You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there in the village of Venuvana, where monks gathered and the air itself seemed to carry the scent of stillness. I wasn’t a monk—not yet. I was thirteen, the son of Tosha the potter, and every morning before I delivered the bowls he crafted, I lingered near the monastery gates, fascinated by the saffron-robed men inside.
Venerable Kausala was the elder of that temple, a monk with silver hair and eyes so peaceful, even the birds quieted when he walked the path. He had once been a nobleman in Kosala, but gave up his wealth in search of something no coin could buy: awakening. I was drawn to him. He never raised his voice, yet when he spoke, people listened—not out of fear, but out of reverence.
One morning, after assisting my father with the kiln, I ran barefoot to the temple, carrying a finely glazed alms bowl. It had a swirling indigo rim—beautiful work that Baba was proud of. As I handed it to Kausala, my fingers stumbled. The bowl fell, shattered on the stones.
I froze. My mouth went dry. This wasn’t just a bowl—it was honoring the monastery, a symbol of our family's offering. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I can fix it. I can tell Baba—”
But Kausala only looked at the broken pieces, then at me. He smiled. “Do you hear it?”
I frowned. “Hear what?”
“The silence,” he said softly. “The bowl is gone. It served its use. Now, in its quiet, it teaches.”
I didn’t understand. I expected rebuke. Instead, he sat on the ground beside the shards and gestured for me to join him.
“There is a story,” he began, “a very old one. Long before even the Buddha, in one of his past lives as a Bodhisattva, he was a monk who ate from a gifted alms bowl. One day, it slipped from his hands and broke. The other monks waited to see his sorrow. But he simply smiled and said, ‘The bowl is gone. It was meant to go.’ He was free—because he was not bound by the things of this world.”
“You’re not… angry?” I asked.
“Why should I chain my peace to clay?” he said. “Detachment does not mean we do not care—it means we are not owned by what we care for.”
That moment changed me. I began helping at the monastery, sweeping leaves, listening to the Dharma talks. Slowly, I learned that mindfulness was not silence—it was awareness. That compassion was not pity—it was connection without possession. And that detachment did not mean turning away—it meant standing in the world, but not being trapped by it.
Years later, I became a monk myself. My head was shaved, my robe was humble, and my bowl—though simple—was my only possession. One evening, my own bowl cracked while resting on a tree stump. The wind breathed through its fracture.
I smiled.
I walked away from that forest not as the boy who once wept over clay, but as one who had learned that true peace is not in having, but in accepting the loss with gratitude, and in hearing the silent teachings—as old as time itself—within the breaking.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there in the village of Venuvana, where monks gathered and the air itself seemed to carry the scent of stillness. I wasn’t a monk—not yet. I was thirteen, the son of Tosha the potter, and every morning before I delivered the bowls he crafted, I lingered near the monastery gates, fascinated by the saffron-robed men inside.
Venerable Kausala was the elder of that temple, a monk with silver hair and eyes so peaceful, even the birds quieted when he walked the path. He had once been a nobleman in Kosala, but gave up his wealth in search of something no coin could buy: awakening. I was drawn to him. He never raised his voice, yet when he spoke, people listened—not out of fear, but out of reverence.
One morning, after assisting my father with the kiln, I ran barefoot to the temple, carrying a finely glazed alms bowl. It had a swirling indigo rim—beautiful work that Baba was proud of. As I handed it to Kausala, my fingers stumbled. The bowl fell, shattered on the stones.
I froze. My mouth went dry. This wasn’t just a bowl—it was honoring the monastery, a symbol of our family's offering. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I can fix it. I can tell Baba—”
But Kausala only looked at the broken pieces, then at me. He smiled. “Do you hear it?”
I frowned. “Hear what?”
“The silence,” he said softly. “The bowl is gone. It served its use. Now, in its quiet, it teaches.”
I didn’t understand. I expected rebuke. Instead, he sat on the ground beside the shards and gestured for me to join him.
“There is a story,” he began, “a very old one. Long before even the Buddha, in one of his past lives as a Bodhisattva, he was a monk who ate from a gifted alms bowl. One day, it slipped from his hands and broke. The other monks waited to see his sorrow. But he simply smiled and said, ‘The bowl is gone. It was meant to go.’ He was free—because he was not bound by the things of this world.”
“You’re not… angry?” I asked.
“Why should I chain my peace to clay?” he said. “Detachment does not mean we do not care—it means we are not owned by what we care for.”
That moment changed me. I began helping at the monastery, sweeping leaves, listening to the Dharma talks. Slowly, I learned that mindfulness was not silence—it was awareness. That compassion was not pity—it was connection without possession. And that detachment did not mean turning away—it meant standing in the world, but not being trapped by it.
Years later, I became a monk myself. My head was shaved, my robe was humble, and my bowl—though simple—was my only possession. One evening, my own bowl cracked while resting on a tree stump. The wind breathed through its fracture.
I smiled.
I walked away from that forest not as the boy who once wept over clay, but as one who had learned that true peace is not in having, but in accepting the loss with gratitude, and in hearing the silent teachings—as old as time itself—within the breaking.
