You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there, seated quietly near the riverbank when the Blessed One—Gautama Buddha, the awakened teacher from the Shakya clan—spoke of the drifting log.
It was near the Ganges, where the trees bent low in humility and the soft gurgle of water made the world feel still. I was a young novice then, barely fifteen summers old, and I carried with me more questions than answers. I longed to understand the path to awakening—the letting go, the non-self, the depth of what lay beyond just chanting and rituals. But I was stuck within my mind, lost in thoughts, wondering if I was good enough, pure enough, wise enough.
We were gathered beneath a thick bodhi tree, and the air smelled of wet earth. The Master raised his hand and pointed to a log gently floating down the river. All of us turned to watch it shift and sway in the current.
"Bikkhus," he said—he often used this term when addressing us monks, though I still felt so unworthy of the title—"do you see that log drifting down the river?"
We all nodded.
"Just like that log floating downstream, a person practicing the path must not cling to the left bank nor the right. If the log gets caught on either shore, sinks, is taken by men, rots from within, or is destroyed by devouring insects, it will never reach the ocean."
He paused. My eyes followed the log as it refused to fight the river—it didn’t grab onto branches or try to go uphill. It just moved with the flow.
"But venerable sir," I asked, my voice cracking, "what is the meaning of the two banks? What are the insects and the rot inside?"
The Buddha smiled gently, a smile that didn’t shine like gold but like the moon—soft and quiet.
"The two banks are the pull of desire and the weight of ignorance. One seeks the thrill of pleasure; the other hides from truth. These will trap you. The insects are the wrong views gnawing at your understanding. The rot is when anger and delusion turn your heart bitter. If you are taken by others—perhaps a distraction or a loud teacher craving followers—you are not walking your own path."
I froze. It felt like he had exposed my heart. I had clung to pride in ritual, fearing I would never awaken as others did. I chased approval instead of truth. Everything he listed—I had been all of them.
“Let the river carry you,” he said. “Let go of striving. Let go of resisting. If one truly practices, free from all attachment and clinging, like the log moving with the current, they will reach the sea—Nirvana, the end of suffering.”
That evening, under the pale sky, birds flying home, I sat alone beneath the tree and wept—not out of despair, but because a tight knot had been untied inside me. I began to feel it then—the truth of 'anatta,' or non-self—not as an idea but as a release. I wasn’t this name, this fear, or even this body. I was a log on the river. And I needed to stop trying to paddle upriver with my ego.
I walked away from the river that day, not as the same boy who had arrived. I had seen in the drifting log the outline of my own release. I had felt the curve of the current and, at last, I was ready to trust it.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there, seated quietly near the riverbank when the Blessed One—Gautama Buddha, the awakened teacher from the Shakya clan—spoke of the drifting log.
It was near the Ganges, where the trees bent low in humility and the soft gurgle of water made the world feel still. I was a young novice then, barely fifteen summers old, and I carried with me more questions than answers. I longed to understand the path to awakening—the letting go, the non-self, the depth of what lay beyond just chanting and rituals. But I was stuck within my mind, lost in thoughts, wondering if I was good enough, pure enough, wise enough.
We were gathered beneath a thick bodhi tree, and the air smelled of wet earth. The Master raised his hand and pointed to a log gently floating down the river. All of us turned to watch it shift and sway in the current.
"Bikkhus," he said—he often used this term when addressing us monks, though I still felt so unworthy of the title—"do you see that log drifting down the river?"
We all nodded.
"Just like that log floating downstream, a person practicing the path must not cling to the left bank nor the right. If the log gets caught on either shore, sinks, is taken by men, rots from within, or is destroyed by devouring insects, it will never reach the ocean."
He paused. My eyes followed the log as it refused to fight the river—it didn’t grab onto branches or try to go uphill. It just moved with the flow.
"But venerable sir," I asked, my voice cracking, "what is the meaning of the two banks? What are the insects and the rot inside?"
The Buddha smiled gently, a smile that didn’t shine like gold but like the moon—soft and quiet.
"The two banks are the pull of desire and the weight of ignorance. One seeks the thrill of pleasure; the other hides from truth. These will trap you. The insects are the wrong views gnawing at your understanding. The rot is when anger and delusion turn your heart bitter. If you are taken by others—perhaps a distraction or a loud teacher craving followers—you are not walking your own path."
I froze. It felt like he had exposed my heart. I had clung to pride in ritual, fearing I would never awaken as others did. I chased approval instead of truth. Everything he listed—I had been all of them.
“Let the river carry you,” he said. “Let go of striving. Let go of resisting. If one truly practices, free from all attachment and clinging, like the log moving with the current, they will reach the sea—Nirvana, the end of suffering.”
That evening, under the pale sky, birds flying home, I sat alone beneath the tree and wept—not out of despair, but because a tight knot had been untied inside me. I began to feel it then—the truth of 'anatta,' or non-self—not as an idea but as a release. I wasn’t this name, this fear, or even this body. I was a log on the river. And I needed to stop trying to paddle upriver with my ego.
I walked away from the river that day, not as the same boy who had arrived. I had seen in the drifting log the outline of my own release. I had felt the curve of the current and, at last, I was ready to trust it.
