I was just a novice then—not yet a full monk. My name is Dhammaja, which means “born of the Dhamma,” though I had not yet lived up to it. I came from the eastern city of Rajagaha, where my parents ran a modest pottery shop. At sixteen, I left everything behind—family, wealth, the familiar smell of clay and fire—to enter the monastic life. I believed I would find peace in silence, wisdom in detachment, and answers in meditation. But nothing prepared me for the night the sky fell open.
It was the full moon retreat, a sacred time when monks gathered to recite our rules—the Vinaya—taught by the Buddha to keep our path clear. That year, heavy rains had swelled the rivers beyond their banks. Thunder shook the monastery as palm trees bent under the weight of the wind. The water had started to rise early in the evening, filling the low valley where our kuti huts stood.
I had taken shelter in the upper meditation hall with Bhante Sīlava, an elder monk who rarely spoke but whose presence calmed even the wildest storms. Most of the others had gone to help secure the small village below. I burned to go with them, to do something—anything—but Sīlava simply raised a finger and said, “Stay.”
So I stayed.
The hours passed. Rain poured like it had something to say. I sat on the cold stone floor and watched Bhante Sīlava sit cross-legged, his back straight, eyes closed. He didn’t flinch at the cracks of thunder or the screaming wind. At first, I was angry. Why was he doing nothing? Didn’t he care? Somewhere, people could be drowning, homes ruined... karma unraveling for hundreds of people.
But then I looked closer.
Bhante Sīlava wasn’t doing nothing. He was practicing the deepest form of compassion—stillness in the face of chaos. His mind stood calm like a mountain, unmoved. No craving to run to the storm. No thoughts of fear or favorites. Just awareness. Just breath. Just the present moment. He was teaching—even without speaking.
Then, I noticed my own heart. It was loud. Raging like the storm outside—wanting to act, to fix, to control. I was attached to the idea of being “useful,” clinging to the belief that my actions were needed for the world to spin rightly. Bhante Sīlava had let go. He was the Middle Way made visible—not indulgent in action, not lost in retreat. Balanced.
Eventually, the storm passed.
In the morning, we ventured down. The village had been spared the worst. The others had worked tirelessly through the night, and no one was hurt. Bhante Sīlava said nothing, but he placed a hand on my shoulder. That was enough.
I learned that night that detachment does not mean not caring—it means not clinging. The storm taught me more than any scroll ever could. I had come wanting wisdom, and in the quiet, I found it.
I left the hall the next morning no longer just a novice. I had taken a step onto the true path—not toward escape, but toward equanimity. It was the night I asked for nothing—and received everything.
I was just a novice then—not yet a full monk. My name is Dhammaja, which means “born of the Dhamma,” though I had not yet lived up to it. I came from the eastern city of Rajagaha, where my parents ran a modest pottery shop. At sixteen, I left everything behind—family, wealth, the familiar smell of clay and fire—to enter the monastic life. I believed I would find peace in silence, wisdom in detachment, and answers in meditation. But nothing prepared me for the night the sky fell open.
It was the full moon retreat, a sacred time when monks gathered to recite our rules—the Vinaya—taught by the Buddha to keep our path clear. That year, heavy rains had swelled the rivers beyond their banks. Thunder shook the monastery as palm trees bent under the weight of the wind. The water had started to rise early in the evening, filling the low valley where our kuti huts stood.
I had taken shelter in the upper meditation hall with Bhante Sīlava, an elder monk who rarely spoke but whose presence calmed even the wildest storms. Most of the others had gone to help secure the small village below. I burned to go with them, to do something—anything—but Sīlava simply raised a finger and said, “Stay.”
So I stayed.
The hours passed. Rain poured like it had something to say. I sat on the cold stone floor and watched Bhante Sīlava sit cross-legged, his back straight, eyes closed. He didn’t flinch at the cracks of thunder or the screaming wind. At first, I was angry. Why was he doing nothing? Didn’t he care? Somewhere, people could be drowning, homes ruined... karma unraveling for hundreds of people.
But then I looked closer.
Bhante Sīlava wasn’t doing nothing. He was practicing the deepest form of compassion—stillness in the face of chaos. His mind stood calm like a mountain, unmoved. No craving to run to the storm. No thoughts of fear or favorites. Just awareness. Just breath. Just the present moment. He was teaching—even without speaking.
Then, I noticed my own heart. It was loud. Raging like the storm outside—wanting to act, to fix, to control. I was attached to the idea of being “useful,” clinging to the belief that my actions were needed for the world to spin rightly. Bhante Sīlava had let go. He was the Middle Way made visible—not indulgent in action, not lost in retreat. Balanced.
Eventually, the storm passed.
In the morning, we ventured down. The village had been spared the worst. The others had worked tirelessly through the night, and no one was hurt. Bhante Sīlava said nothing, but he placed a hand on my shoulder. That was enough.
I learned that night that detachment does not mean not caring—it means not clinging. The storm taught me more than any scroll ever could. I had come wanting wisdom, and in the quiet, I found it.
I left the hall the next morning no longer just a novice. I had taken a step onto the true path—not toward escape, but toward equanimity. It was the night I asked for nothing—and received everything.
