I was sixteen when I first saw her—an old woman wrapped in a simple saffron robe, sitting silently under the Bodhi tree. Her back was straight, her eyes closed, and her lips moved only with breath. Around her, the noise of the city rose and fell—merchants shouting, children laughing, carts rumbling by. But she remained still, like a river that had reached the sea.
I was a novice monk in the great city of Savatthi, the capital of the ancient Kosala kingdom. Our monastery was known for its learned elders and wise teachers, but more often, I learned from the people I met. One day, my curiosity overcame my manners. I asked the abbot, “Who is that woman who always waits in silence beneath the tree?”
He looked at me softly and replied, “Ah, that is Bhikkhuni Soma. Long ago, she saw the world change in the blink of an eye. She once walked the path of suffering all the way to its end. Sit by her long enough, and you may learn what words cannot teach.”
So the next day, I did just that.
For many mornings, I sat near her, waiting. Not once did she open her eyes or speak. I grew restless. I wanted stories, lessons, beautiful phrases like the ones the elder monks spoke. But the days passed with only her breath and the sound of birds.
One afternoon, when the sun was gentle and golden, I cried out in frustration, “Why do you say nothing? What is there to learn in all this silence?”
At last, she opened her eyes. They were deep and calm, like lakes untouched by wind. “O child,” she said quietly, “when I was your age, I lost a husband and three sons to a fever that came like fire and left like smoke. I screamed at the gods, cursed karma, and wept until the world had no more water for my tears. But in time, I met the Blessed One, the Buddha. He told me that crying would not bring back my family, and blaming the world would not end my pain. Only by seeing the truth, by knowing that all things rise and fall with karma, could I be free.”
Her voice was soft, but it trembled with power.
“I thought detachment meant turning cold. But no—it means understanding that everything changes. Nothing belongs to us. The sorrow I carried melted, not because I forgot, but because I no longer clung to what was gone. I waited in silence because that was how I learned to listen—not with ears, but with heart.”
She closed her eyes again, and I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.
From that day, I returned often. I stopped waiting for words. The silence became a mirror for my own restless mind. Slowly, I began to see things differently—not all at once, but like stars appearing one by one in the sky.
I grew older. Many things changed. Kingdoms rose and fell, loved ones came and went, but I never forgot her. And now, I too sit beneath the tree, in silence—not lost, but found.
In her stillness, Bhikkhuni Soma taught me the greatest truth: that wisdom does not always come from speaking, but sometimes, in the waiting.
I was sixteen when I first saw her—an old woman wrapped in a simple saffron robe, sitting silently under the Bodhi tree. Her back was straight, her eyes closed, and her lips moved only with breath. Around her, the noise of the city rose and fell—merchants shouting, children laughing, carts rumbling by. But she remained still, like a river that had reached the sea.
I was a novice monk in the great city of Savatthi, the capital of the ancient Kosala kingdom. Our monastery was known for its learned elders and wise teachers, but more often, I learned from the people I met. One day, my curiosity overcame my manners. I asked the abbot, “Who is that woman who always waits in silence beneath the tree?”
He looked at me softly and replied, “Ah, that is Bhikkhuni Soma. Long ago, she saw the world change in the blink of an eye. She once walked the path of suffering all the way to its end. Sit by her long enough, and you may learn what words cannot teach.”
So the next day, I did just that.
For many mornings, I sat near her, waiting. Not once did she open her eyes or speak. I grew restless. I wanted stories, lessons, beautiful phrases like the ones the elder monks spoke. But the days passed with only her breath and the sound of birds.
One afternoon, when the sun was gentle and golden, I cried out in frustration, “Why do you say nothing? What is there to learn in all this silence?”
At last, she opened her eyes. They were deep and calm, like lakes untouched by wind. “O child,” she said quietly, “when I was your age, I lost a husband and three sons to a fever that came like fire and left like smoke. I screamed at the gods, cursed karma, and wept until the world had no more water for my tears. But in time, I met the Blessed One, the Buddha. He told me that crying would not bring back my family, and blaming the world would not end my pain. Only by seeing the truth, by knowing that all things rise and fall with karma, could I be free.”
Her voice was soft, but it trembled with power.
“I thought detachment meant turning cold. But no—it means understanding that everything changes. Nothing belongs to us. The sorrow I carried melted, not because I forgot, but because I no longer clung to what was gone. I waited in silence because that was how I learned to listen—not with ears, but with heart.”
She closed her eyes again, and I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.
From that day, I returned often. I stopped waiting for words. The silence became a mirror for my own restless mind. Slowly, I began to see things differently—not all at once, but like stars appearing one by one in the sky.
I grew older. Many things changed. Kingdoms rose and fell, loved ones came and went, but I never forgot her. And now, I too sit beneath the tree, in silence—not lost, but found.
In her stillness, Bhikkhuni Soma taught me the greatest truth: that wisdom does not always come from speaking, but sometimes, in the waiting.
