I was only ten years old when I first heard the story of the mustard seed. My name is Sopa. I was born in the village of Rajagaha, a small place nestled between hills and dry rice fields. My father was a potter, and my mother sold rice cakes by the market gates. Life was ordinary, filled with the warm touch of clay and the smell of roasted grain—until my baby brother died.
His fever had come suddenly like a summer storm, and none of the herbs or chants helped. I remember my mother weeping quietly, her back turned to us, holding the small wrapped bundle against her chest.
We heard about the Buddha from passing monks. They said he taught the end of sorrow, that he had found a way beyond death itself. My mother wiped her tears and stood up. “If anyone can bring back your brother,” she said, “it would be him.”
So off we went to Jetavana, a large monastery near the city of Savatthi. Monks in orange robes walked in silence, carrying bowls and gentle eyes. We waited among the crowd while my mother cradled my brother’s lifeless body.
Finally, the Buddha came. He was calm like a still pond, with a gaze that looked through you and yet embraced you all the same. My mother fell to her knees. “Please, Great Teacher,” she cried. “Please bring my son back to life.”
The Buddha looked at her kindly and spoke in a voice soft and smooth. “Bring me one mustard seed,” he said, “from a household that has never known death.”
My mother, confused but filled with hope, rushed off into the village. I followed close behind.
At the first house, the old woman shook her head sadly. “My husband died last winter,” she said. The second house belonged to a merchant whose mother had passed away. The third, a soldier whose son had fallen in battle. Again and again, we were given mustard seeds, but no house was free from sorrow.
As we walked back to the monastery at sunset, my mother’s pace slowed, and her hands loosened their grip on the cloth-wrapped body. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks.
When we returned, the Buddha was seated under a tree. My mother sank before him.
“I found many mustard seeds,” she said, “but not a single home untouched by death.”
The Buddha nodded gently. “You are not alone in your suffering,” he said. “Death touches all who are born. But through mindfulness and compassion, we learn to let go.”
He spoke then of the mustard seed—not just as a plant, but as a symbol. He said even the smallest seed, when cared for, grows into a great tree that offers shelter to birds and shade to travelers. So too, can one moment of awakening grow into boundless peace.
My mother never spoke of bringing my brother back again. Instead, she took a vow of simplicity and service. In time, she joined the women who later composed verses in the Therigatha—poems of spiritual awakening by those who had once suffered deeply and then found peace in the Buddha's Dharma.
As for me, I tended our clay pots and learned to listen closely. I discovered that grief, like clay, could be shaped—not to hide sorrow, but to hold it gently.
That day, I saw what mindfulness could plant, and how compassion could grow from even the smallest seed.
I was only ten years old when I first heard the story of the mustard seed. My name is Sopa. I was born in the village of Rajagaha, a small place nestled between hills and dry rice fields. My father was a potter, and my mother sold rice cakes by the market gates. Life was ordinary, filled with the warm touch of clay and the smell of roasted grain—until my baby brother died.
His fever had come suddenly like a summer storm, and none of the herbs or chants helped. I remember my mother weeping quietly, her back turned to us, holding the small wrapped bundle against her chest.
We heard about the Buddha from passing monks. They said he taught the end of sorrow, that he had found a way beyond death itself. My mother wiped her tears and stood up. “If anyone can bring back your brother,” she said, “it would be him.”
So off we went to Jetavana, a large monastery near the city of Savatthi. Monks in orange robes walked in silence, carrying bowls and gentle eyes. We waited among the crowd while my mother cradled my brother’s lifeless body.
Finally, the Buddha came. He was calm like a still pond, with a gaze that looked through you and yet embraced you all the same. My mother fell to her knees. “Please, Great Teacher,” she cried. “Please bring my son back to life.”
The Buddha looked at her kindly and spoke in a voice soft and smooth. “Bring me one mustard seed,” he said, “from a household that has never known death.”
My mother, confused but filled with hope, rushed off into the village. I followed close behind.
At the first house, the old woman shook her head sadly. “My husband died last winter,” she said. The second house belonged to a merchant whose mother had passed away. The third, a soldier whose son had fallen in battle. Again and again, we were given mustard seeds, but no house was free from sorrow.
As we walked back to the monastery at sunset, my mother’s pace slowed, and her hands loosened their grip on the cloth-wrapped body. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks.
When we returned, the Buddha was seated under a tree. My mother sank before him.
“I found many mustard seeds,” she said, “but not a single home untouched by death.”
The Buddha nodded gently. “You are not alone in your suffering,” he said. “Death touches all who are born. But through mindfulness and compassion, we learn to let go.”
He spoke then of the mustard seed—not just as a plant, but as a symbol. He said even the smallest seed, when cared for, grows into a great tree that offers shelter to birds and shade to travelers. So too, can one moment of awakening grow into boundless peace.
My mother never spoke of bringing my brother back again. Instead, she took a vow of simplicity and service. In time, she joined the women who later composed verses in the Therigatha—poems of spiritual awakening by those who had once suffered deeply and then found peace in the Buddha's Dharma.
As for me, I tended our clay pots and learned to listen closely. I discovered that grief, like clay, could be shaped—not to hide sorrow, but to hold it gently.
That day, I saw what mindfulness could plant, and how compassion could grow from even the smallest seed.
