There once was a monk who lived alone in a small mountain hut made of mirrored glass. From every angle, he could see himself—walking, eating, praying, sleeping. Over time, he became so accustomed to the reflections that he began to believe they were who he truly was. When he was sad, the mirrors showed a thousand sad monks. When he was joyful, they returned a festival of joy.
One morning, he woke before dawn and sat in silence. The moonlight poured through the ceiling, casting no reflection at all. He looked up, into the top of his own head, and saw only space. No thought. No monk. Only breath, rising and falling like a tide without shore.
He stayed that way for many hours.
Finally, a traveler appeared at his door, asking, “Who lives here?”
The monk smiled and said, “A hologram used to. Now only light remains.”
The traveler peered into the hut, expecting to see someone. Instead, he saw simply his own face in the mirror.
The self we defend, praise, or worry over is often a layered projection—light formed into habit, memory, desire. Like a hologram, it appears solid but has no true edge. When we stop clinging to the waves of thought and separate them from their attachments—expectation, control, identity—we return to stillness. And in that stillness, what remains is not emptiness but essence. Light not bound to form.
In the space between reflection and recognition, freedom quietly awaits.
Spiritual Gravity 