You wouldn’t find my name in any scroll, but I stood among the reeds the morning the Buddha approached the lotus pond. I was a young stable boy then, no more than twelve rains old, sweeping the courtyard of Jetavana Monastery where the Blessed One taught.
Many came from villages near and far to hear the Buddha speak. Some brought fruit, others flowers, hoping perhaps their offerings might gain them blessings or wisdom. I had no offering, just my broom and sore arms. Still, I listened from the shadows, drawn not by the promise of miracles, but by the gentleness in his words.
That morning, a group of monks stood with him by the edge of a muddy pond. The waters were thick with silt, swarming with insects, and the smell wasn’t pleasant. A few lotus flowers blossomed despite it—pure white, rising above the filth.
The Buddha, known as Siddhartha Gautama before he became awakened, was once a prince who had abandoned his palace, wealth, and family in search of answers to life’s deepest suffering. He wandered many lands and sat beneath the Bodhi tree until he understood that suffering comes not from what the world gives but from how tightly we hold onto our desires.
He turned then to the monks gathered around him, pointing to a single lotus rising above the muck.
“See how the lotus blooms, untouched by the dirty water below?” he said. “It grows from the mud, and yet it is not stained by it.”
The monks nodded, but I leaned in closer, hoping to truly understand.
“One who practices mindfulness and detachment,” the Buddha continued in his deep, calm voice, “is like this lotus. Though surrounded by the world’s sorrow, they do not let it cling to them. Their hearts remain pure.”
A silence fell across the group, filled only by the croak of frogs and the soft flutter of dragonflies. He walked toward the edge, his robe brushing the reeds, and knelt beside the muddy water. He cupped his hand around the base of the lotus, showing its roots tangled deep in the thickest grime.
“Do not fear the mud,” he said gently, “for from it, wisdom grows.”
Later that day, while carrying water back to the stables, my foot slipped and my jar fell, spilling into the mud. I scowled, ready to curse my clumsiness. But then I looked down and saw another small lotus budding near the edge. I remembered his words.
That’s when I understood—my anger, my impatience, my shame—it was all mud. If I dwelled in it, I’d sink like a stone. But if I could learn to stand, to breathe, to let go, maybe I, too, could blossom.
Years passed. I never became a monk, but I practiced as best I could—watching my breath, helping whoever needed help, speaking with kindness. I cleaned stables, cooked rice, and studied the Dharma whenever traveling monks passed through.
Now, as an old man, when children ask me where I learned wisdom, I smile and point to the lotus pond outside Jetavana.
“That,” I say, “is where a flower in the mud taught me to rise.”
And that day, I rose—not from mud, but from ignorance. Mindfulness became my root, compassion my bloom, and detachment my stem. And though life has never been spotless, I have never let it stain me.
You wouldn’t find my name in any scroll, but I stood among the reeds the morning the Buddha approached the lotus pond. I was a young stable boy then, no more than twelve rains old, sweeping the courtyard of Jetavana Monastery where the Blessed One taught.
Many came from villages near and far to hear the Buddha speak. Some brought fruit, others flowers, hoping perhaps their offerings might gain them blessings or wisdom. I had no offering, just my broom and sore arms. Still, I listened from the shadows, drawn not by the promise of miracles, but by the gentleness in his words.
That morning, a group of monks stood with him by the edge of a muddy pond. The waters were thick with silt, swarming with insects, and the smell wasn’t pleasant. A few lotus flowers blossomed despite it—pure white, rising above the filth.
The Buddha, known as Siddhartha Gautama before he became awakened, was once a prince who had abandoned his palace, wealth, and family in search of answers to life’s deepest suffering. He wandered many lands and sat beneath the Bodhi tree until he understood that suffering comes not from what the world gives but from how tightly we hold onto our desires.
He turned then to the monks gathered around him, pointing to a single lotus rising above the muck.
“See how the lotus blooms, untouched by the dirty water below?” he said. “It grows from the mud, and yet it is not stained by it.”
The monks nodded, but I leaned in closer, hoping to truly understand.
“One who practices mindfulness and detachment,” the Buddha continued in his deep, calm voice, “is like this lotus. Though surrounded by the world’s sorrow, they do not let it cling to them. Their hearts remain pure.”
A silence fell across the group, filled only by the croak of frogs and the soft flutter of dragonflies. He walked toward the edge, his robe brushing the reeds, and knelt beside the muddy water. He cupped his hand around the base of the lotus, showing its roots tangled deep in the thickest grime.
“Do not fear the mud,” he said gently, “for from it, wisdom grows.”
Later that day, while carrying water back to the stables, my foot slipped and my jar fell, spilling into the mud. I scowled, ready to curse my clumsiness. But then I looked down and saw another small lotus budding near the edge. I remembered his words.
That’s when I understood—my anger, my impatience, my shame—it was all mud. If I dwelled in it, I’d sink like a stone. But if I could learn to stand, to breathe, to let go, maybe I, too, could blossom.
Years passed. I never became a monk, but I practiced as best I could—watching my breath, helping whoever needed help, speaking with kindness. I cleaned stables, cooked rice, and studied the Dharma whenever traveling monks passed through.
Now, as an old man, when children ask me where I learned wisdom, I smile and point to the lotus pond outside Jetavana.
“That,” I say, “is where a flower in the mud taught me to rise.”
And that day, I rose—not from mud, but from ignorance. Mindfulness became my root, compassion my bloom, and detachment my stem. And though life has never been spotless, I have never let it stain me.
