tenpo ni la mi pilin ike.
tenpo pini la mi pilin pakala.
tenpo kama la mi pilin monsuta.
In the present I feel pain. About the past I feel suffering. About the future I feel fear. — Toki Ponist Pu
These are the words as recovered from the awoken well:
telo kon li anpa la, telo kon li telo e jan sona ale.
jan sona wan li jan Sipi. ona li open e supa pi telo kon.
tenpo suno pini la, jan sona ante li toki ike tawa jan Sipi. ona li toki e ni: sina lon tenpo ni ala.
jan Sipi li toki e ni:
mi lukin e telo kon.
tenpo ale li lon tenpo ni.
Here follows a relaxed translation:
In front of a temple, a long line of gurus are meditating. Then it starts to rain. All gurus become wet. One of them, Tipi, flicks open an umbrella. The next day, the others scorn him. You were not living in the present. Tipi said: “I remember being sick, I foresaw the rain, and all time is present.”
We like to think that when we look for inspiration we fill our own cup. With every book we read or series or film we watch or game we play or theory we hear a podcast about, we imagine a pitcher of our own creativity slowly filling up waiting for that moment when it is harvesting time. Or in this anlogy, pouring out the cocktail.
How painful is it then, to realize when you sit down with your empty glass ready to fill it with your own concocted drink, that the pitcher is still empty. Instead of filling up the pitcher we have filled up the insulating layer between the outer and inner container. From the outside the pitcher looks filled, but it is only a thin layer insulating the outside world with your inner imagination.
In response, we often resort by trying to fill up even more.
Read a newer koan (The word for water cannot wash anything.)
Read an older koan (If talking is hard, speak softly.)