The Monk and the Goldfish

For Martin Běčák

One day at dawn a monk woke up in his mountain cave and went down to a lake in the foothills to get some fresh water. He cupped his hand and drank three handfuls, lifting his gaze to the purple sky. The water refreshed and dispersed the last traces of sleep as the sips cooled the inside of his chest. Setting his old tin bucket near him, he sat down on a nearby boulder to meditate. 

The cold spring air made it easy for him to focus on the breath and he sat there quite a while, in total silence, merging his breath with the lapping waves. A few birds swooped down here and there on the surface of the lake and took flight again, letting the surface form anew into a mirror for the clouds. When he opened his eyes again the sun was already up. Without uttering a word he rose and took his bucket to the lake. Passing it through the clear shallow water he scooped up enough to last him a few days and turned to go when he noticed a nugget of gold glistening at the bottom of it. Raising it up to take a better look, his face beamed. The nugget of gold was a fish, not bigger than his thumb. He touched the surface with his forefinger and the fish swam to it, touching it lightly before sinking back down.

The monk turned back to the lake and gently emptied his bucket. He was careful to wait a little while before he filled the bucket again, checked that it was filled with nothing but water, then turned to go.

“I saw you sitting there very peacefully,” a voice said after him. “I’ve been watching you for many, many days.”

The monk turned, a little surprised, thinking it might have been his own mind that spoke the words. But it was not his mind this time. The little goldfish was swimming close to the surface with nothing but its tiny golden mouth out of the water.

“I have been meditating,” said the monk a little insecurely. “I have not been merely sitting.”

“Meditating?” the fish repeated. “What does that mean?”

“It means trying to wake up from a deep and powerful sleep.”

“But your eyes were shut tight,” said the fish. “How can you wake up with your eyes closed?”

“It is a different kind of waking,” said the monk.

“Perhaps I will understand some day,” said the fish. “Thank you for returning me to my lake,” it continued.

“No need to thank me,” said the monk. “It was me who disturbed you in your home. I apologise.”

“Very well. We are both grateful. Still, you could have taken me with you, but you did not. In return, I will make three of your wishes come true. What is your first wish?” the goldfish asked, moving its golden fins to balance the tiny morning waves.

“I have no desires,” said the monk. “I have come to that cave up on the mountain in order to learn to give them all up.”

“Nonsense. All beings have desires,” said the fish. “You are a kind being, and in return for the kindness you’ve shown me, I would like to give you something that you truly want.”

The monk smiled, bowed to the fish and went up the mountain path to his cave.

Several days passed and the monk did not return; the fish came out of its hiding each day at dawn, swam to the surface, but there was nothing but the bare boulder and a few keen birds for it to see. “It means to wake up from a deep and powerful sleep,” the goldfish repeated to itself, pondering what it could all mean. Then it sank down to the depths of its lake, thinking fewer and fewer thoughts.

The next morning the monk came down the mountain path, drank one, two, three sips of water from his cupped hand and sat down on the boulder to meditate. He had barely drawn three or four breaths when the little goldfish swam up to the surface.

“You have returned!” it said, with quite a lot of joy in its voice.

But the monk said nothing. He did not even open his eyes. Though the colour of its body did everything to hide it, the little goldfish blushed. It did not speak after that, deciding that meditation was obviously something where you should not talk. 

Slowly, slowly the sun rose behind the summit. It shone beautifully across the whole valley and made the water dance as if it had a myriad fins of its own. The monk finally rose from the boulder, giving his eyes a gentle rub with his forefingers.

“I am sorry I disturbed you in your home,” the goldfish said as the monk leant down to pass his bucket through the cool waves.

“You did not disturb me,” said the monk. “Thank you for offering me a chance to practice my focus on the breath by providing a little distraction in this quiet place.”

“Is that meditation too?” asked the goldfish.

“It’s part of it,” said the monk.

“So you just focus on the breath?” said the goldfish.

“That’s the first part,” said the monk.

“I could not focus on the breath. I have no lungs; I draw no breath,” said the fish.

This made the monk smile again. He said he would think about that.

“Thank you. Meanwhile, have you thought of anything I can do for you?” ask the goldfish. “You can wish for anything in the world.”

“I am quite happy with what I have already,” said the monk.

“But you see, you must make a wish. Ever since I was born my task has been to make the wishes of the kind beings come true in return for their gift of kindness towards my life,” said the goldfish.

“That is a strange kind of existence,” said the monk. “You are a very interesting fish.”

And as he said that, he made a little bow and carried his tin bucket up the narrow mountain path.

The goldfish sank down to the bottom of the lake, wondering what he could have meant by its life being a strange kind of existence. Sure enough a kindness deserved another kindness; a gift given should be returned manifold.

