A Flower

They walked far to the remote wilderness spot; to the place where
the enlightened one sat alone in lotus posture. All of them eager to
hear his words, hungry for understanding.

He sat with a straight back, eyes closed, face a potrait of serenity.
At first noone dared to disturb his peaceful repose.

Eventually one gathered enough courage to approach him.

"Master," he said softly.

The Buddha opened his eyes slowly and smiled at him.

"I am no more master than you. What is it you want?" He asked.

"We have come seeking answers, for we have heard you are an
avatar."

"It is good to come seeking answers. For how can one know anything,
unless they question it first."

"Will you preach for us? We have travelled far to hear your words." The
man asked.

The Buddha nodded and smiling again, looked tenderly upon the ground.
Then picking up a flower - he held it up silently before them.

The crowd looked at him puzzled.

"Is this your sermon?" Someone asked after a while, confused.

The Buddha said nothing but continued to hold the flower in silence,
the sun shining upon it like a spotlight. Illuminating each
petal.

There was much murmuring amongst the crowd as to what this could mean.
Eventually, when they realised that this was all the Buddha had to say,
they left one by one, shaking their heads in confusion. Some were
bitter and resentful, they had travelled far expecting a great sermon.
Some laughed and called him a madman.

In due course all left the clearing, all except one: who remained
standing alone. He stood there for quite some time, transfixed by the
simple beauty of the flower that the Buddha held up.

Then smiling quietly to himself, he nodded; understanding the things
that go beyond words.

His name was: Zen.