It had not rained in weeks. The sun baked the dusty road as we traveled with weary feet and parched lips. My name is Ananda, cousin and devoted attendant to the Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama—the Enlightened One. At this time, we were journeying through the land of Kosala, spreading his teachings of the Middle Way—living between extreme luxury and painful self-denial. The heat shimmered across the plains, and our robes clung to us with sweat.
At midday, too weak to continue, we paused beside an empty well. It was once deep and filled with water, but now only cracked mud lay at the bottom. The villagers had long since gone elsewhere for their needs. I turned to the Buddha, his calm face serene as always. Even in the biting heat, he looked peaceful, as if his mind was somewhere beyond the suffering that surrounded us.
“Lord,” I said, my voice dry and brittle. “There is no water. Let me go search for another well.”
The Buddha raised his hand gently. “Let us sit and wait, Ananda.” His voice did not waver. “Some truths must come in silence.”
Confused but obedient, I did as he asked. We sat down beneath the withered shade of a lone tree. My thoughts raced—how would we survive this heat without water? How could waiting at an empty well change anything?
As time passed, I watched insects scurry across the earth, leaves fluttering in the hot breeze, and the Buddha, completely still. Hours passed. Then, from the distance came the sound of wheels creaking and oxen grunting.
A caravan approached. Merchants, their carts piled high with goods, stopped nearby. One of them rushed over, eyes wide when he saw the Buddha.
“Master!” he cried, bowing. “It is you! Just last season, I heard you speak at Rajagaha. You taught about letting go—how clinging leads to suffering. That teaching saved my brother from ruin.”
Moved, the man offered a flask of clear water and a seat in his cart. “Please, take what you need. Anything I have is yours.”
The Buddha accepted the water but handed it first to me.
I had expected a miracle—but the miracle had already happened. In silence, the Buddha taught me the value of patience, of not rushing to force things, of trusting the path. Where I sought water through effort, he found it through stillness. He had let go of the fear, the desire to act out of panic. And in that space—help came.
Later, the caravan moved on. The well was still dry. But I no longer felt parched. Something inside had shifted.
The Buddha stood, his feet brushing the dust.
“Ananda,” he said, “emptiness has much to teach, if one learns to stop filling it.”
That day, I understood the Middle Way—not from doctrine, but from a dry well and a still heart. I followed the Buddha not just as a cousin or a disciple, but as one beginning to realize that true liberation comes not from control, but from letting go.
And from that empty well, I was filled.
It had not rained in weeks. The sun baked the dusty road as we traveled with weary feet and parched lips. My name is Ananda, cousin and devoted attendant to the Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama—the Enlightened One. At this time, we were journeying through the land of Kosala, spreading his teachings of the Middle Way—living between extreme luxury and painful self-denial. The heat shimmered across the plains, and our robes clung to us with sweat.
At midday, too weak to continue, we paused beside an empty well. It was once deep and filled with water, but now only cracked mud lay at the bottom. The villagers had long since gone elsewhere for their needs. I turned to the Buddha, his calm face serene as always. Even in the biting heat, he looked peaceful, as if his mind was somewhere beyond the suffering that surrounded us.
“Lord,” I said, my voice dry and brittle. “There is no water. Let me go search for another well.”
The Buddha raised his hand gently. “Let us sit and wait, Ananda.” His voice did not waver. “Some truths must come in silence.”
Confused but obedient, I did as he asked. We sat down beneath the withered shade of a lone tree. My thoughts raced—how would we survive this heat without water? How could waiting at an empty well change anything?
As time passed, I watched insects scurry across the earth, leaves fluttering in the hot breeze, and the Buddha, completely still. Hours passed. Then, from the distance came the sound of wheels creaking and oxen grunting.
A caravan approached. Merchants, their carts piled high with goods, stopped nearby. One of them rushed over, eyes wide when he saw the Buddha.
“Master!” he cried, bowing. “It is you! Just last season, I heard you speak at Rajagaha. You taught about letting go—how clinging leads to suffering. That teaching saved my brother from ruin.”
Moved, the man offered a flask of clear water and a seat in his cart. “Please, take what you need. Anything I have is yours.”
The Buddha accepted the water but handed it first to me.
I had expected a miracle—but the miracle had already happened. In silence, the Buddha taught me the value of patience, of not rushing to force things, of trusting the path. Where I sought water through effort, he found it through stillness. He had let go of the fear, the desire to act out of panic. And in that space—help came.
Later, the caravan moved on. The well was still dry. But I no longer felt parched. Something inside had shifted.
The Buddha stood, his feet brushing the dust.
“Ananda,” he said, “emptiness has much to teach, if one learns to stop filling it.”
That day, I understood the Middle Way—not from doctrine, but from a dry well and a still heart. I followed the Buddha not just as a cousin or a disciple, but as one beginning to realize that true liberation comes not from control, but from letting go.
And from that empty well, I was filled.