The next day the monk did not return. Though it was clear a few days would have to pass before he would come to collect the water, the goldfish swam to the surface every day at dawn, and waited until the sun rose from behind the mountain summit before sinking back to the bottom, carrying the weight of all three unused wishes on its back. On the fourth day it surfaced to find its monk sitting peacefully on the boulder. This time it waited patiently until the sun rose and the monk stirred all of his own accord before it greeted him.

“Good morning!” said the fish.

“Good morning,” said the monk.

“Did you manage to wake up from your deep and powerful sleep?” it asked.

“Not today,” the monk returned, passing his bucket through the water a little way away, and smiling at the fish.

“Maybe I could help you wake up if you make a wish,” said the goldfish.

“Everyone has to wake up on their own,” said the monk. “Your mother can give you your life, but she cannot wake up for you. Your teacher can tell you what is the best way to do it, but she cannot wake up for you. Your friend the goldfish can wish it for you, but waking up can only be earned, not given.”

“Oh,” said the fish.

There was a moment of silence from both sides. The monk felt the little waves lapping at his knees.

“Goldfish,” he said. “When I was in my cave I realised one thing. The reason why we focus on breathing when we meditate is that it’s so natural to us we do not even notice it. Air is all around us, we live inside it and we breathe it all the time, whether we think about it or not, whether we remember it or not. That is why it is the first step in the long waking up from the deep and powerful sleep. In thinking about what you said last time, I realised the only way you could feel what I mean is to focus on the water. Your breathing is unconscious. You do not even feel that you are doing it — unless somebody takes you out of the lake — because you have gills on the sides of your head over which the water passes and passes, releasing oxygen.”

“Oh,” said the goldfish.

“So if you want to meditate, you should focus on the sensation of water flowing over your gills and your whole body. Then you could feel a little bit of what I feel when I pay attention to my breath,” said the monk.

“And then I will begin to wake up too?” asked the fish.

“You will begin.”

“I think I understand now,” said the fish.

The monk smiled, bowed and carried his tin bucket up the narrow path.

The little goldfish followed his ascent with a keen interest, remembering also to feel the water passing over its body and fins. All day long the goldfish kept remembering and forgetting to notice the water caressing its body and passing over its gills; first it would remember, then it would forget. Finding food or avoiding the larger fish it would forget, then suddenly standing still for a moment or two it would remember its monk and his smiling lips instructing “to wake up from a deep and powerful sleep” and its attention would fly immediately to its gills and the sensation of water passing over their supple surface.

“Good morning,” said the goldfish some days later as the monk rolled up his trousers to step into the lake.

“Good morning,” said the monk, happy to see his friend.

“Have you woken up from your deep and powerful sleep yet?” it asked.

“Not yet,” he replied.

“Me neither,” said the goldfish.

“That’s how it is,” said the monk. “We continue as before.”

“Oh,” said the goldfish.

The monk smiled and filled his tin bucket with water.

“Have you thought of any wishes?” asked the goldfish.

“I have,” said the monk.

The goldfish was surprised. It shifted a little, balancing on the morning waves. The monk walked out of the bobbing water and put down his bucket for a moment. He stood looking at the fish.

“There is one wish which I should not give up, even if I woke up from my deep and powerful sleep as soon as now.”

“Tell me,” said the fish, feeling a surge of its old power.

“I cannot give up the wish that all beings should be free from bondage,” said the monk.

“Oh,” said the goldfish. “I am not sure I understand.”

It was bobbing up and down on the waves, carried by the wind and the water currents. 

“I must help my friends wake up too,” said the monk.

“Like you are helping me?” asked the fish.

The monk smiled and nodded. “But you see,” he said, “If I made a wish and you made it come true, I would not be certain you would be set free too, as you stand outside the scope of the wishes you fulfil. One wish, two wishes, three wishes and you are free only until the next hand catches you and the circle begins again. I am afraid there are no shortcuts in this.”

The fish was silent and thought about it deeply. Every now and then it became aware of the water passing over its gills.

“Monk,” it said, after a long while when he had already gone back to the beach and sat down on the boulder with the tin bucket near his shins. “I think I am beginning to understand. I’ve always thought my power has been what gave me purpose and that I have been free.”

“You have been a noble being, like my teacher Atiśa, but you have not been free, my friend.”

“Are we all prisoners then?” asked the goldfish.

“Only of our minds,” said the monk.

“Oh,” said the goldfish.

“But we are not hopeless,” said the monk. “We must try and try to wake up from our deep and powerful sleep.”

“Will you teach me more about how to become free?” asked the goldfish.

“I will, and gladly,” said the monk.

“How auspicious,” said the goldfish.

Then the monk bowed to the goldfish, took his tin bucket and walked up the narrow mountain path to the little cave. The goldfish watched him leave and then, very slowly, descended to the bottom of the lake. Remembering, it began.

"Remember", ink on paper, miniature, 2021