Leather Sandals and Unburdened Steps

In the late afternoon at the meditation monastery, sunlight slanted through the door cracks, casting long beams across the old tiled floor. A young monk sat on the porch, his worn sandals broken at the strap, held together only by a piece of string. He looked down at his feet, then up to see a lay Buddhist visitor from the North, whose own sandals were equally torn.

Life was poor in those days, so owning a pair of leather sandals was a source of great joy. In the monastery, each person had only one sleeping mat; they slept on top and stored their few personal belongings underneath. The young monk remembered that his senior brother possessed a brand-new pair of leather sandals kept under the mat, never once worn. No one knew who had given them, but the senior monk simply left them there without saying a word.

The young monk sat in contemplation. He understood the nature of his senior brother, who lived simply and clung to nothing. Although he had new sandals, the senior monk did not wear them because he did not consider them his own property. Looking at the lay visitor, then toward the senior monk’s room, a thought arose: “Should I take those sandals for the visitor?” Yet doubt followed immediately: “Will my senior brother be angry? These are his things.”

He stood up and entered the room. His hands trembled slightly as he lifted the cover of the sleeping mat. There lay the leather sandals, still shiny and new. Holding them, his heart filled with hesitation. “If my senior brother returns and finds them missing, he will surely ask. What shall I say?” But then he recalled how his senior brother lived: never harsh in speech, never guarding possessions. With a sigh, he made his decision.

He brought the sandals out and offered them to the lay visitor. “Please take these,” he said gently. “They are still new, and they will spare your feet from pain.” The visitor was surprised, accepting them with repeated thanks. The young monk merely smiled, adding no further words.

A short while later, the senior monk returned. He entered his room and noticed the mat cover open, the sandals gone. The young monk, feeling anxious, approached him. “Senior brother,” he said, “I took your leather sandals and gave them to the lay visitor.”

The senior monk turned, looked at his junior, and smiled. There was not a single word of reproach, nor a hint of irritation. It was just a gentle smile, as if everything were perfectly normal, as if those sandals had never belonged to him at all.

The young monk stood there, his heart lightened. He realized that living with someone who has truly let go, free from selfishness, brings genuine happiness. There is no need for conflict, no worry, no caution. Everything flows naturally, like the breath itself.

**The Meaning of the Story**

A bodhisattva practices the perfection of generosity not through mere habit, but through direct realization. When the mind has attained enlightenment, altruistic tendencies completely replace self-centeredness, making giving natural and free from regret. Living with such a person, we do not have to contend with selfishness, but instead enjoy the tranquility of unconditional love.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Most Venerable Thich Chan Quang