Patience

There was once a young boy in a village that wished to be a martial artist. Each day as he worked in the field he would think of it, would dream of it, and he vowed that he would make it his life’s ambition.

One day, when he was old enough, he went to the monastery where, it was rumored, there lived a great monk that was well-versed in many forms of martial arts. When he came to the inner chambers the boy stood before an old man whom, sitting upon a plain wooden chair, looked at him, nonchalantly.

“What is it you wish?” The old monk asked the boy.

“To learn to be a martial artist. Will you teach me?” was the quick reply.

The old monk looked the boy over a few times before he promptly replied, “No, I will not teach you. You have no patience” then, with that, he rose from his chair and left, leaving the boy alone in the room.

Each day, for one month, the by returned, asking the monk to teach him and, for one month the same reply was given. Finally, at the end of the month, the boy decided to ask one last time. The monk gave him the same answer and got up to leave the room, just as he had in their past encounters. The boy however, tired of the insolence of the old man in leaving him all alone, got up as well and followed him, vowing to himself the he would not leave until the monk agreed to his wishes.

Over the fields and through the valleys they walked, the monk never turning to look at the boy or talk to him, the boy following always in silence. They walked all that day until they reached the mountains and continued on into the night, walking farther and farther away from their home. They slept in the mountains that night and, even while they rested, the monk never talked to the boy, or even turned to face him.

For fifteen years they walked in such a fashion: over rivers and through forests, past deserts and through the farthest reaches of the country; always in silence, always alone, never giving a glance in acknowledgment to the other that they traveled with.

At the end of the fifteen years the boy had grown up and had become a man. His limbs were strong from the daily toil of keeping up with the monks pace; his soft body had morphed into coiled limbs. Some days past and, with time, he found himself again at his old village—though he had changed so much in appearance that none knew who he truly was anymore. The monk led him through the village and into the inner chamber of the monastery, the same chamber where the boy had come to him with his request so long ago.

When he sat down, the old monk looked up and, almost pleasantly surprised, saw the boy still standing there. “What do you wish?” He once again asked him. The boy faltered at his look, as well as at his question. For fifteen years he had followed him and never once had the monk given him any acknowledgement. There had been times when he was sick, when he was tired, when he had wished for someone to talk to him. They had gone through much together and now that they were back home, the monk wished to speak to him!

“To learn to be a martial artist.” Came the boys reply.

The monk looked at him slowly. The boy’s feet were dirty and calloused, his clothes were ragged and torn. He could see the mud and sweat upon the boy that caked his own brow, the same toils that he had shared for those fifteen years.

“Yes” came the slow reply. “I will teach you now, for now you have learned patience.”