I was just a boy of twelve, my sandals worn smooth by the stone paths of Rajagaha, the ancient city where even the wind seemed to whisper wisdom. My father, a potter, sent me to fetch water from the nearby stream that flowed quietly beyond the monastery of the Buddha. I didn’t know much about monks or teachings—only that ever since the ascetic sage named Siddhartha Gautama had visited the city, the world around me felt calmer, even if I didn’t fully understand why.
That morning, the sun hadn’t yet touched the tops of the palm trees when I reached the stream. Its water danced around stones and roots as it always had, light and free. I splashed my face and bent down with my clay jug. That’s when I saw him—a monk sitting on a large, flat stone near the edge of the stream, still as a mountain, eyes closed, face serene.
I recognized his saffron robes. He belonged to the followers of the Buddha, the Awakened One. The monk didn’t move, didn’t even seem to notice me. I was about to leave when a small leaf floated down and landed beside him. It brushed his hand, but he did not flinch.
Curious, I sat nearby. Minutes passed, then hours. He sat in perfect silence. A bird landed nearby and sang its song. A squirrel dashed across his foot. Nothing stirred him. I was just a noisy-minded boy, but something about his stillness reminded me of the stream itself—flowing, unbothered, content.
Finally, when I could no longer resist my hunger, I made a sound. “Sir?” My voice came out in a whisper, unsure if I should disturb him.
He opened his eyes slowly, like a flower unfolding at dawn. “Ah,” he said gently, “you have been watching the stream?”
I nodded. My voice cracked. “You didn’t move… Not even once.”
He smiled. “And yet, the stream flowed by, didn’t it? Full of sound, but without grasping. That is the Way.”
I didn’t understand. “But it’s just water. What does that have to do with people?”
“The stone you see in the middle of that stream,” he said, pointing to the large one with water rushing around it, “resists the flow. It tries to stay unmoved. But see what happens? The water wears it down.”
I nodded again.
“But the stream—it moves freely. It holds no self, no desire to remain one thing. It simply flows, welcoming all, clinging to nothing.”
“And that’s better?” I asked.
He laughed softly. “It is not better or worse. It is free. Like our thoughts, like our self. What you call ‘you’—that too can flow, if you let it go.”
That made my head ache with confusion. “But… if I let it go, then what’s left?”
He reached down and cupped a handful of wet earth. “From earth, a pot is made.” He opened his hand, and the soil spilled back to the ground. “But the earth was never the pot—just what we shaped."
“You are not your name,” he said. “Not your fears. Not even your thoughts. You are like the stream. When you stop trying to control it, your suffering disappears.”
I didn’t completely understand those words then. But I remember walking home that afternoon with the sunlight warm on my back, the jug of water cool in my arms, and my mind strangely… lighter.
Years later, I returned to that stone by the stream. The monk was gone, as all things pass. But I sat where he had sat. And for the first time, I listened—not with my ears, but with silence.
And in that silence, I heard the truth:
The stream flows. The stone wears away. But the one who lets go is free.
I was just a boy of twelve, my sandals worn smooth by the stone paths of Rajagaha, the ancient city where even the wind seemed to whisper wisdom. My father, a potter, sent me to fetch water from the nearby stream that flowed quietly beyond the monastery of the Buddha. I didn’t know much about monks or teachings—only that ever since the ascetic sage named Siddhartha Gautama had visited the city, the world around me felt calmer, even if I didn’t fully understand why.
That morning, the sun hadn’t yet touched the tops of the palm trees when I reached the stream. Its water danced around stones and roots as it always had, light and free. I splashed my face and bent down with my clay jug. That’s when I saw him—a monk sitting on a large, flat stone near the edge of the stream, still as a mountain, eyes closed, face serene.
I recognized his saffron robes. He belonged to the followers of the Buddha, the Awakened One. The monk didn’t move, didn’t even seem to notice me. I was about to leave when a small leaf floated down and landed beside him. It brushed his hand, but he did not flinch.
Curious, I sat nearby. Minutes passed, then hours. He sat in perfect silence. A bird landed nearby and sang its song. A squirrel dashed across his foot. Nothing stirred him. I was just a noisy-minded boy, but something about his stillness reminded me of the stream itself—flowing, unbothered, content.
Finally, when I could no longer resist my hunger, I made a sound. “Sir?” My voice came out in a whisper, unsure if I should disturb him.
He opened his eyes slowly, like a flower unfolding at dawn. “Ah,” he said gently, “you have been watching the stream?”
I nodded. My voice cracked. “You didn’t move… Not even once.”
He smiled. “And yet, the stream flowed by, didn’t it? Full of sound, but without grasping. That is the Way.”
I didn’t understand. “But it’s just water. What does that have to do with people?”
“The stone you see in the middle of that stream,” he said, pointing to the large one with water rushing around it, “resists the flow. It tries to stay unmoved. But see what happens? The water wears it down.”
I nodded again.
“But the stream—it moves freely. It holds no self, no desire to remain one thing. It simply flows, welcoming all, clinging to nothing.”
“And that’s better?” I asked.
He laughed softly. “It is not better or worse. It is free. Like our thoughts, like our self. What you call ‘you’—that too can flow, if you let it go.”
That made my head ache with confusion. “But… if I let it go, then what’s left?”
He reached down and cupped a handful of wet earth. “From earth, a pot is made.” He opened his hand, and the soil spilled back to the ground. “But the earth was never the pot—just what we shaped."
“You are not your name,” he said. “Not your fears. Not even your thoughts. You are like the stream. When you stop trying to control it, your suffering disappears.”
I didn’t completely understand those words then. But I remember walking home that afternoon with the sunlight warm on my back, the jug of water cool in my arms, and my mind strangely… lighter.
Years later, I returned to that stone by the stream. The monk was gone, as all things pass. But I sat where he had sat. And for the first time, I listened—not with my ears, but with silence.
And in that silence, I heard the truth:
The stream flows. The stone wears away. But the one who lets go is free.
