The rain had just begun to fall, soft and steady, when I stepped onto the stone path to sweep away the fallen leaves. I was a novice monk back then—no older than thirteen—sent by my teacher to tend to the courtyard before evening prayers. My name is Pema, and though you won’t find that name in any great scroll, what I witnessed that afternoon stayed with me long after the robes grew old on my back.
The monastery sat high in the hills of ancient Kosala, a kingdom ruled long ago when the Buddha still walked the earth, sharing the Dharma—that is, the truth about suffering and the path beyond it. Our temple was small, nestled between two cedar-covered slopes, and the stone path that led from the prayer hall to the water well was worn smooth by the footsteps of generations who had lived before me.
That day, I noticed a frog on the stone path, one leg twisted oddly beneath it. It was trying to hop away from the puddles, but it couldn't. Its body shook with effort, and I could see the fear in its black, unblinking eyes.
I stood there with my broom, unsure. Should I help, or was this nature’s way? I remembered what Venerable Tissa had taught us earlier that week. He was an elder monk, once a merchant from Varanasi until he gave up all his gold to follow the Buddha’s way. Tissa taught us about equanimity—the patience of mind that stays balanced through joy and sorrow, wealth and loss.
“Attachment, even to kindness, must be guided by wisdom,” he had said.
But I didn’t feel wise. I only knew the frog was suffering.
I slowly knelt beside it. “Little one,” I whispered, reaching out carefully. “I won't harm you.” Gently, I scooped it up and carried it to the side of the path, placing it beneath a leafy bush for cover. The frog breathed heavily, but it was safe for now.
Just as I stood, the Abbot appeared—Venerable Rahula, named after the Buddha’s own son. He had walked the Middle Way for over forty years and was known for his deep silence and smiling eyes.
“You chose compassion,” he said after a pause, watching as I looked nervously his way.
“Did I choose rightly?” I asked.
He nodded. “Compassion supported by mindfulness is always right action. You acted without pride or panic. That, Pema, is the Middle Way.”
Later that night, as raindrops tapped softly on the monastery roof, I lay awake thinking. Before that day, I believed that being a good monk meant following rules perfectly. But I began to see that understanding the Dharma wasn’t about wrapping myself in logic or fear of making mistakes. It meant seeing each moment clearly—seeing the frog, the rain, the path beneath my feet—as fleeting, empty of self, yet full of meaning.
The frog was not my enemy nor my pet. It was just a being, like me, trying to live.
I still walk that stone path today, though many years have passed and many frogs have come and gone. But that rain-soaked moment remains with me—not as a memory of action, but of awakening.
And in each step that echoes across the stone, I am reminded: true wisdom doesn’t shout. Sometimes, it simply listens.
The rain had just begun to fall, soft and steady, when I stepped onto the stone path to sweep away the fallen leaves. I was a novice monk back then—no older than thirteen—sent by my teacher to tend to the courtyard before evening prayers. My name is Pema, and though you won’t find that name in any great scroll, what I witnessed that afternoon stayed with me long after the robes grew old on my back.
The monastery sat high in the hills of ancient Kosala, a kingdom ruled long ago when the Buddha still walked the earth, sharing the Dharma—that is, the truth about suffering and the path beyond it. Our temple was small, nestled between two cedar-covered slopes, and the stone path that led from the prayer hall to the water well was worn smooth by the footsteps of generations who had lived before me.
That day, I noticed a frog on the stone path, one leg twisted oddly beneath it. It was trying to hop away from the puddles, but it couldn't. Its body shook with effort, and I could see the fear in its black, unblinking eyes.
I stood there with my broom, unsure. Should I help, or was this nature’s way? I remembered what Venerable Tissa had taught us earlier that week. He was an elder monk, once a merchant from Varanasi until he gave up all his gold to follow the Buddha’s way. Tissa taught us about equanimity—the patience of mind that stays balanced through joy and sorrow, wealth and loss.
“Attachment, even to kindness, must be guided by wisdom,” he had said.
But I didn’t feel wise. I only knew the frog was suffering.
I slowly knelt beside it. “Little one,” I whispered, reaching out carefully. “I won't harm you.” Gently, I scooped it up and carried it to the side of the path, placing it beneath a leafy bush for cover. The frog breathed heavily, but it was safe for now.
Just as I stood, the Abbot appeared—Venerable Rahula, named after the Buddha’s own son. He had walked the Middle Way for over forty years and was known for his deep silence and smiling eyes.
“You chose compassion,” he said after a pause, watching as I looked nervously his way.
“Did I choose rightly?” I asked.
He nodded. “Compassion supported by mindfulness is always right action. You acted without pride or panic. That, Pema, is the Middle Way.”
Later that night, as raindrops tapped softly on the monastery roof, I lay awake thinking. Before that day, I believed that being a good monk meant following rules perfectly. But I began to see that understanding the Dharma wasn’t about wrapping myself in logic or fear of making mistakes. It meant seeing each moment clearly—seeing the frog, the rain, the path beneath my feet—as fleeting, empty of self, yet full of meaning.
The frog was not my enemy nor my pet. It was just a being, like me, trying to live.
I still walk that stone path today, though many years have passed and many frogs have come and gone. But that rain-soaked moment remains with me—not as a memory of action, but of awakening.
And in each step that echoes across the stone, I am reminded: true wisdom doesn’t shout. Sometimes, it simply listens.
