A Handful Of Salt

Dear K,

I read this wonderful little koan the other day. Do you know what a koan is? It's a zen tradition. Where you tell a story, usually about some old bhuddist master explaining something to one of his students. The story is short. The story is true, and like all things that are really true it is true from multiple angles. This is why it is so hard to write a koan. It is hard enough to get something to be true one way, most people never manage it. We find the truth like people find furniture in a dark room. We stub our toes on it, bruise our shins on it, and curse it, when really it is a lovely seat made for us, if only we had the courage to sit in it, but you cannot sit in something that you do not know is there can you?

This is the koan I read: There was an old bhuddist master and his disciple. The disciple had led a life full of worldly suffering, and he complained about this to his master to the point where his master knew he needed to teach his student a lesson. So the master placed a glass of water in front of his student and bade him to pick up a handful of salt, and pour it into the glass, and then drink. The student did so. The master asked how the student liked the drink, and the student said it tasted bitter and salty. The master then asked the student to walk with him. They lived high up in the mountains so that they could be closer to God. The student followed his master to a mountain lake. The master again asked the student to pick up a handful of salt and pour it into the lake and drink. The student did so. The master asked him how he liked the drink. The student said it tasted fresh and sweet and cold and clear. The master then said that the pain we gather in life is the handful of salt, can you gather more than your hands can carry? No you cannot for you have nothing but your hands to carry things with, and the vessel we drink from is our sense of scale. Are you contained in a glass? Are you small like that? Or are you a part of something larger? Are you a glass or are you a lake. It is good to be a lake.


It would be much better if I could say that story in fewer sentences, but I am not very practiced at writing koans. I would like to say though, thank you for being my friend, thank you for being my confidant, thank you for helping me keep upright in the storms of life.

I hope we keep writing to each other for ever.

Kindest of regards,

K