The monk

On a hill in the Far East, the winds howl and ice gathers on cold mornings on rocks outside the walls of a monastery. This monastery was like any another in many ways: the maroon and yellow robed monks, some pupils and some teachers each submitting himself entirely to the Buddha.
In this monastery, lived this monk. He was a pupil who was given the task of weaving. So everyday, this monk said his daily prayers and then sat down to weave.
On many occasions he would wonder why all he was given was yellow yarn. All day and for many hours into the night, he would weave the yellow yarn, till one day he could take it no more.
He decided to question. He explained how he felt about the yellow yarn and told his teacher that he did not want to do this job anymore.
The teacher gently smiled at him and asked if he was sure, to which he gets an affirmative reply.
“Come with me”, and the monk followed.
The teacher led him into a room and told him, “ I will show you that which you have been weaving all along”, and with this pointed at a painting of the Buddha. An intricate work of art which overflowed with a sense of peace. And the Buddha had the glow of a halo around him, in yellow.
The reason I was reminded of this story is because sometimes many of are swept by this overwhelming feeling of being lost in a huge tide. Like a bird flying in a blue sky without the little compass in its head. This huge feeling of being incapable of saying nothing other than ' I dunno'.
And as we cry and laugh and get netteled and overwhelmed and feel lost and insignificant, there just might be a plan for all of us. An invisible painting we trace stroke by stroke.