I was just a novice monk when I first saw the great snake.
At the time, our monastery stood on the edge of a forest in ancient India. The great teacher Buddha had passed into Parinirvana many years before, but his teachings—what we called the Dhamma—still guided us every day. My name is Pasanna, and I had left my family farm at the age of twelve to join the Sangha, the community of monks. I longed for peace and wisdom. But I was still young, and my mind often wandered. Every rustle of the trees felt like a distraction. That was until the snake came.
He was no ordinary snake. Thick as a man’s thigh, and nearly as long as a cart, his body glimmered with green and gold. One morning, while sweeping leaves outside the temple gate, I spotted him curled up against a rock, still and watchful. I froze in fear. But the snake only looked at me, blinking slowly, then slithered away without harm.
That evening, I told the elder monk, Venerable Sona. He was from the southern province, wise and calm like the sea before dawn. I expected him to warn me, to say, “Be careful. Kill it if you must.” But instead, he smiled gently.
“Ah,” he said, “the snake. He listens to the Dhamma too.”
I thought he was joking. “A snake, Venerable? Listening to sermons?”
“Even the wild become tame when bathed in compassion.”
He told me then the story—one preserved in the Vinaya Pitaka, a collection of teachings and rules for our order—about a snake who once disrupted the monastery gatherings. The monks feared him. But when the Buddha lived among them, he never turned the snake away. Instead, he taught with patience. The snake never harmed a single monk. Over time, it learned not just not to bite, but not to hiss, not to threaten, not to disturb. The Buddha had said to the snake, “You must not kill—but you also must not frighten.” And from then on, the snake lived nearby in harmony, no longer dangerous.
That night, I could not sleep. I kept thinking… if a mere snake could be tamed by the Dhamma, could I not also tame the wildness in my heart? My fear of failure? My anger when chores piled up? My envy when others advanced faster in their studies?
The next day, I returned to the rock with my offering bowl. The snake was there again. I bowed—not in worship, but in respect. He did not move. I sat beside him, under the rising sun, repeating what little of the Dhamma I had memorized. To my surprise, he stayed.
For days afterward, I continued my morning recitations by that rock. Other novices thought I had gone mad—until they, too, began to join. The snake became a quiet companion, curled like a question mark, listening.
I never tried to touch him. There was no need. He had no name, no desire, and no shrine—all he did was listen. But in doing so, he reminded me of everything I had forgotten: that mindfulness was more than sitting still. It was the courage to meet every creature—within and without—with calm and compassion.
I left the monastery many years later, traveling through new lands to teach what I could. People asked me, “What is the Dhamma?”
I always told them: “It is the stillness of a snake, beside a monk who once feared him—and the silence between them that became peace.”
That was the moment mindfulness became liberation.
I was just a novice monk when I first saw the great snake.
At the time, our monastery stood on the edge of a forest in ancient India. The great teacher Buddha had passed into Parinirvana many years before, but his teachings—what we called the Dhamma—still guided us every day. My name is Pasanna, and I had left my family farm at the age of twelve to join the Sangha, the community of monks. I longed for peace and wisdom. But I was still young, and my mind often wandered. Every rustle of the trees felt like a distraction. That was until the snake came.
He was no ordinary snake. Thick as a man’s thigh, and nearly as long as a cart, his body glimmered with green and gold. One morning, while sweeping leaves outside the temple gate, I spotted him curled up against a rock, still and watchful. I froze in fear. But the snake only looked at me, blinking slowly, then slithered away without harm.
That evening, I told the elder monk, Venerable Sona. He was from the southern province, wise and calm like the sea before dawn. I expected him to warn me, to say, “Be careful. Kill it if you must.” But instead, he smiled gently.
“Ah,” he said, “the snake. He listens to the Dhamma too.”
I thought he was joking. “A snake, Venerable? Listening to sermons?”
“Even the wild become tame when bathed in compassion.”
He told me then the story—one preserved in the Vinaya Pitaka, a collection of teachings and rules for our order—about a snake who once disrupted the monastery gatherings. The monks feared him. But when the Buddha lived among them, he never turned the snake away. Instead, he taught with patience. The snake never harmed a single monk. Over time, it learned not just not to bite, but not to hiss, not to threaten, not to disturb. The Buddha had said to the snake, “You must not kill—but you also must not frighten.” And from then on, the snake lived nearby in harmony, no longer dangerous.
That night, I could not sleep. I kept thinking… if a mere snake could be tamed by the Dhamma, could I not also tame the wildness in my heart? My fear of failure? My anger when chores piled up? My envy when others advanced faster in their studies?
The next day, I returned to the rock with my offering bowl. The snake was there again. I bowed—not in worship, but in respect. He did not move. I sat beside him, under the rising sun, repeating what little of the Dhamma I had memorized. To my surprise, he stayed.
For days afterward, I continued my morning recitations by that rock. Other novices thought I had gone mad—until they, too, began to join. The snake became a quiet companion, curled like a question mark, listening.
I never tried to touch him. There was no need. He had no name, no desire, and no shrine—all he did was listen. But in doing so, he reminded me of everything I had forgotten: that mindfulness was more than sitting still. It was the courage to meet every creature—within and without—with calm and compassion.
I left the monastery many years later, traveling through new lands to teach what I could. People asked me, “What is the Dhamma?”
I always told them: “It is the stillness of a snake, beside a monk who once feared him—and the silence between them that became peace.”
That was the moment mindfulness became liberation.
