02/10/2026
Under the vast expanse of the night sky, two figures sit by a crackling fire. One is a Zen monk, his robes simple and unadorned, reflecting the quiet surrender of his path. Beside him, the shaman of an ancient Indigenous tribe, adorned with feathers and beads, his presence like the earth itself; rooted, alive, and humming with unseen currents.
The monk sips his tea, gazing into the flames. The shaman stirs a pot of sacred medicine, its aroma blending with the cool night air. Their conversation begins, not with words, but with the silence that holds them both.
Shaman: “This medicine reminds us of the truth beneath the skin of this world, the rhythm of the eternal that breathes through all things. Yet even as it teaches, it does not explain. It cannot, for what it reveals is beyond knowing.”
Monk: “Yes. Beyond knowing and beyond not-knowing. What the medicine points to, my sitting points to as well. When the mind settles, there is nothing to grasp, and nothing left to be grasped. Only this clarity, brilliant yet empty.”
The shaman pauses, ladling the brew into a carved wooden cup. He offers it to the monk, who accepts it with a bow.
Shaman: “In the ceremonies, we call it the great spirit, the essence that is neither born nor dies. It flows through the stars, the rivers, the people. It holds the laughter of children and the mourning of the elders. And yet, it has no name.”
Monk: “A name would split it into pieces. Words are like nets, trying to catch the infinite. But the infinite cannot be caught. It is already here, unbroken, free.”
The fire crackles, the sparks rising into the darkness. For a while, they sit, each listening not to the other but to the stillness that holds them both.
Shaman: “And yet, we use words. Stories, chants, prayers. We guide the seekers through the forest of their fears, using the language of their suffering to bring them to silence. Does your path also speak?”
Monk: “Only when it must. But each word is a finger pointing to the moon. The danger lies in mistaking the finger for the moon, the chant for the clarity. The true teaching is not spoken, yet it speaks through all things. Do you feel it now?”
Shaman: “I feel it. It hums in the earth beneath us, in the pulse of my heart. It dances in the flicker of these flames. The medicine reminds us of this, but the reminder is not the essence itself.”
Monk: “The same is true of the cushion I sit on. The practice is a doorway, not the room itself. But when the doorway dissolves, there is no room, no outside, no inside. Only this.”
The shaman chuckles softly, his laughter deep and resonant.
Shaman: “You speak of this like it is a mystery, yet also simple. How can something so clear seem so elusive?”
Monk: “Because we look for it with the mind that divides. But even the looking is already it. The seeker and the sought are one, the looking and the clarity inseparable.”
Shaman: “And so the medicine teaches too. It shows the seeker that their journey is a circle. They end where they began, but their eyes are open now.”
Monk: “And in the end, even the eyes dissolve. The seeing is not of the eyes, nor of the mind. It is of itself, wordless, timeless, free.”
The fire burns lower. The night stretches deeper, holding them both like an infinite embrace. They speak no more, for what is left to say? In the silence, the clarity speaks for itself, humming through the earth, the stars, the breath of all beings.
Here. Always here. Beyond words.
By Gabriel DeLuna
