The sun had just risen over the distant hills of Jetavana, casting golden light upon the walls of the monastery where the Buddha and his disciples had gathered. I was a young samanera then—a novice monk eager to learn, but too easily shaken by the sadness of the world. You won’t find my name in any scroll, for I was just one of many who followed the Great Teacher. Still, there was a morning I remember so clearly, when the meaning of detachment finally made sense.
An elderly monk sat quietly under the Bodhi tree, weeping with his shoulders trembling. His name was Vakkali, once a nobleman who left behind luxury to seek truth. Vakkali had been sick for many days, and though he remained faithful to the teachings, something tormented him from within.
Word of his pain spread quickly through the monastery. Soon, Shakyamuni Buddha himself—the Enlightened One, who had given up a life of riches to find the path to freedom from suffering—approached the old monk with the same calm presence he always carried. All sound quieted around them, except for the rustling of leaves and soft breathing of those who watched.
The Buddha sat beside Vakkali, and the crowd stepped back with respect. I stood behind the tree, peeking from the shadows.
“Why do you cry, venerable one?” the Buddha asked gently.
Vakkali looked up with weary eyes and answered, “Lord, I have followed your teachings for many years. I devoted my life to the Dhamma. But as my body weakens, I fear I will not see you before I die. I fear... I will not find rebirth in a good place.”
The Buddha remained quiet for a moment. Then, with warmth like sunlight, he placed a hand on the monk’s shoulder.
“Vakkali,” he said, “he who sees the Dhamma, sees me. You need not look upon my body to be close to me. Attachment to form, to this body, is not the path. It is by seeing Truth, by living rightly, that you have already come near what I am.”
The words settled over the gathering like petals falling from a lotus. I felt the breath catch in my chest—so simple, yet so vast in meaning. The Buddha was teaching us that it is not the presence of a person we should cling to, but the understanding of the truth they showed us.
Vakkali wiped his tears. I saw his face soften, his sorrow vanish like morning mist. His worry about death, about being close to the Buddha, had come from holding too tightly to the idea of self and form. Now, he had let go.
That night, Vakkali passed peacefully. His heart had found clarity. He was no longer afraid.
I sat under that same Bodhi tree, thinking of his tears—tears that taught me the truth cannot be touched or seen with eyes, but with wisdom.
That day, I realized detachment was not about turning away from love or kindness. It was about freeing the heart from fear—of loss, of separation, of self. And in that freedom, rebirth was no longer a worry, but a door to new understanding.
I walked back to my cell changed. Lighter. As if I had let go of a heavy stone that I hadn’t even noticed I’d been carrying. From then on, the Dhamma became more than words to me—it became the path beneath my feet.
The sun had just risen over the distant hills of Jetavana, casting golden light upon the walls of the monastery where the Buddha and his disciples had gathered. I was a young samanera then—a novice monk eager to learn, but too easily shaken by the sadness of the world. You won’t find my name in any scroll, for I was just one of many who followed the Great Teacher. Still, there was a morning I remember so clearly, when the meaning of detachment finally made sense.
An elderly monk sat quietly under the Bodhi tree, weeping with his shoulders trembling. His name was Vakkali, once a nobleman who left behind luxury to seek truth. Vakkali had been sick for many days, and though he remained faithful to the teachings, something tormented him from within.
Word of his pain spread quickly through the monastery. Soon, Shakyamuni Buddha himself—the Enlightened One, who had given up a life of riches to find the path to freedom from suffering—approached the old monk with the same calm presence he always carried. All sound quieted around them, except for the rustling of leaves and soft breathing of those who watched.
The Buddha sat beside Vakkali, and the crowd stepped back with respect. I stood behind the tree, peeking from the shadows.
“Why do you cry, venerable one?” the Buddha asked gently.
Vakkali looked up with weary eyes and answered, “Lord, I have followed your teachings for many years. I devoted my life to the Dhamma. But as my body weakens, I fear I will not see you before I die. I fear... I will not find rebirth in a good place.”
The Buddha remained quiet for a moment. Then, with warmth like sunlight, he placed a hand on the monk’s shoulder.
“Vakkali,” he said, “he who sees the Dhamma, sees me. You need not look upon my body to be close to me. Attachment to form, to this body, is not the path. It is by seeing Truth, by living rightly, that you have already come near what I am.”
The words settled over the gathering like petals falling from a lotus. I felt the breath catch in my chest—so simple, yet so vast in meaning. The Buddha was teaching us that it is not the presence of a person we should cling to, but the understanding of the truth they showed us.
Vakkali wiped his tears. I saw his face soften, his sorrow vanish like morning mist. His worry about death, about being close to the Buddha, had come from holding too tightly to the idea of self and form. Now, he had let go.
That night, Vakkali passed peacefully. His heart had found clarity. He was no longer afraid.
I sat under that same Bodhi tree, thinking of his tears—tears that taught me the truth cannot be touched or seen with eyes, but with wisdom.
That day, I realized detachment was not about turning away from love or kindness. It was about freeing the heart from fear—of loss, of separation, of self. And in that freedom, rebirth was no longer a worry, but a door to new understanding.
I walked back to my cell changed. Lighter. As if I had let go of a heavy stone that I hadn’t even noticed I’d been carrying. From then on, the Dhamma became more than words to me—it became the path beneath my feet.
