The Constable Searches for "Me"

There was once a constable escorting a prisoner to the capital. The prisoner was a monk who had broken monastic rules. The journey was long, and every morning upon waking, the dutiful constable would take stock of the few things beside him. First, his bundle—inside it were their travel money and winter clothes, so it could not be lost. Second, the official document; the mission wouldn't be complete until he delivered it to the capital. Third, the monk he was escorting. Fourth, himself. Every morning the constable would check each one: the bundle was still there, the document was still there, the monk was still there, and he himself was still there. Only then would he set out.

Day after day, on those remote back roads, it was often just the two of them walking together, and the loneliness was palpable. They inevitably exchanged a few words. Over time, they began looking after each other, and their bond came to resemble that of friends.

One day, wind and rain lashed at them, and they were battered by hunger and cold. After trudging for an entire day, they took shelter for the night in a crumbling temple. The monk said to the constable, "There's a market not far from here. Let me go fetch some wine, and we'll relax a little today." The constable's guard dropped, and he removed the monk's shackles and let him go.

When the monk returned with the wine, he had also bought plenty of food to go with it. The constable drank himself into a stupor and fell into a deep sleep.

The monk saw that his chance had finally come. He drew from his robe a razor he had just bought, and with a few quick strokes shaved the constable's head clean. Then he stripped off the constable's clothes and put them on himself, wrapped his own monk's robe around the constable's body, and fled into the night.

The constable was completely unaware of any of this. He slept soundly until the sun was high the next day. When he woke, he stretched contentedly, ready to take stock of his things and continue the journey. He felt for the bundle beside him—the bundle was there. He looked at the document—the document was there. He went to look for the monk—the monk was nowhere to be found. He searched inside the temple, searched outside, searched everywhere, but couldn't find him. Scratching his head in confusion, he wondered: where on earth did the monk go? Hm? He realized his head was somehow shaven! He looked down and saw he was wearing a monk's robe, and it suddenly dawned on him—the monk was right here all along!

The first three were all accounted for, so the fourth thing he needed to find was himself. The constable looked around the temple for himself, but search as he might, he simply could not find himself. Puzzled, he thought: the monk is still here, so where did I go?

Read in the light of today, this story carries a particularly pointed meaning.

What is the bundle? It is each of our material lives. Whatever our standard of living may be, everyone hopes to live better, so the pursuit of material improvement stays with us our whole lives. It cannot be lost.

What is the official document? It is our profession. To make our way in the world, a person needs a social role—some occupation through which to build relationships with others and realize their own worth. This document, too, cannot be lost; we carry it with us always.

What is the monk? The monk is what we do day after day. As long as our self is still present, it guards and manages this prisoner. But when we are busy day after day, over-absorbed in one trivial thing after another—our own affairs, our family's affairs, our work, our friends—we grow busier and busier and pay less and less attention to how we actually feel. Without realizing it, we have swapped places with the prisoner. On the surface, the monk is still there, the everyday tasks are not lost, yet the self can no longer be found.

What, in the end, are we so busy chasing? Whatever a person most wants to obtain, that is what they become the prisoner of.

Some people set extraordinary store by power; all their energy goes into cultivating connections and building networks, and their position climbs ever higher, their rank ever greater. In the end, they become prisoners of power. Some people are consumed with making money; at first they earn so they can spend, but in the end the money is just a number, and they become prisoners of wealth. Some people spend their whole lives clinging to love; wounded again and again, yet stubbornly blind, they end up prisoners of affection.

It is always the thing you value most that will sweep you up and make you its prisoner. And at that point, the "I" is lost.