There’s this story of a traveling Buddhist monk, who was sent off from the monastery with one bag and told never to open it until it became too much.
“Fine,” he thought to himself. “More mumbo jumbo. I hate this place anyway.”
He began to walk down the mountain, through the most beautiful meadows, the most luscious pine forests, streams laughed and sparkled at him, but…
“Why does this mountain smell like shit?!!”
At the bottom of the mountain he stopped among the simple huts of some village. He dropped the bag to rest.
“Eugh. Smells like shit.”
So he went on wards to another village, more sophisticated than the last with cobbled streets, buildings built much higher. But that too stunk to high heaven.
And on wards and on wards he went, still complaining of the smell of shit.
It wasn’t until after several years had passed that he decided to open the bag.
He found shit.
What do you think this story is a metaphor for?