My father was a miner and couldn't even afford a coffin when he died.
On the day my mother remarried, I squatted in the mud at the entrance of the village and counted ants.
An old Taoist priest in ragged clothes passed by and glanced at me:
"My child, you have good bones. Come with me."
I said, "Are you in charge of the food?"
He said: "No matter."
Later I learned that there were only three leaky houses, two acres of thin fields, and one broken pot in that broken Taoist temple.
Master said: "When you practice, you must first cultivate your mind. If you practice on an empty stomach, you will cultivate the fastest."
Three hundred years later, I stood under the Nantian Gate.
The heavenly soldiers blocked the way: "Where are the loose cultivators who break into the heaven without permission?"
I pointed at the hundreds of thousands of monks behind me:
"My master said that when you ascend, you need to be more grand.
