# The Shadow of the Worshipped

A mountain in Japan. You must travel a long way up a narrow path along its slope. Then you reach a plateau. There sits a small pond. In the mountainside are great cavern-like spaces, and in one of them stands a statue of Buddha—quite large. Now and then people from the surrounding villages come to this place, worship before the statue, adorn it, gaze upon Buddha, light incense, make offerings, and then return to their villages.

There was a small boy who, whenever he got the chance, would take his mother's hand and go there too. He would stand transfixed, staring at the statue with wide, wondering eyes. He loved to stand like that so much that he never wanted to leave. But leave he must, and reluctantly he would return. As he grew older, whenever anyone from the nearby villages went to worship, he would go with them. His visits became more frequent. Then came a time when he no longer wished to return at all—he wanted only to stay there, to gaze upon Buddha with unblinking eyes, forever still.

At last the day arrived when staying at home became unbearable. He could no longer confine himself within those walls. One day he simply abandoned his house and went to dwell in a solitary place upon that mountain. All day long he would sit gazing at the statue of Buddha. Whatever offerings the worshippers left—food placed before the image or scattered here and there—he would eat. He asked nothing of anyone; he had no wants, no expectations. His mind held only one thought: Buddha. Day and night he was absorbed in contemplating the form and life of Buddha... what kind of man he was, what his life had been like.

As he meditated thus, everything he had ever read or heard or learned of Buddha seemed to come alive before him in his deepest concentration. He saw it all clearly, with his own eyes. The villagers came many times, begging him to return home, but he would not budge from that place. He had found some strange and wondrous treasure there! In the end, everyone gave up trying.

Now he has grown old. His entire life has been consumed in contemplation of Buddha. He remains constantly absorbed in Buddha, as if merged with that very thought.

One day he was sitting by the edge of the pond, lost in meditation on Buddha, utterly oblivious to the world around him. Some people came and began to offer prayers, light incense, and make offerings—to him. Suddenly, returning to awareness, he cried out in alarm: What is this? What are you doing? The statue of Buddha is over there—why are you making these offerings to me?

They replied: We see no difference between you and the statue.

Hearing this, he lowered his head in shame. And then, looking at his reflection in the water, he saw that his face too had become serene, beautiful, and gentle like Buddha's. His eyes seemed to see nothing else anymore.

When one reaches such undivided consciousness, the worshipped and the worshipper become one. The constant longing for God that so completely fills and possesses the seeker's mind and body—this is what is called austerity, tapasya. It is essential to feel this longing. If one wishes to become so full, one must first empty oneself completely. Learning to feel this emptiness—this is the first step of spiritual practice. Once you cross this threshold, the capacity to receive gradually grows. Soon there comes a time when you need not force your mind into practice; it remains there naturally, firmly rooted. The person who does not know how to empty himself, or does not wish to, will never glimpse fullness.