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Forbidden Fruits
- Stories Told by a Young Chinese Monk (16)

31 February 2008

There are many different species of plants in the Hatch Hill, when gusts of autumn wind blow through the trees, ripe wild fruits would fall off the branches. By then No Ego and I would walk around the mountain to collect the fresh fruits, wash them in streams, then lift up our robe in front to hold as many as possible and bring back to share with everyone in the monastery.

Among the wild fruits, those with a pink colour are especially sweet and juicy. They are hard to find. When we did get one, we would earnestly present it to our master and he would accept the honour of giving the magic fruit away.

About three or four years ago, I found a pink fruit and passed it to my master, and my master passed it to No Dust, and No Dust passed it to his own mouth, and ate it. That night, the boy suffered bad diarrhea, and ran a high fever, which nearly killed him. Since there, this wonderful bush tucker became "forbidden fruit" in our monastery.

Years later, a group of tourists visited our temple after a bush walking. When I carried stools to them, I saw one guy washing wild fruits in tap water, and among them, there was a pink one. But before I could sound an urgent warning, he had already stuffed it in his mouth and began to chew.

When the group learned the story about No Dust vs Forbidden Fruit, big panic spread, and No Ego ran down to the town to find Dr Sha, and Do Sha ran up to the temple to examine the patient-suppose-to-be.

But there was nothing wrong with the forbidden fruit eater.

By the time the group left the monastery, watching their descending and receding backs, I wondered to myself whether we were wrong about the pink fruits in the first place.

(You can visit Monk No Anger's personal blog to read his original posts in Chinese at "")

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It's Lunchtime in a Chinese Monastery

Prepare the food of meditation: rice porridge

Practice the Yoga of Wait: both to wait and waiting

Practice the Yoga of Eat: No talking, no reading, no watching, no thinking, and above all, making no sound

(Photos by 航空, xinhuanet)

The World Is a Mirror

by 玛雅


寻找风的影子 光的虚幻

寻找繁的烟 华的尘

I used to get fascinated
By the illustrious
Of the dust,
Of the smoke,
And the point where they appear,
And the moment when they disappear.

So I watch them in a mirror,
And search,
The smoke of grandeur,
The dust of splendour,
Then I discover,
There are everything in me,
There is nothing in the mirror.


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