. I noticed how the wind bent the bamboo without breaking it. When a sparrow landed on my shoulder, I didn’t flinch—I just stayed still. It sang a note and flew off.
Then one evening, I heard a new student ask, “Who is that?”
Another replied, “Oh, that’s the quiet monk. He doesn’t have a name, but he’s always peaceful.”
Peaceful.
Hmm.
I returned to Master Li. He was sitting by the fire, pouring tea.
“Master,” I said slowly, “I still don’t know my name.”
He looked at me with eyes like the moon—soft and bright. “Then maybe now, you are ready to live by the Tao.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
He handed me the cup. “The Tao is the Way. A river has no name, yet it moves mountains. A tree grows tall with no praise. Stillness is its secret. You have become like the Tao—not needing a name to be full.”
I didn’t say anything. Only sipped the tea. It tasted like nothing and everything.
That night, I sat outside under the stars.
I was no longer trying to be wise, or good, or famous. I just breathed in the air… and listened to the silence.
Maybe I never needed a name.
Now, each morning I rise with the sun, tend the garden, sweep the stones, and sit with my breath. I help the new monks when they are confused. They ask me questions, and I smile.
Some still call me Brother. Some call me Peaceful Monk.
But I don’t mind.
In the stillness, I’m just me.
And that is more than enough.
