Yesterday, as I was taking a spoonful of bubur ayam (chicken porridge) in a traditional Javanese restaurant, my sister nonchalantly said something to me.

“Bro, you know, my life feels a thousand times easier when I’m not picky about food.”

The conversation revolved there a little bit, then it went somewhere else. We talked about this and that, but that one sentence stood out the most. I was quite taken aback by that. I still remember those times when she “weeded out” the garlic or bean sprouts or onions in her food because she just couldn’t handle the smell.

When I heard that, I felt something within me said, “wow, holy shit, I feel the same!” The more insistence and preference I have, the more difficult life becomes; the more I hold into my idea of how things should be, the harder the arrows of life pierces me.

She didn’t say that to impress or to affect me in any way, but it did.

The sky is beautiful without trying to be;

so are trees, mountains, the sea.

·

They do what needs to be done

without trying to impress anyone.

·

Does the sun shines to give warmth?

No; it just shines.

·

Do trees grow fruit to benefit anyone?

No; bearing fruit is their nature.

·

Does the mountain stand tall

while saying “look how tall I am?”

·

It doesn’t even care

whether it’s tall or not.

·

When the sea is polluted with chemicals,

the water doesn’t complaint.

·

When cement is poured over the ground,

the earth feels no anger.

·

Why are they so peaceful

when things go “wrong?”

·

Why are humans clouded with emotion,

while nature is effortlessly perfect?

·

“Of course, they aren’t human beings!”

is a reflexive answer that leads nowhere.

·

There is so much that can be learned from them,

even though they have no intention to teach.

In a small Japanese village, it hasn’t rained for two months. Crops are drying up, and the villagers are afraid they might not harvest at all.

Out of desperation, the villagers visit the local priest. “What should we do?” they ask. The highly revered priest swiftly answered them, “every morning, pray to god for 20 minutes.”

That’s exactly what they do the next day; on that very afternoon, it rains.

“The prayers are working! The prayers are working!” the villagers shouted in elation. Everybody thanked the priest and enjoy a plentiful harvest.

The next year, the same thing happens again. They start doing their prayer, but after days of praying, not even a single drop of rain falls from the sky. “Pray harder,” said the priest after being asked about the situation. As desperation mounts, they pray more and more each morning, yet the sun is still mercilessly scorching the crops.

The crops slowly die; at the end of the season, they harvest nothing.

The villagers point the blame at the priest. “We prayed for hours every day, yet the rain didn’t fall.” The priest, being cornered like a rat, surrendered. “I must admit that I don’t know what I’m talking about when it comes down to rain and prayer. The rain that fell last year—the one that saved the crops—was mere luck, and it had nothing to do with your prayer,” the priest admits.

Cowered in shame, the priest left the village.

In the midst of disappointment, sorrow, and anger of the failed harvest, the rain starts falling…

“Three… two… one… go!”

Powie, a monkey that participates in a swimming race, begins to flap his limbs. The dozens of fish he’s competing with zap ahead after the “Go!” signal. Swimming without fins, he has no choice but to rely on his limbs. Splash down, move limbs, goes up, take a breath; splash down, move limbs, goes up, take a breath, and on and on.

The gold medalist, a fish called Coatl, won the race in 20 seconds; Powie, on the other hand, finished it in 3 minutes 9 seconds.

After celebrating with his friends, Coatl is interviewed on how he won the race.

“I worked hard and tried my best,” he says.

“Hard work huh?” Powie thought to himself, “I guess it’s time to work harder.”

That very day, after feeling the sting of losing, Powie decided to be the greatest swimmer in the entire animal kingdom. His mother encourages him with, “it’s okay honey, that was your first tournament after all.”

He creates plans, schedules, routines; he read books and buys the latest swimming equipment. He wakes up every day at 5 AM and practice swimming for 6 hours; he spends the last 3 hours on the day in the water, refining his technique. His friends think he’s crazy—no day off, no time-wasting activities, no “having fun.”

The fire within him burns bright.

More races

It has been exactly one year since Powie had his first swimming race experience. Unlike the previous competition, he arrives at the swimming competition feeling confident, and while preparing, he can see Coatl not far away from him.

“Coatl huh… can I win?” Thought begins to crowd his mind, but the race is starting.

“Three… two… one… go!”

Now that he has refined his swimming technique, he begins to flap his limbs in a calculated manner. His technique is so refined that he managed to swim faster than some of his fish competitor—a pretty amazing feat for a monkey.

