Hey there, it’s good to be with you today. I’ve got a story I’ve been mulling over, one that’s stayed with me like a quiet friend, nudging me to look deeper. So, let’s settle in together—imagine we’re sitting by a window, watching the world slow down as the evening creeps in. I want to tell you about a monk, a king, and a thief, and how their paths crossed in a way that changed everything. It’s not just their story, though; it’s one that somehow feels like it’s about us, too.
Picture this: a grand palace, all stone and gold, the kind of place that hums with power. Inside, there’s a king, sitting on his throne, his eyes sharp with curiosity. He’s invited a Buddhist monk to come before him—a man who owns nothing but the robes on his back and a simple alms bowl, the kind you’d barely notice. The king leans forward and says, “If I ask for something, will you give it to me?” The monk, calm as a still pond, just nods. “Of course. What do you want?” The king points to the bowl. “That. Give me your alms bowl.” Without a flicker of hesitation, the monk hands it over. It’s all he has in the world, but he lets it go like it’s nothing.
The king, maybe a little surprised, maybe testing him further, offers something in return—a golden bowl, studded with diamonds, the kind of thing most of us would clutch tight and never let go of. The monk takes it, bows, and walks away, back toward his little hut in the forest. I can almost see him, this quiet figure, the heavy bowl in his hands, his steps steady on the dirt path. But here’s where it gets interesting. As he’s walking, someone else is watching—a thief, hidden in the shadows, his eyes locked on that glittering treasure. He starts following, heart pounding with the thought of stealing it.
Now, the monk isn’t blind to this. He senses the thief trailing him, feels the weight of that golden bowl pulling trouble closer. And here’s what he thinks: this thing, this beautiful object, it’s already stealing my peace. It’s making this man chase me, twisting his mind with greed. Why carry something that breeds so much unrest? So, when he reaches his hut—a simple, bare little place—he does something astonishing. He tosses the golden bowl outside, right onto the ground, and steps inside without a backward glance.
The thief, still hiding behind a tree, can’t believe his eyes. A bowl worth a fortune, just thrown away like it’s trash? His mind starts spinning. There must be something even better inside that hut. Why else would this monk not care? So, he creeps closer, picks up the bowl, but curiosity gnaws at him. He slips into the hut, expecting to find hidden riches. Instead, there’s nothing. Just the monk, sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, lost in meditation. The thief stands there, frozen, looking around at the empty space. What kind of man throws away gold and sits in the dirt like this, so… content?
I’ve gotta pause here for a second. Haven’t we all had moments like that? Where we’re chasing something—maybe not a golden bowl, but a job, a relationship, some shiny idea of “more”—and then we stop and wonder, what am I even running after? I remember once, years ago, stressing over a promotion I thought would fix everything. Got it, and… well, I just felt emptier. It’s funny how we keep looking outside for what’s missing inside.
Back to the story. The thief can’t shake the question. He goes back into the hut, sits down in front of the monk, and waits. When the monk finally opens his eyes, he just smiles—a warm, knowing smile, like he’s been expecting this. “So, you’ve come,” he says. The thief blurts out, “Why did you throw that bowl away? What do you have that’s worth more than gold and diamonds?” The monk’s smile deepens. “My friend, I have a treasure you can’t see.” The thief frowns, confused. “What treasure?” And the monk says, so simply, “The treasure of meditation. Next to it, all the riches of the world fade away.”
Those words hit the thief like a wave. He falls to his knees, grabs the monk’s feet, and says, “Forgive me. I’m a robber. I came to steal from you. But I don’t want that bowl anymore. I don’t want any riches. Can you share just a piece of your treasure with me? Can I find peace like you?” I can almost feel the ache in his voice, that hunger for something real. The monk just nods. “If you truly want it, you can have this infinite treasure. All it takes is will.”
The thief, desperate now, says, “But I don’t know how. Teach me.” And so, the monk begins to guide him, step by gentle step. He tells him to find a quiet spot, to sit with his spine straight, palms open on his knees. “Close your eyes,” he says, “and breathe. Long, deep breaths. Feel your belly rise and fall. Let each breath pull your attention in. Don’t fight the thoughts that come—just notice them, and come back to the breath. Over time, your mind will slow. The noise will fade. And you’ll touch a peace that’s always been there, waiting.”
The thief listens, and he starts. Day by day, he sits. He lets go of stealing, of chasing. And slowly, his life shifts. He finds something gold could never buy.
You know, as I think about this, I can’t help but wonder how many of us are like that thief—chasing, grabbing, only to realize we’re holding the wrong thing. I’ve been there, scrolling through my phone late at night, looking for… something. A distraction, a fix. But what if we sat still, just for a few minutes? What if we tried what the monk taught? I’ve started doing it myself, you know—just sitting, breathing, letting the world quiet down. Some days, my mind’s a mess, jumping everywhere. But other days, there’s this stillness. It’s small, but it’s there.
So, if you’re up for it, let’s try it together sometime. Find a spot where you won’t be bothered. Sit down, even if it’s just on your couch. Close your eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. Notice it. When your mind wanders—and it will—gently bring it back. That’s it. No rush, no goal. Just be with your breath for a few minutes each day. The monk said it takes time, and I believe him. But even a moment of calm, in this noisy world, feels like a treasure.
This story, it’s not really about a monk or a thief, is it? It’s about what we carry, what we let go of, what we seek. I’m glad I got to share it with you. Maybe it’ll linger with you, too, like it has with me. Until next time, take care of yourself. I’ll be here, ready to sit and talk again whenever you are.