Thanks for reading Empowered Way! This post is public so feel free to share it.
Hello Empowered Wayers!
I have always been in love with inspirational stories and metaphors. They reveal truths about living as a human being, how to release old patterns, and what to do next.
I began my spiritual journey the moment I realized I created stories about myself, my value, and my place in the world. When I stepped away from living from inside the story, I regained my power to create again.
When you are the subject of the story, you remain the victim. Your world is determined by the events that happen outside of you. Events that you can never control, but only interpret so they have meaning.
When you are the author of the story, you are empowered with your innate creative abilities. Just as an artist can stand back and look at her painting, you can stand back and look at the parts of your life that are subpar.
One of my favorite quotes on this subject is from Rumi,
"Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion."
Can you feel the intensity of emotion in those words? They almost demand that you change your limiting stories so you can become who you came here to be.
Ten years ago, I wrote a short story that illustrates how limiting stories impact your view of the world.
The Monk and the Teacup
There was once a rich, important man who was desperate to know the answer to the question – What is it all for? Although he had amassed a fortune that allowed him to own three mansions, a fleet of luxury cars, and enough designer clothes to never wear the same outfit twice, he wasn't happy and did not feel fulfilled. Each night, he would gaze out from the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse apartment, watching the twinkling city lights below, feeling an emptiness that no acquisition had ever filled. He was tired of the struggle to get more, be more, and do more.
So the rich man traveled to a remote region in Tibet, where jagged mountains pierced the clear blue sky and prayer flags fluttered in the crisp mountain breeze. He sought to speak to a monk who had the reputation of deep wisdom, profound knowledge, and a stunning intellect. The monastery itself seemed to grow from the mountainside, ancient stones weathered by centuries of wind and snow, its golden roof catching the sunlight like a beacon.
But instead of an immediate audience with the monk, the rich man was kept waiting for several days. Through the monastery's open corridors, he could see the monk walking calmly around the grounds, his saffron robes billowing gently in the wind, his face serene despite the harsh mountain elements. The rich man's ego and his meticulously planned schedule screamed for a resolution, and he persistently demanded his audience with the monk.
"The Venerable One will see you when it is time," replied a young novice monk, his eyes downcast, voice gentle but firm. "Not before."
"Do you know who I am?" the rich man snapped, his voice echoing against the stone walls. "I've flown halfway around the world! My time is valuable!"
"As is everyone's," the novice replied softly. "Yet time flows differently here."
After several more days of impatient waiting, pacing the stone floors like a caged tiger, the rich man finally gained his audience with the monk. His annoyance and frustration had coalesced into a hard knot in his chest, threatening to explode when the monk finally walked into the sparsely furnished meditation room and sat down across from him.
The rich man could not sit still. He fidgeted in his chair, fingers drumming against his thigh, and his body was stiff and rigid as an iron rod. His face was hard, deep lines etched between his brows, and his eyes were like laser beams of intensity, boring into the monk's placid face. The rich man's expensive tailored suit, so out of place in these ancient surroundings, seemed to constrict his movements as he nearly vibrated off the chair with barely contained rage.
The monk was calm and serene, his weathered face showing the gentle lines of someone who smiled often. His movements were deliberate and unhurried, even in the face of the agitated man before him. The contrast in energy between them was palpable in the small room. It was almost as if there was a red, angry glow surrounding the rich man, while the monk was bathed in a blue, tranquil light.
Before the rich man could demand an answer to his question, the monk raised one hand, palm facing outward.
"Wait," he said, his voice low and resonant like distant thunder. "First, we must observe the ritual of welcome."
The rich man opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He was astute enough to understand that rituals must be observed, and he visibly tried to calm himself, taking a deep breath that did little to soothe his irritation. But he was still seething inside by the manner in which he had been treated, made to wait like a common supplicant when back home, people waited on him.
A young monk entered carrying a lacquered tray with an ancient teapot, steam rising from its spout, and two exquisite porcelain cups that looked as delicate as eggshells. The scent of jasmine and exotic spices filled the room as the tea was placed on the small oval table between them, carved from a single piece of dark wood worn smooth by centuries of use.
