"One of my favorite Chinese poems tells of a wandering monk. He travels light, his only possession a water jar.
"Every night the monk walks to the river's edge to get a drink.
"One particular evening on his way back from the river he trips. His sole possession, the water jug, is smashed in a thousand pieces. The monk is also shattered; he is left with nothing.
"For a moment, the spilled water briefly collects on the ground. In the reflection of the spilled water he sees the moon.
"In that moment he is enlightened.
"It was not until his last attachment was released that he finally understood the nature of illusion and the profound creativity of unencumbered choice."