Like last year, Coatl win the race in 19 seconds, and is still the gold medalist; Powie, 2 minutes 37 seconds. It’s better, but Powie doesn’t even sniff bronze, let alone gold.

Envy, self-doubt, and anger gushes in his mind—”am I not working hard enough? Why do I still lose after all these hard work?”

It seems unfair. The sting of losing hits him even harder, which makes him practice even harder—new techniques, new tips, new tricks, new methods, new styles, new equipments, new books. The next year, he goes into the race and loses to Coatl… again.

And again, and again, and again.

And again.

Revelation

After 27 years of hard work and losing, it’s painfully self-evident to Powie that the hard work didn’t lead anywhere.

He seeks answers.

Powie pays Coatl a visit; after the chit-chat and the make-yourself-at-home treatment received from Coatl, he gets straight to business.

“Coatl, I come here as a confused monkey—I seek to understand. I’ve poured my soul into swimming for the past 27 years, yet I’ve never won any swimming race. You, on the other hand, participated in 27 swimming race and won 27 gold medals. What’s your secret?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m tired. I feel like I’ve wasted my life. The frustration, envy, anger, and confusion has been bottling up inside me, and I can’t take it anymore.”

“So you want to win a swimming race?”

“Yes—I want it so badly.”

“… as a monkey?” asked Coatl, appending to his previous question.

Everything explodes all at once in Powie’s mind; for the first time in his life, he can see his own folly. He stares at the ceiling, not having anything to say. 

17 minutes passed and not a single word was said—not even eye contact was made. Out of nowhere, Powie breaks the silence.

“Coatl, when you were interviewed, you said that hard work won you the race. Was that a lie?”

“Powie, you are a monkey. I’m not trying to demean you, but do you think you can beat a fish in swimming by working hard?”

“Then what should I do?”

“You are evading the question,” Coatl interjects swiftly.

“To be honest, this question makes me angry. If I answer no, that implies I’ve wasted my life; if I answer yes, I know it’s… a lie.”

“Powie, here’s what you have to understand: monkey is not made to swim. You certainly can swim—even faster than some of my fish friends, which I find quite astonishing—but at the end of the day, you’re meant for something else.”

“But I really want to win swimming races…”

“You may do so if you wish, but it’ll only lead to pain and suffering.”

“Then what is it that I’m meant to do?”

“Within you there is something unique. Something extraordinary, magical, and grand; something nobody in this animal kingdom has. For me, that “thing” happens to be swimming really fast, and thus I can effortlessly win all these swimming races. Your “thing”—whatever that is—is what you’re meant to do, and you can only find it by looking deep within yourself.”

Powie has no more words to say.

“Powie, what you need to understand has been revealed to you. You may want to ponder everything else in your own room—alone.”

After the goodbye, Powie heads back home. He doesn’t have all the answer, but at least, he now knows that he’s a monkey that has been trying to compete with fishes in a swimming race.

Imagine a snicker bar. Now imagine a red dynamite with the size of a snicker bar.

You are holding that dynamite. For what? Nobody knows. But you are holding it in your right hand. It’s lighted up, and it’s waiting to explode. You know that it will hurt you, but you hold it with a hopeful eye.

“AAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!” you scream with all the air from your lungs. It’s so loud your neighbor’s dog perks his ears. Did he notice your scream or the dynamite explosion? Perhaps both.

You now can heavily smell the burnt skin. Blood starts to ooze from your palm, and it mixes your slightly disfigured right hand; it begins to slowly flow from your palm, to your forearm, to your elbow, and finally dripping to the ground.

“Please don’t fail me again,” you whisper softly to yourself. You take another dynamite, light it up, and grab it with your right hand. The air feels thick; the ticking clock is deafening. Your ear is ringing, and you can barely stand.

The dynamite explodes yet again, and you scream… again. Now the neighbors’ dog is barking in worry; some of the stray cats that happens to wander around stop in front of your house and meow ever so slightly. It seems like they can feel your pain just from your scream. Your vocal cord snapped, and you can barely produce any sound. Holding a lighted up dynamite only leads to pain, why are you still doing it?

You don’t even know.

There’s a pool of blood below you; your vision starts to blur; your body feels cold. You can barely move your right hand, which is now heavily disfigured. Your finger looks like burnt and dried sausage and your palm like a sauce-less rare steak. There is blood; there is flesh; there are bones—you can see everything.

You drop into the floor—curled up beside your own blood. The scent fills up your senses; your eyes feel heavy, and it starts to close by itself.

“Tomorrow… again.” The lips move, but no voice can be heard.