The Monk and the Riddle: The Art of Creating a Life While Making a Living (2 page)

Don't be mistaken. Following your passion is not the same as following your bliss. While passion is a font of expressive, creative energy, it won't necessarily deliver pleasure and contentment at every moment. Success, even on your own terms, entails sacrifice and periods of very hard work. Following your passion will not necessarily make you rich, but then again it won't hurt your chances either, since most people are far more successful working at things they love. You have to engage passion realistically, with an eye toward what is achievable given your circumstances.

I have been delighted and gratified by the ardent response to the messages in
The Monk.
I heard from a young woman who had pursued the big payoff by working at a series of failed startups.
The Monk
reinforced her feeling that life is too short to spend it chasing elusive riches, and she left her job to try her hand at her passion, writing. A professor in Texas wrote and produced a marvelous short performance piece, a monologue, exploring the Deferred Life Plan. A number of entrepreneurs on the money-raising trail told me that after reading
The Monk
they had been emboldened to focus on the lasting value they wished to create rather than on their exit strategy. Many educators have included
The Monk
in their courses to encourage their students to think more holistically about their careers. And a few of the most respected venture capitalists let me know that
The Monk
captured the underlying passion and reason for doing what they do—the chance to turn ideas into viable enterprises that can change the world and to prosper in the process.

I have also heard from people who agree wholeheartedly with the messages of
The Monk
but question whether they apply only to a select few privileged with substantial options regarding work and career. Surely things are different for an underskilled single mother of three barely scraping by on minimum wage. But even so there are people who tell me that
The Monk
has inspired them to improve their circumstances—to find jobs that are more consistent with their interests and values, to learn new skills that provide satisfaction and growth, to reach for more rewarding opportunities and engaging challenges. I am reminded that finding meaning and fulfillment in one's work should not be an elitist notion.

A few readers were disappointed that
The Monk
never attempts to address specifically how to create a successful business. I don't have a prescription for financial success, nor do I think one exists. In truth,
The Monk
is not primarily a business book; that is, it is not about buying low and selling high, but rather about creating a life while making a living. It is about the need to fashion a meaningful existence that engages you in the time and place in which you find yourself. It is about the purpose of work and the integration of what one does with what one believes.
The Monk
is not about
how
, but about
why.

S
INCE
The Monk
WAS PUBLISHED
, I have ridden my bicycle across the extremely challenging Himalayan landscape of Bhutan, a country that measures its prosperity by Gross National Happiness rather than Gross National Product. Things are different there. The volume is turned down; the clock slowed. The pace of life is gentle. Fancy things are few and far between, but those precious qualities of life that seem to vanish in a Western society intent on measuring everything are not forgotten in Bhutan.

It was a gorgeous adventure. As I am wont to do, I spent some time visiting several Tibetan-style Buddhist monasteries that are home to communities of friendly monks in crimson robes. At one point, I had the rare privilege of an audience with a distinguished eighty-year-old lama who practiced the art of medicinal Buddhism. His nephew made the introduction and interpreted for us.

Two friends and I sat in a semicircle at the foot of the lama's raised platform. The temple was dark, streaked with smoky light that gave the room a mystical air. Behind us was an altar of large sitting Buddhas. Yak butter lamps sputtered in the foreground. The main walls were covered in beautiful paintings detailing Buddha's life and the introduction of Buddhism to Bhutan by Guru Rimpoche some 1,300 years ago. Many of the images were Tantric, depicting the struggling union of wisdom and compassion in the orgasmic joining of man and woman. The paintings were covered by colorful wall hangings to protect them from the elements and untrained minds. Elephant tusks arced heavenward at the corners of the altar, a reference to the crucial role of the white elephant in the birth of the Buddha.

Before us sat this lovely old lama. A few days' growth on his chin and head, he constantly stroked his scalp, luxuriating in the feel. His teeth were obviously not all there, and he scrunched his lower jaw in the fashion of an old man who has forgotten his dentures. His once-white long johns showed under his heavy robe, insulating him from the early-morning chill. Behind him, the light penetrated through the filthy old windows that looked out 14,000 feet over the valley and beyond. All around the windows were piles and piles of bright red chilies—hot chilies—to warm the Bhutanese bellies and hide the blandness of their cuisine.

Each member of my party was permitted to ask the lama one question. I would come last. As each query was made in turn, I used the time to come up with a question worthy of such an eminence. What could I possibly ask that would not embarrass me by its triviality? How could I tap this holy man's wisdom?

Finally it was my turn. The lama looked down at me with compassion and perhaps a little boredom. His nephew stared at me imploringly. I sat, quiet.

After a long moment, I asked softly, “Your holiness, with your great age, experience, and wisdom you have encountered many things. You have certainly answered many questions. What question still perplexes
you
? When you sit in meditation, what question do
you
still ask yourself?”

The lama's nephew wrinkled his brow and haltingly translated my question. He launched into an explanation far lengthier than my own while the old lama nodded, peering occasionally in my direction.

I feared I might have crossed a boundary, perhaps offended him. But after an instant of contemplation, the old lama turned to me and fixed his eyes on mine. Then he spoke gently, and ended with the lilt of a question in his indecipherable Bhutanese.

He continued to stare into me as his nephew said simply, “The lama says he still doesn't understand why people are not kinder to each other.”

That was it. We got up slowly, made our bows, and climbed down the steep ladder to the dark, cold living quarters and the walled open-air courtyard. As we entered into the bright morning light, we could see the clouds dispersing from the valley. The young monks went about their business, sweeping the grounds and cleaning the morning dishes, smiling at us whenever we caught their eyes. As we left the compound and started down the mountain, we turned to see the old lama staring at us and waving from his dirty, chili-festooned windows, still fondling his scratchy scalp and munching down on his toothless jaw.

