Tanzan and Ekido Cross a River: A Zen Tale

Zen monks don't own anything; even the robes they wear as clothing or the sandals on their feet are not things they own. They don't want to get attached to anything – or anybody. Zen monks and nuns don't have husbands or wives, or girlfriends or boyfriends, because they don't want to get tangled up and attached to people, either.

It's a very simple life. Simple food, simple clothes, simple prayers. But sometimes even simple monks need to travel.

Since they don't pack anything – no picnic lunch, no bottle of water – they try to go from one monastery to another in the space of a day. If they want to eat along the journey they have to rely on the kindness of strangers, even if it means begging for a few measly scraps.

It may sound very scary. And on the other hand, it may sound like incredible freedom. Imagine going on a journey with no purse and no pockets (because you have nothing to put in a purse or pockets), no back pack or knapsack (for the same reason), no Ipod or book or game boy, no car keys or house keys or cell phone...not even any lunch money.

Frightening? Or, perfect freedom?

This is the story of two Zen monks, Tanzan and Ekido, who went on a journey – their reason for going and their destination aren't important, the journey itself is the important part.

Of course Tanzan and Ekido took nothing, except for the robes and sandals they wore. Since they were planning to get to another monastery by nightfall, they didn't even take along begging bowls to ask for scraps of food.

They had gone about halfway when they came to a river. Not a very deep river, or a very fast one, but the spring rains had washed away the bridge, and there was not even a series of well-placed stones to walk on. So, crossing the river meant getting their feet wet.

Each monk took off his sandals, laced them together, and hung them around his neck, then each tied the ends of his robes around his waist. That way their borrowed sandals and robes wouldn't get wet, you see.

They had not quite stepped in the water, though, when they heard a cry. Not a cry of alarm or danger, but a cry of great sadness and suffering. Tanzan and Ekido looked across the water to the other side of the river, and saw a woman. She was young, and beautiful, and she wore the most beautiful embroidered silk robes either man had ever seen, featuring all the glorious colors of a spring sunrise. Underneath the edge of her beautiful gown peeked two beautiful, tiny silk slippers of shell-pink, embroidered with what looked like real gold and silver thread. She carried a tightly-woven basket in her hand, and even with the river between the monks and the lady, Tanzan and Ekido could smell the sweet scent of Nian Gong, sticky rice cakes with candy and fruit in them...delicious, and practically irresistible.

Now, monks aren't supposed to have anything to do with beautiful women, lest they become attracted, and thus attached – a person can become attached even to the idea of another person, the way some people are with movie actors and rock stars. It had been a long time since either Tanzan or Ekido had seen a beautiful woman. And of course monks eat a very simple diet – mostly plain rice and a few vegetables – and neither Tanzan nor Ekido had eaten Nian Gong since they were little boys. The smell brought back a flood of memories of lavish New Year's celebrations.

So with the sight of the beautiful, sorrowful young woman before them, and the tantalizing smell of sticky rice cakes in their noses, the two monks waded across the river.

When the arrived at the far shore, Ekido strapped on his sandals, and started off down the path. Tanzan paused, though, and asked the woman what was the matter.

Naturally (as you have no doubt guessed) the woman was sad because she needed to get to the other side of the river to deliver the Nian Gong to the home of her beloved. But finding the bridge washed away, she had no way to get across without spoiling her expensive clothes.

Ekido grunted impatiently, to signal to Tanzan that they must be on their way. But Tanzan felt compassion for the woman. He knelt down in the dust at her feet and said, "Lady, though I am unworthy of such a sweet burden, please climb upon my back and I will carry you across the river."

The woman gratefully climbed aboard the monk's broad back. As she did so, Ekido caught sight of her pale and slender ankle above the fancy shoes. He quickly turned away while Tanzan ferried the woman across, without a single drop of water landing anywhere on her person. When she was safely on the other side and back on dry ground, Tanzan bowed low and turned to go. But the beautiful woman put a slim hand on his arm to stop him. She said, "Thank you for your kindness. Please accept these two Nian Gong as tributes of my gratitude."

Tanzan smiled, took the cakes, and waded back to where Ekido waited. He handed one of the cakes to Ekido, and began to eat his own, savoring each bite with much satisfied smacking of his smiling lips.

Ekido ate his sticky rice cake, too – mustn't waste food – but without enjoyment. Each bite tasted flat, starchy, like sawdust with a little sugar sprinkled on top. And as he walked, Ekido saw in his mind's eye the beautiful white ankle that had been revealed when the young woman had climbed on Tanzan's back.

The monks walked in silence for several more hours. Finally they approached the monastery where they would stay the night, and Ekido couldn't restrain himself any longer. He turned to Tanzan and asked, "Why did you carry that beautiful woman across the river? You know monks aren't supposed to have anything to do with women."

Tanzan looked deep into Ekido's angry eyes and said, "I put the woman down hours ago. Why are you still carrying her?"