I was just a young boy, eleven years old, the son of a potter, when I first heard the words that changed my life. My father and I lived in a small village near Rajagaha, where the roads were hard and dusty, lined with tiny huts made of clay. My job was simple—shape the wet earth and fire the pots in the kiln. I liked watching how the fire danced, how it could turn something soft and muddy into something strong.
One day, a group of monks walked past our home, wearing robes the color of saffron. Their leader, a kind-looking man with steady eyes and a calm smile, stopped to speak with my father. He was known as the Buddha, which means "The Awakened One." I did not know much about him then—only that he had once been a prince, named Siddhartha Gautama, but had left everything behind to find the path out of suffering.
That evening, people from the village gathered under a Bodhi tree, where the Buddha often taught. I sat close to the front, heart hammering in my chest. He began gently, sharing a teaching that has stayed in my heart ever since: the Parable of the Lamp Flame.
He told us, “Just as a lamp burns, its flame clinging not to the air, nor the oil, nor the wick—but still shining because of all three—a wise person must not cling to form, feeling, or thoughts. Yet, together, these make the light of awareness.”
I watched the lamp he held—a small clay one, like the ones my father and I made every day. The flame rose without holding onto anything. It just… glowed. I didn’t understand it fully then, but something in those words settled deep in my chest, like a gentle wind puffing into a quiet fire I didn’t know was there.
Over the next few weeks, I returned to the Buddha’s talks whenever I could. He welcomed anyone who wished to listen—farmers, merchants, children, even beggars. He taught that the way to peace was not through force or riches, but through mindfulness, compassion, and letting go.
One day, I asked him, “Venerable One, what happens if the flame goes out?”
He smiled warmly. “Then there is peace. Like a storm fading into stillness. When the flame clings to nothing, it reaches release. This is Nirvana—a state beyond all suffering.”
That answer stayed with me for years. As I grew older, shaped more pots, and eventually became a monk myself, I often remembered the lamp flame. I watched my own thoughts like flickers of fire—rising, dancing, fading. I learned not to chase after them or grasp them too tightly.
It took time, but slowly, the teachings transformed my heart. I no longer grew angry when someone broke a pot or insulted our work. I saw how clinging to pride, or fear, was like trying to hold on to the flame with bare hands. It only burned more.
The flame taught me to listen—not just with ears, but with awareness. It revealed that liberation begins when we stop clinging. And it all started with a simple moment under the Bodhi tree, watching a tiny lamp glow in the Buddha’s hands.
That day, I didn’t just learn a lesson. I found a path.
I was just a young boy, eleven years old, the son of a potter, when I first heard the words that changed my life. My father and I lived in a small village near Rajagaha, where the roads were hard and dusty, lined with tiny huts made of clay. My job was simple—shape the wet earth and fire the pots in the kiln. I liked watching how the fire danced, how it could turn something soft and muddy into something strong.
One day, a group of monks walked past our home, wearing robes the color of saffron. Their leader, a kind-looking man with steady eyes and a calm smile, stopped to speak with my father. He was known as the Buddha, which means "The Awakened One." I did not know much about him then—only that he had once been a prince, named Siddhartha Gautama, but had left everything behind to find the path out of suffering.
That evening, people from the village gathered under a Bodhi tree, where the Buddha often taught. I sat close to the front, heart hammering in my chest. He began gently, sharing a teaching that has stayed in my heart ever since: the Parable of the Lamp Flame.
He told us, “Just as a lamp burns, its flame clinging not to the air, nor the oil, nor the wick—but still shining because of all three—a wise person must not cling to form, feeling, or thoughts. Yet, together, these make the light of awareness.”
I watched the lamp he held—a small clay one, like the ones my father and I made every day. The flame rose without holding onto anything. It just… glowed. I didn’t understand it fully then, but something in those words settled deep in my chest, like a gentle wind puffing into a quiet fire I didn’t know was there.
Over the next few weeks, I returned to the Buddha’s talks whenever I could. He welcomed anyone who wished to listen—farmers, merchants, children, even beggars. He taught that the way to peace was not through force or riches, but through mindfulness, compassion, and letting go.
One day, I asked him, “Venerable One, what happens if the flame goes out?”
He smiled warmly. “Then there is peace. Like a storm fading into stillness. When the flame clings to nothing, it reaches release. This is Nirvana—a state beyond all suffering.”
That answer stayed with me for years. As I grew older, shaped more pots, and eventually became a monk myself, I often remembered the lamp flame. I watched my own thoughts like flickers of fire—rising, dancing, fading. I learned not to chase after them or grasp them too tightly.
It took time, but slowly, the teachings transformed my heart. I no longer grew angry when someone broke a pot or insulted our work. I saw how clinging to pride, or fear, was like trying to hold on to the flame with bare hands. It only burned more.
The flame taught me to listen—not just with ears, but with awareness. It revealed that liberation begins when we stop clinging. And it all started with a simple moment under the Bodhi tree, watching a tiny lamp glow in the Buddha’s hands.
That day, I didn’t just learn a lesson. I found a path.