Another monk, another riddle. And, as with
The Monk and the Riddle
, the answer lies not in dollars and cents, but in who we are and what we believe.

—Randy Komisar
March 2001

Prologue

T
HE
R
IDDLE

I
T'S FEBRUARY
1999, and I'm motorcycling across the most arid expanse of Burma, now officially Myanmar. The boundless landscape is relieved only by one ribbon of life: the rich river basin of the Aye Yarwaddy that drains the Himalayas and wears a groove through the middle of this starkly beautiful country. My destination is Bagan, an ancient city studded with more than 5,000 temples and stupas over thirty square kilometers. The group I have been traveling with—American bicyclists mostly—are far ahead. Having loaned my bicycle to one of my compatriots whose bike never arrived for the trip, I have been waylaid and detoured pleasantly for hours.

I spot a makeshift taxi ahead, a rickety, Chinese-made truck onto which thirty or so passengers are clinging and clambering. Many of the riders, men and women alike, wear colorful
longyis
—simple pieces of cotton or silk that have been sewn into loops and resemble long skirts—to reflect their tribal affiliations. Most of the women and some of the men have streaked their cheeks, foreheads, and noses with a mudlike paste made from the bark of the thanaka tree, which serves as both cosmetic and sunscreen. Standing on the rear bumper is a young monk, his plum robes pulled over his head to block the sun. He motions toward me, communicating emphatically, if wordlessly. He wants a ride on the motorcycle. I nod in equally silent assent and stop angling to pass the truck, instead trailing it until it stops to lose some and gain some. The monk hops off the truck happily and walks slowly toward me, flashing a warm, penetrating smile. Unleashing my backpack from the seat behind me, I gesture for him to put it on. He dons it and tries to shove a wad of grimy, threadbare bills,
kyat
, into my hand.

“Just get on the back,” I say, then realize that he speaks no English. So I wave my palm and shake my head: “No.” Gently his hand rests on my shoulder. We take off, quickly overtaking the pickup truck. The monk's robes flutter in the rush of air that gives us both relief from the scorching midday sun. Half an hour down the road, we come upon my cycling friends, lunching at a little roadside inn—a dirt-floored shack, wallpapered with faded posters of Hong Kong beauties and far away beaches. They are clearly amused that I have been adopted by one of Buddha's apprentices. One by one they approach to greet my new companion, meet the insurmountable language barrier, and retreat to their plates of pungent stir-fry.

“You want some lunch?” I ask in a crude sign language that has served me well in my travels.

He shakes his head and slips off to a corner of the table. He might be able to manage one American, but twenty overwhelm him. I offer him a plate of my curry, but he won't touch it, preferring to sip at a sickeningly sweet local soda pop. He waits.

I wolf down my lunch, because I can tell he's ill at ease. He re-dons the pack, and we are back on the motorcycle, tooling down the road. His soft touch on my shoulder lets me know he's still there, but except for the buzz of the two-stroke Japanese engine, we travel without a sound. More endless highway. A scattering of thatched houses on stilts. An occasional open-air market. We slow down for water buffalo pulling a caravan of carts and weave paths around lumbering herds of cattle who wander onto the road, their bells chiming in the dust. At this rate, we won't reach Bagan until after dark.

Half an hour later, the monk signals me, with a tap on the shoulder, to pull over in front of a ramshackle, windowless shed. We enter a crowded room filled with farmers and loiterers, members of a full-fledged profession in Burma. The locals are excited to see an American where none usually tread. The monk sits down at a small bench and offers me lunch. I shake my head. Now it's my turn to wait, sipping green tea, cautiously, not understanding a word that is spoken. He sponges up the last bit of thick, brown sauce with a wad of rice, and we take off again.

Riding for hours, another 100 kilometers or so, we end up at Mount Popa, an ancient Buddhist temple built on a mountain of rock that erupts from an otherwise flat landscape. It's an old, shabby temple, popular with the monkeys.
Nats
, humans who have suffered tragic deaths and have been transformed into animist deities, are worshipped side-by-side with Buddha here and are feted with offerings of fruit, cigarettes, and chewing gum. At night, trance dancers take on the spirits of the Nats in their gyrations.

An older monk in sun-faded robes emerges from the temple's entrance, and the two greet each other with bows. My monk disappears quietly up the hill, without so much as a peep in my direction.

“I'm Mr. Wizdom, the abbot of Mount Popa Monastery,” says the older monk. An angular man with day-old stubble on his pate, he wears crooked wire-rimmed glasses that look like they've been mangled and bent back to form many times.

I'm relieved to hear English. I have no idea where the hell I am, my bicycling buddies are long gone, and now I'm almost out of gas.

With the noble hospitality of one who has nothing, Mr. Wizdom motions for me to sit down.

“You know, I picked him up 150 kilometers ago, and I have no idea where I'm taking him?” I say, gesturing toward the one who disappeared. “Is this where he wants to go?”

“Oh, yes, this is where you take him,” Mr. Wizdom replies elliptically. We talk briefly, travelers' chitchat, before I ask for and receive directions to Bagan. He hands me a dog-eared card, all unintelligible Burmese except for the odd English phonetic spelling of his name, “Wizdom.” Seeing that I'm not rushing to copy down the particulars, he snatches back what must be his one and only calling card. I accept a drink of water and shake Mr. Wizdom's hand. My work is done.