The Empty Cup
A traveling scholar arrived at a teahouse, seeking shelter from the storm. Rain lashed against the paper windows. Inside, all was still. An old tea master knelt behind the counter, setting out two cups.
The scholar lowered his dripping hood, shaking water from his sleeves. He placed a bundle of scrolls on the table, smoothing them with careful hands. His fingers tapped anxiously.
"I have read the sutras," he said. "Debated with monks. Memorized countless verses," he exhaled. "And yet, something is missing."
The tea master nodded, lifting the kettle. He poured into the scholar's cup.
The scholar leaned forward. "Tell me — what is the essence of Zen?"
The tea master poured until the scholar's cup was full. Then he kept pouring.
Tea spilled over the rim, streaming across the table, soaking the scholar's scrolls. He leapt up. "What are you doing?!"
The tea master set down the kettle. The only sound was the rain.
The scholar sat back down, gripping the edges of his robe. His scrolls were still soaking as the tea continued to trickle off the table and onto the floor.
He drank slowly. Eventually, the cup was empty.
Outside, the storm raged. Inside, a single drop fell.
