WORTH READING 10 Oct 2005

The Monkey With The Wooden Apples

There once was a happy monkey wandering the jungle, eating delicious
fruit
when hungry, and resting when tired. One day he came upon a house, where
he
saw a bowl of the most beautiful apples. He took one in each hand and
ran
back into the forest.
He sniffed the apples and smelled nothing. He tried to eat them, but
hurt
his teeth. They were made of wood, but they were beautiful, and when the
other monkeys saw them, he held onto them even tighter.

He admired his new possessions proudly as he wandered the jungle. They
glistened red in the sun, and seemed perfect to him. He became so
attached
to them, that he didn't even notice his hunger at first.

A fruit tree reminded him, but he felt the apples in his hands. He
couldn't
bear to set them down to reach for the fruit. In fact, he couldn't
relax,
either, if he was to defend his apples. A proud, but less happy monkey
continued to walk along the forest trails.

The apples became heavier, and the poor little monkey thought about
leaving
them behind. He was tired, hungry, and he couldn't climb trees or
collect
fruit with his hands full. What if he just let go?

Letting go of such valuable things seemed crazy, but what else could he
do?
He was so tired. Seeing the next fruit tree, and smelling it's fruit was
enough. He dropped the wooden apples and reached up for his meal. He was
happy again.

Letting Go Of Wooden Apples

Like that little monkey, we sometimes carry things that seem too
valuable to
let go. A man carries an image of himself as "productive" - carries it
like
a shiny wooden apple. But in reality, his busyness leaves him tired, and
hungry for a better life. Still, letting go seems crazy. Even his
worries
are sacred apples - they prove he's "doing everything he can." He holds
onto
them compulsively.

This is a hard thing to see. We identify so strongly with our things
even,
feeling pain when our cars are dented. How much more powerfully do we
identify with our beliefs and self-ideas? Yet they don't always feed our
souls, do they? And we become tired of defending them.

How else could the story end?

The monkey might be found dead of hunger, under a beautiful tree, with
fruit
within reach, but still grasping his wooden apples.

I chose to end it with him letting go, because only with open hands can
we
recieve.

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