Memoirs of My Lives

Monk

I see myself wearing the traditional yellow and maroon robes of a Buddhist monk. I live on the grounds of a large monastery complex along with hundreds of other monks. Judging by the style of the buildings and statues I believe it to be in Southeast Asia, possibly Thailand. I came to live there as a small orphan boy as did a great many priests. It becomes a way of life when there are few other choices, and being a priest dedicated to spiritual teaching is considered an honorable if uneventful devotion for one's life.

My days are spent mostly in prayer and meditation or cleaning the monastery grounds. Although I confess that most of my thoughts are not of the Buddha, but rather on my own circumstances. I ask myself often, why do I exist? Why have I come to this place? Am I fulfilling my purpose? I am consumed by these thoughts and often annoy the other priests with my constant questioning. They tell me I am there because I was orphaned, and as long as I do my duties I am fulfilling my purpose. These answers are meaningless to me as my questions run far deeper, but my superiors sometimes thought I might be stupid and just couldn't understand. I understood fine, I just wasn't interested in their simple answers.

Every year in the spring we have a festival. Of all the seasonal festivals we priests are responsible for throwing for our large village, the spring celebration is my favorite. I love the colors and fragrance of the flowers, and I was happy to work with the other priests spending weeks prior to the event twisting blooms on vines making long garlands to decorate the village. After many years of the same task repeatedly even a favorite thing can become unbearably routine.

During the winter of my 34th year of life I contracted pneumonia and died. Perhaps I was just so bored I needed an excuse. When the illness came around that year, I took advantage of the opportunity.