Essence of remembering

There was this old monk and each day around noon, once his morning prayers were done, he would step out of his monastery and walk about the streets gently urging people to fill his wooden bowl.

I often watched him from my window and I still remember I used to be very intrigued by this really peculiar habit of his. As he walked about the streets he would often stop for a while and stick his finger out and wave his hand about as if he was writing something in the air. And then every once in a while instead of writing things in the air he would instead dig into his bag and pull out a little book and a pencil and then meticulously write something in it.

One day I asked him about it and he said that he was getting old and he didn't trust his memory any more so he wrote every thing down. So now every time somebody yelled at him he would promptly stick his hand out and write in the air about how that person was nasty to him, and when someone said a kind word he would promptly pull his book and write in it how that person was nice to him.

Wily old monk !!!