The wind that day whispered like old monks chanting beneath Bodhi trees. I was thirteen, and my name was Nanda. My father and I were traveling acrobats—Bamboo Acrobats, we called ourselves. We had spent our lives walking tightropes strung between stalks of bamboo in village squares. Each morning, we would rise with the sun, train our breath, our balance, and our minds.
My father, Ananda—not to be confused with the Buddha’s cousin—was an artist of the rope. He could walk it with his eyes closed, turning somersaults and landing in stillness. His face was always calm, his steps light, yet grounded. I asked him once how he never seemed to fear falling.
He looked at me and said, “If your focus is on yourself, your mind stays quiet. But when your focus wanders—to the coin you want from the crowd, or even to me—you begin to wobble.”
I didn’t understand it then.
One market day, we performed in the village of Sāvatthī, near the renowned Jetavana Monastery where the Buddha himself often taught. Travelers had come from different lands to see us. Father strung the bamboo poles high, and the rope stretched tight. I climbed to meet him, heart racing like wild horses in my chest. The sun hung above, bright and unblinking.
“Today,” my father said softly as we balanced opposite each other, “focus on your breath. I will watch you, but you must watch yourself.”
I nodded, shaky.
We stepped forward, each barefoot touch pressing into the rope. Wind brushed my arms. Below, children gasped and old men whispered blessings. My mind flickered. What if I fall? What will the crowd think?
Halfway across, I looked at my father—just to be sure he was steady.
That was my mistake.
My foot slipped.
The world tilted.
But in that moment, my father leapt toward me. He grabbed my arm and, with impossible grace, swung us both to the safety net below. We landed hard, hearts pounding.
Later that night, I sat beside him, ashamed.
“Why did you look at me?” he asked gently.
“I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
He smiled. “Compassion is good, my son. But never forget, we must be mindful of our own balance before we can help others.”
We stayed at Jetavana for weeks after that. We listened to the disciples of the Buddha reciting his teachings. One monk told us a story—of another Bamboo Acrobat, from long ago, who taught his student this same lesson: Watch your own steps carefully, and by doing so, you help others too.
That teaching sank deep into me.
As I grew older, I performed less and meditated more. I became a monk myself at nineteen, exchanging ropes for robes. I came to see that life itself is a kind of tightrope—delicate, full of unknown winds.
We can love others, help others, and not cling.
We can walk with mindful steps, without fear.
Now as an old monk, I teach the young novices what my father taught me: Be mindful of your own heart and mind. Only then can you truly offer compassion to another.
Each day, we practice walking in silence, not on bamboo ropes— but along the narrow path that leads to truth.
And though the crowds are gone, the balancing act continues.
The wind that day whispered like old monks chanting beneath Bodhi trees. I was thirteen, and my name was Nanda. My father and I were traveling acrobats—Bamboo Acrobats, we called ourselves. We had spent our lives walking tightropes strung between stalks of bamboo in village squares. Each morning, we would rise with the sun, train our breath, our balance, and our minds.
My father, Ananda—not to be confused with the Buddha’s cousin—was an artist of the rope. He could walk it with his eyes closed, turning somersaults and landing in stillness. His face was always calm, his steps light, yet grounded. I asked him once how he never seemed to fear falling.
He looked at me and said, “If your focus is on yourself, your mind stays quiet. But when your focus wanders—to the coin you want from the crowd, or even to me—you begin to wobble.”
I didn’t understand it then.
One market day, we performed in the village of Sāvatthī, near the renowned Jetavana Monastery where the Buddha himself often taught. Travelers had come from different lands to see us. Father strung the bamboo poles high, and the rope stretched tight. I climbed to meet him, heart racing like wild horses in my chest. The sun hung above, bright and unblinking.
“Today,” my father said softly as we balanced opposite each other, “focus on your breath. I will watch you, but you must watch yourself.”
I nodded, shaky.
We stepped forward, each barefoot touch pressing into the rope. Wind brushed my arms. Below, children gasped and old men whispered blessings. My mind flickered. What if I fall? What will the crowd think?
Halfway across, I looked at my father—just to be sure he was steady.
That was my mistake.
My foot slipped.
The world tilted.
But in that moment, my father leapt toward me. He grabbed my arm and, with impossible grace, swung us both to the safety net below. We landed hard, hearts pounding.
Later that night, I sat beside him, ashamed.
“Why did you look at me?” he asked gently.
“I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
He smiled. “Compassion is good, my son. But never forget, we must be mindful of our own balance before we can help others.”
We stayed at Jetavana for weeks after that. We listened to the disciples of the Buddha reciting his teachings. One monk told us a story—of another Bamboo Acrobat, from long ago, who taught his student this same lesson: Watch your own steps carefully, and by doing so, you help others too.
That teaching sank deep into me.
As I grew older, I performed less and meditated more. I became a monk myself at nineteen, exchanging ropes for robes. I came to see that life itself is a kind of tightrope—delicate, full of unknown winds.
We can love others, help others, and not cling.
We can walk with mindful steps, without fear.
Now as an old monk, I teach the young novices what my father taught me: Be mindful of your own heart and mind. Only then can you truly offer compassion to another.
Each day, we practice walking in silence, not on bamboo ropes— but along the narrow path that leads to truth.
And though the crowds are gone, the balancing act continues.
