The Zen Bucket
A Zen Koan.
A new monastery was to be opened, and the master Hyakujo had to decide which of his monks should be put in charge. So he called the monks together, filled a bucket with water, and said to them — "Which one of you can say what this is without giving its name?"
The chief monk, who was expected to be given the job, spoke first — "It stands upright, it’s hollow inside, but it is not a wooden shoe" — he said.
Another monk replied to the question as well — "It is not a pond, because it can be carried."
Then the cook, the lowest of the monks, arose, walked over to the bucket, and kicked it over. The water spilled out onto the floor.
Hyakujo gave him the job.
Oh this is deliciously Zen. A reminder that the universe doesn't hand out enlightenment for clever metaphors or articulate nonsense. The cook didn’t just answer the question — he annihilated it. While the senior monks were busy intellectualizing a bucket into oblivion, the cook walked up and drop-kicked duality in the teeth.
Hyakujo wasn’t looking for someone who could describe reality — he wanted someone who could cut through it. And that’s the real kicker (pun fully intended): true insight isn’t always poetic. Sometimes it’s messy, disruptive, and absolutely soaked in spilled water.
Moral of the story?
Next time life hands you a metaphorical bucket…
Kick it.