A Priceless Gift from a Bygone Era

The evening shadows stretched long over the thatched roofs of a remote village. The north winter wind howled through the cracks in the doors, carrying a cold that cut to the bone and the creaking of dry bamboo gates. Inside a small, pitch-dark house, only the flickering glow of a charcoal stove lit the weathered face of Mr. Tu. He sat hugging his knees, his sunken eyes gazing out at the empty courtyard where the night was swallowing everything.

In those days, life was simple to the point of tedium. No telephones, no internet, no books or newspapers. The belly needed rice, but the head — the human brain — also needed its own kind of "food," and without it, the mind would fall into turmoil. That food was knowledge, was information. Each day, a person had to learn something new, even the smallest thing. Otherwise, absolute silence would become an enemy, pushing people into states of stress, frustration, even madness.

Mr. Tu sighed, his fingers stroking an unlit pipe. He remembered evenings like this one, years ago, when he was younger and full of energy. Back then, he could not sit still. A restlessness, an unease, would gnaw at his heart. He would stand up, brush the dust from his clothes, and step out of the house with a single purpose: to find someone to talk to.

In this remote countryside, transportation was limited. Traveling from the hamlet to the district was an epic journey, taking an entire day. So the nearest "source of information" was one's neighbors. They shared the same circumstances, the same worries about daily survival, yet each carried a different story.

Mr. Tu stopped at the house of Mrs. Bay, a middle-aged woman famous in the hamlet for her gift of gossip and her extraordinary memory for rumors. She was weaving bamboo on the porch, and seeing him, she called out:

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Tu! I was just about to come to your house. I have wonderful news — worth more than gold!"

Mr. Tu's heart quickened a beat. Curiosity — the spiritual survival instinct of humankind — awakened all his senses. He hurried over, pulled up a small stool beside Mrs. Bay, and asked eagerly:

"What is it? Tell me! All day I've heard nothing but the wind and rain."

Mrs. Bay lowered her voice, glancing around to see if anyone was eavesdropping, then began with theatrical flair:

"They say Mr. Hai's buffalo across the river was snatched by a tiger. But here's the strange thing — this morning, enormous tiger tracks were found right in front of his chicken coop, not in the forest. People are whispering... it may be because he keeps too many wild cats, drawing wild beasts to his home..."

Mr. Tu listened intently, committing every small detail to memory. For him, this story was not merely entertainment. It was "knowledge," proof that the world outside was still moving, that events still unfolded. It made his brain feel "nourished," freeing him from stagnation and isolation. Fairy tales, and the true or false rumors of that era, were truly priceless gifts. They were passed from mouth to mouth, edited and embellished with each retelling to become more plausible and more captivating. It was precisely these "gifts" that bound the community together and kept each person's mind alert.

But now, in an air-conditioned room in a great city, Minh — a young office worker — sat before the pale blue glow of a phone screen. He did not need to wait for a neighbor. Information chased him automatically. Advertisements, social news, short videos — everything flooded in like a torrent. He scrolled through Facebook endlessly, eyes glued to the screen, thumb swiping without pause.

Minh believed he was feeding his brain in the most efficient way. In reality, he had fallen into the trap of overload. His brain was crammed with countless jumbled pieces of information, most of it negative or inflammatory. The vital energy in his body, which should settle into the lower abdomen (the root yin) to maintain stability, was being drawn upward into his head, concentrated in his eyes and his overworked brain.

Suddenly, Minh felt dizzy, his heart racing erratically. A violent headache struck, accompanied by nausea. He dropped the phone and clutched his head, groaning. His parents, of an older generation, looked at him with worry mixed with helplessness. They could not understand how a child who merely sat still, doing no heavy labor, could become so exhausted and ill so quickly. They did not know that the very "smartphone" — the tool connecting him to the whole world — was the weapon killing his inner peace.

Unlike Mr. Tu of old, who received only a few stories each day and had time to digest them, Minh was bombarded by hundreds, thousands of fragments of news every hour. His brain could not keep up, leading to nervous disorders, insomnia, and declining memory. His "root yin" — the foundational energy of life — was gradually depleted, replaced by relentless stress and anxiety.

## The Meaning of the Story

This contrast between two eras clarifies the true nature of the brain's need for information. In the past, information was scarce, so every story told was a "gift worth more than gold," helping people maintain psychological balance. Today, information is abundant and often toxic, overloading the brain, driving energy up into the head and depleting the "root yin" (inner vitality), leading to neurological illness, insomnia, and exhaustion. The lesson is that modern people must learn to "calm the mind," control the amount of information they take in, and practice meditative concentration to return their energy to a state of balance, protecting both physical and mental health.

Adapted from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang