The Chewed Food

One morning, Master Xuěfēng sat in front of the monastery under a clear blue sky, the sun shining brightly down.

An eager monk stepped forward and asked:

“Master, what am I missing? Why can’t I see the truth?”

Xuěfēng looked at him and said:

“If you immediately realize how things are, that is the best way. Why do you come to me? A true Zen disciple doesn’t eat food that another has already chewed. Look at the sun—it shines clearly, without obstruction. What do you lack?”

The eager monk pressed further:

“But Master, if I don’t come to you, how will I know what’s right?”

Xuěfēng stood up, picked up a small stone from the ground, and held it out to the monk.

“Here, eat this stone.”

The monk stared at him, astonished. “Master, I can’t eat that!”

“Exactly,” said Xuěfēng, letting the stone fall. “I can’t chew it for you, and you wouldn’t swallow it even if I did. So why do you demand that I chew the truth for you? It lies unobstructed before you, like the sun in the sky. Take it into your own hands.”

In that moment, the monk looked up at the sky. The sun dazzled him, yet he felt its warmth on his face. Suddenly, he burst out laughing, dropped onto the mat, and sat there quietly, without another word.

Xuěfēng murmured to himself:

“Perhaps he’s finally stopped seeking chewed food.”