A reader submitted this story a while back, and I hesitated to print it because I wasn’t sure it fit with the rest of our stories here at The Reality Register, though it’s always kept me coming back. It’s been sitting in my inbox for weeks now and I’ve read it multiple times, as I’ve found it both amusing and a little surprising, but only today did I realize its true draw, the nature of the human spirit. So I give you this tale, sworn by the reader to be true, as always, about the search for spirituality and the obstacles along the way.
Jacob Bartholomew
In the tranquil hills of a distant Buddhist monastery, my journey toward spiritual awakening took an unexpected turn—one that still echoes with the laughter of older monks and the lingering scent of incense. I am a former monk, and my tale begins with a hazing ritual that left me questioning not just the universe, but my place within it.
Picture this: a group of eager novices, clad in saffron robes, wide-eyed and ready to embrace the wisdom of the ages. Little did we know, the elders had a mischievous tradition, a rite of passage, if you will. It was an initiation into the mysteries of existence—a cosmic prank played by seasoned monks.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the monastery’s towering peaks, the elders gathered us in the meditation hall. I, a starry-eyed initiate, eagerly anticipated pearls of wisdom about inner peace and enlightenment. Little did I know, peace was about to take a detour through the realm of absurdity.
The ceremony began with a serene meditation session, but soon the room was filled with whispers—whispers that grew into boisterous laughter. The elders, with a mischievous gleam in their eyes, started sharing the most unexpected thoughts on the nature of existence.
“Imagine you’re one with the universe, young ones,” said the eldest monk with a sly grin. “No self, no boundaries, just a cosmic dance of interconnectedness.” At the end of the sentence, a low rumbling sound echoed through the meditation room, and the room erupted with raucous laughter. It took me a moment, but I realized the sound was the collective flatulence of the elder monks, timed perfectly to make them seem interconnected.
There was confusion among the novices, unsure whether this was a profound teaching or a cosmic jest. The more experienced monks, however, reveled in our perplexity.
As the bizarre revelations continued, my sense of self began to unravel. “Consider,” another monk chimed in, “that your individuality is but a fleeting illusion. You are like a dewdrop, distinct yet part of the morning mist.” Another loud collective blast erupted from the monks, who were soon all in tears from laughter.
Despite the obvious hazing ritual, the thought experiment had worked, and I found myself questioning everything. Was I really just a dewdrop? Did I even exist, or was I merely a figment of someone else’s cosmic imagination?
I went to bed troubled that night, but eventually found sleep. Until, that is, I was awakened by a rambunctious old monk that burst into the novice common room screaming, “You all MIST tonight’s late-night meditation, di DEWDROP all sense of responsibility young ones?” He was followed by a number of other elders who danced around the room yelling non-nonsensical sing-song prayers. They then produced paddles from under their robes and beat us all mercilessly.
Amidst the laughter, the pain, and the absurdity, a realization dawned on me—the path to enlightenment need not be clouded by pranks. I yearned for a journey that embraced the profound without sacrificing the simplicity of understanding.
Eventually, I made the difficult decision to leave the monastery. I sought solace in teachings that resonated without the undertones of cosmic confusion. My quest for enlightenment took me on a different path—one where laughter and wisdom walked hand in hand.
Looking back, I appreciate the humor woven into that hazing ritual. It taught me to find the balance between the profound and the playful, the serious and the silly. After all, spirituality need not be devoid of joy.
Years later, I would find out that the monastery in question wasn’t a monastery at all, it was just an abandoned Pizza Hut that some friends and I had wandered into the back of while we were high on PCP. I don’t know who those men were or where they were getting all those robes, but I remember being there for weeks. We didn’t get any pizza, but in the end they did make us one with everything, at least for a brief moment.
Van Stevenson, loyal reader
If you have a story you would like to submit for publication on our site, please email us at [email protected] and we’ll take a look at it. I do some editing to ensure it’s up to our standards and to make myself feel worthy of a paycheck, but I do not change anything pertinent to the story as a whole. Thanks for reading!
