A Full Cup of Tea

On a late autumn afternoon, pale golden sunlight streamed through a small window, illuminating dust motes floating in the stillness. Zen master Nan In sat before a tea table, his slender hands lifting a fired clay teapot, steam rising in a gentle haze. Facing him was a university professor, a middle-aged man with thick glasses, a neatly pressed black suit, and a face full of confidence and pride.

The professor had spent many years studying books, philosophy, and science. He had come with a certain attitude: he wanted to learn about Zen, but he also wanted to prove that his vast knowledge could illuminate every mystery. He believed that with just a few words, he could grasp the essence of Zen.

Zen master Nan In said nothing. He quietly poured tea into his guest's cup. The clear green liquid flowed steadily, its soft murmur filling the quiet room. When the cup was full to the brim, he kept pouring. The tea overflowed, spreading across the wooden table and soaking the cloth beneath it.

The professor watched, at first trying to remain calm, but when the tea began dripping onto the floor, he could no longer contain himself. He burst out, his voice tinged with irritation:

"It's full! Please, stop pouring!"

Zen master Nan In paused, set down the teapot, and looked the professor straight in the eye. He spoke in a warm, penetrating voice:

"Like this cup, you are full of your own opinions and ideas. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?"

The professor was stunned. He looked at the tea flowing across the table, then looked within himself. He suddenly realized that for so many years, he had clung to too much knowledge, too many preconceptions, leaving no empty space to receive anything new. He bowed his head and remained silent for a long while.