It had been like this since his arrival ten years ago, with no sign of stopping. Daily chores around the monastery: firewood that needed gathering, floors that needed to be swept, books that needed straightening. With days’ work done, he would transition to more esoteric pursuits. Thinking, talking, reading, dreaming about the worlds beyond.

He had come to the temple at the behest of his father, who always wanted a scholar in the family. Since his older brother had to serve in the army, it was up to him to learn at the feet of the masters, but he never felt a wellspring of wisdom, no epiphany carrying him off to the higher planes where he could be.

In the forest, he sighed, his hatchet felling the tree and as it crashed to the ground, he stopped, noticing its rings. He counted the years it had seen, the decades it had lived. Those decades were his, as they were the elder monks’ and the world’s. He smiled and broke it down into logs.

His enlightenment was thus: Before, chopping wood. After, chopping wood.