Once upon a time I met a real monk,
you know, one that stopped pretending
long ago
He'd gotten so old he could not remember
his birth, and so wise, his death was a thing
of the past, too
In our brief meeting he taught me nothing
new, nothing I did not always already know
about myself; he taught me just that
Still there's one thing he lay bare that stands
repeating here for it seems so essential to who
I am, and for that matter, who you are
Myself? (By The Monk Theophane)*
I sat there in awe as the old monk answered our questions.
Though I'm usually shy, I felt so comfortable in his presence that I
found myself raising my hand. "Father, could you tell us something
about yourself?"
He leaned back. "Myself?" he mused. There was a long pause.
"My name . . .
used to be
Me.
But now . . .
it's you."
*Tales of a Magic Monastery (New York: Crossroad, 1990), p.18.