The monk began playing host with the careful movements of someone performing a sacred ceremony. He lifted the teapot with both hands, its glaze catching the light from the paper lanterns overhead, and poured his guest a cup of tea. The amber liquid streamed in a perfect arc into the cup. He gestured to his guest to pick up his cup and saucer, and the monk began pouring across the small table.
And kept pouring.
It didn't take long for the small cup to overflow with tea. The rich man's eyes widened in disbelief as tea spilled over the lip and onto the saucer. The saucer quickly filled up with hot liquid and spilled over onto the man's lap and pants, staining the expensive fabric dark.
The rich man burst up from his seat, tea dripping from his ruined clothes. His face flushed crimson, a vein throbbing at his temple.
"I've had it!" he roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Is this how you treat someone who has come all this way for your wisdom? With disrespect and humiliation?"
The monk calmly moved the pot away from his guest and poured himself a cup, the movement precise and controlled. He closed his eyes and smiled as he enjoyed the aroma of the herbs and spices, inhaling deeply as if the rich man's outburst were nothing more than a gentle breeze. He took one appreciative sip and set down his cup, deliberately and with great care, the porcelain making the softest sound against the saucer. He placed his hands in his lap and finally looked up at his guest. His expression was calm, but the intensity in his eyes spoke volumes.
The rich man was oblivious to the monk's steady gaze. He was so caught up in his emotions that he was now yelling and berating everyone in the room.
"This is outrageous! Do you have any idea what my time is worth? What my clothes cost? I could buy and sell this entire monastery! I demand an apology, or I'll make sure this place doesn't see another tourist for the next century!"
Shouting, insults, threats—none of them had any visible impact on his audience. The other monks stood silently, hands folded, eyes down, as unmovable as the mountains outside. Finally, the rich man was so exhausted that he had to sit down, collapsing back into his chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
He looked down at his pants, the expensive fabric ruined, and said in a small, dejected voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him, "I give up."
The monk smiled directly at the man, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp and clear in the quiet room.
"Now," he said, his voice warm with genuine pleasure, "we will begin our visit."
The rich man was dumbfounded. He could not speak for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Finally, he had to ask a question. His voice scratched with the effect of his screaming as he asked softly, "Why was I kept waiting for days and then you came in here without a word and poured tea all over me?" He shook his head in confusion and his shoulders slumped forward, the fight gone out of him. He muttered to himself, "I guess I'll never learn the answer to my question, 'What is it all for?'"
At that statement, the monk did a most startling thing. His shoulders began to shake and laughter spilled out from deep inside, starting as a chuckle and building to a full-bodied sound. He threw his head back and laughed so hard that his stomach hurt, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. All the other monks in the room joined him, until the laughter was like a glistening bubble, surrounding everything and everyone in the room with its infectious joy.
The rich man couldn't speak. He felt so lost and alone that he started to cry, hot tears welling up unbidden. "They are laughing at me," he thought, the words echoing in his mind like stones dropped into a deep well. Instant shame flooded his body and long-forgotten feelings of rejection rose up and clenched his throat. He felt like he was 10 years old again, being bullied in the schoolyard, the laughter of the other children cutting deeper than any physical blow ever could. Deep, primal sobs wracked his body as that long-forgotten pain came up, breaking through decades of carefully constructed defenses.
The laughter and the sobs mixed together in an unusual symphony. Human joy and pain. All in the same space, at the same time and at the same moment. Beautiful and dark, all at once, like the play of shadow and light on the monastery walls.
Finally, the storm passed. The rich man sat back in his chair, totally defenseless, his expensive suit disheveled, his carefully styled hair falling across his forehead, his face tear-stained. The monk was pleased with the man's progress and began his teaching.
"Now you are ready to listen to what I have to share," he began, his voice gentle as a father speaking to a beloved child.
