They sat in a circle about the monk. Smoke from a thousand candles hovered in the beams. The smell from a dozen incense braziers was potent and overwhelming. The Tibetan guide motioned them to be still. The monk opened his eyes.
Once, there was a man. He tilled his fields and harvested his crops. He brought the waters from the river to his home and took his sheep to the market. The man thought he was very happy.
One day, the man was guiding his yak along the furrows of the field. He raised his eyes from his work and stopped. There, flying among the barren fields, was the most beautiful butterfly he had ever seen. Its wings were crimson like the heart of a fire. Its slender body shimmered blue like a mountain lake. Its eyes flashed gold like the sun. The man was overcome with a desire to seize this thing of joy and wonder for himself.
He left his yak, his river, his village, and his home to go follow the butterfly. The butterfly flew on, blissfully unaware of the man pursuing it. The butterfly flew across green hills and gentle valleys. It fluttered among shaded glens and over deep forests. It winged its way through desert plains and bleak crags. Each time the butterfly stopped to drink, the man would hasten towards it, eager to capture it. But as he drew near, the butterfly would soar up to the heavens and continue on its way.
After many days, the butterfly led him far and high into the mountains. There, among the desolation of ice and stone, the butterfly was most beautiful. Its wings caught the ever nearing sun’s fire and shone among the gaping chasms and towering spires of ice. Its body reflected the pure sapphire of the sky. And its eyes flashed with the regal fury of the lightening. The man saw all this and rejoiced in it, cherishing his dream of capturing the butterfly for himself, forever to revel in its glory.
At last, high up on the peaks forbidden to mortal men, the butterfly came to rest. There the man caught it up in his hand and held it up close to see its great beauty. The butterfly dreamily flapped its wings and the man was awestruck by its splendor. All the time he had been chasing the butterfly, he had never thought it would be this magnificent. No one could ever say how lovely the butterfly was at that moment, in the land where the earth reaches up to the stars. The man thought he was very happy.
The man held the butterfly in his hand. He examined it from every side. He studied its varied colors and perfect symmetry. He delighted in its being.
Then slowly, without hesitation, he began to close his hand about it. The butterfly did not struggle as the man continued to tighten his hand around its brilliance. Finally, his fist closed and the butterfly was no more. The man did not open his hand to see what he had done. He did not think about what he had done. He did not even know why he had done it. He felt no feelings and thought no thoughts.
The man walked down the mountain. He walked back through the desert plateaus and jungle tangles. He journeyed onwards across valleys he should have never known and over mountain passes he could not remember. All the time the crushed, lifeless butterfly was carried in his hand.
Then the man came back to his yak, his river, his village, and his home. When he came into his home, he opened his hand and let the dust that once been that butterfly of divine brilliance fall to the earthen floor. The man went back to his fields and sheep, to his river and his crops. He forgot all about the magnificent butterfly that had once been, and was truly happy.
The monk closed his eyes. The guide motioned for them to get up, bow, and exit. As they walked down the steep path from the monastery, one traveler remarked to his companion “What do you suppose all that rubbish was about? I mean, for God’s sake, butterflies, happiness, and yaks? ”