The rich man glanced up and saw only love and acceptance in the monk's eyes, deep and bottomless as mountain lakes. The ridicule he expected to see because of the laughter was not there. He slowly stood up and walked to each of the other monks, looking deeply into their eyes. All of them held the same light of acceptance, knowing, and love, their faces open and kind.
In that moment, the rich man came face to face with a stark truth – that he had misinterpreted the monks' laughter because of his own pain from the past. He assumed the reason the monks were laughing was because he was an outsider, a foreigner who was not privy to their ways. Very much like when he was ridiculed and bullied for being smaller than the other boys on the playground, when each laugh felt like a knife in his heart.
The interpretation of his past in contrast to the present moment should have been completely different. Instead, he allowed his past to filter the present back into the past. And he could not have been more wrong.
This flash of insight humbled the man. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply several times, the clean mountain air filling his lungs, integrating this new knowledge into the very core of his being. He did this without thinking or questioning. He just knew that is what he needed to do in that moment, as if some ancient wisdom had awakened within him.
After a brief period, the rich man opened his eyes and smiled, feeling lighter than he had in years. He returned to his chair and faced the monk, looking deeply into his eyes. He bowed, hands folded in front of him, and said softly, "I am so sorry."
The monk was pleased. He said with great dignity, his voice resonating with truth, "You are welcome."
The rich man felt better than he had in years. No longer was his stomach knotted up with tension or his head filled with voices of recrimination or ridicule. The weight of expectations – both his own and others' – seemed to lift from his shoulders. He felt something that he had not experienced in a long time.
He was full of peace, as vast and clear as the Tibetan sky.
He sat with that knowledge for several minutes, the only sound the distant chanting of monks in another part of the monastery and the soft whisper of prayer flags in the wind. He noticed that his pants were still wet from the tea but it no longer enraged him. It was just something that happened, like rain or snow – neither good nor bad in itself. But the monk's actions still confused the man, so he asked him, "Why did you pour tea on me?"
The monk smiled as if he were waiting for that question, as if the rich man had finally asked the question that mattered. He picked up the tea cup, holding it in his weathered hands, turning it to catch the light.
"You are like this cup," he said, his voice like smooth stones in a river bed. "A container meant to hold."
The rich man nodded for the monk to continue, truly listening perhaps for the first time in his life.
"When you walked into this room, your cup was full," the monk said, gesturing to the cup, now empty and clean. The monk paused for effect, his eyes holding the rich man's gaze, and then said, "Now your cup is empty and you are ready to hear."
The man nodded in understanding and bowed again, humbly accepting his mistakes. The gesture felt natural now, not forced or performed. He no longer saw himself as a rich, important man who could bully others so that he felt better. His story about his place in the world had shifted dramatically and permanently, like the tectonic plates beneath the Tibetan mountains.
His past was in the past and could only affect the present moment if he chose to allow it. His future was not something he could control. Instead, it is a blank canvas on which he would paint his dreams and desires, and allow the creative powers of a being much larger than himself to fulfill.
In another flash of insight, as clear and bright as the mountain sun, he spoke the two most powerful words any creator can proclaim. He said those words with great intent and total comprehension of what he was declaring. He acknowledged his own power to create the meaning of his experiences, and in that declaration, discovered the answer to the question, "What is it all for?"
The man said, simply, "I am."
And in that moment, it was enough.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
A Note to You
Is your cup full of limiting stories? Know that you created them to protect yourself. Learn how to step out of your stories and back into being a creator, by reminding yourself who you really are.
"I wish I could show you, When you are lonely or in darkness, The Astonishing Light Of your own Being!" - Hafiz
I first saw this quote written on the stairs of The Shakespeare Book Company in Paris, France. It stayed with me and I created a meditation based on the truth expressed in those few words.
The short meditation, “The Astonishing Light of Your Being” may help you remember. Your intention to remember will bring more ways to see through your stories and know you are light.
As always, blessings on your journey,
Kathryn
P.S. I appreciate hearing from you. Did this story resonate with you? What lessons did you learn? The comments are open for your response and sharing :-)
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit empoweredway.substack.com/subscribe
