"You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there when silence taught louder than words."
It happened many years ago, when I was a novice monk in a quiet forest monastery on the edge of the Himalayas. I was just twelve—sent to the monastery by my father, a farmer who believed a life of peace was better than one of plowing rocky fields. My days were filled with chanting, sweeping leaves, and learning the teachings of the Buddha. Everything was calm, but inside, I churned with frustration. I didn’t understand why we were not allowed to cry, laugh out loud, or even speak unless necessary. “Stillness is strength,” the elder monks would say. But to me, silence felt weak.
Then came the story of Bhuridatta, a monk of great wisdom. One evening, as the full moon rose and bathed the lotus pond with silvery light, our teacher, Venerable Tissa, gathered us in the meditation hall. Venerable Tissa was no ordinary monk. He had studied under some of the oldest masters in the eastern kingdoms and once spent three years meditating alone in a cave. When he spoke, we listened.
He lit a single oil lamp and began, “Long ago, in one of his many lives, the Buddha was born as a monk who lived near a peaceful pond. He had studied the Dharma deeply and knew the secret to freedom was not in action, but in letting go.”
The monk in the story lived in a simple hut by the water, and each day after his morning alms round, he would sit silently beside the pond, gazing into its still surface. He did not chase fame or comfort. He simply observed the reflection of the moon every night—soft, white, and unwavering in the water.
One night, a thief came running through the forest, chased by villagers. Seeing the monk by the pond, the thief shouted, “Have you seen anyone run by?”
The monk simply pointed toward the path. The thief ran off. Moments later, the villagers arrived, asking the same. The monk, calm as ever, pointed in the opposite direction. Confused, they ran another way. Later, when asked why he had misled people, he said, “I was silent for many years, but in that moment, I spoke the truth of the Dharma—not with words, but with compassion.”
We were all puzzled. But Venerable Tissa looked out at the pond beyond the open windows and said, “The monk protected life—not through noise or battle, but through presence. Like the moon’s reflection, he remained untouched by chaos. That is Dharma.”
I didn’t understand until weeks later, when another novice spilled a bowl of rice on my robe during breakfast. My first thought was anger. But then I remembered the quiet monk beside the pond, and without saying a word, I stood, cleaned my robe, and helped him tidy up the mess.
That night, sitting beneath the moon, I stared at its reflection dancing on the pond’s surface. No matter how many ripples disturbed it, the moon remained whole.
That was the moment I finally understood. Stillness wasn’t weakness. It was strength rooted in wisdom. It meant seeing without grasping, responding without clinging.
I walked back into the monastery halls lighter than ever. I no longer needed to shout, to prove, or to demand. I had found something more powerful than noise.
I had found the heart of the Dharma.
"You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there when silence taught louder than words."
It happened many years ago, when I was a novice monk in a quiet forest monastery on the edge of the Himalayas. I was just twelve—sent to the monastery by my father, a farmer who believed a life of peace was better than one of plowing rocky fields. My days were filled with chanting, sweeping leaves, and learning the teachings of the Buddha. Everything was calm, but inside, I churned with frustration. I didn’t understand why we were not allowed to cry, laugh out loud, or even speak unless necessary. “Stillness is strength,” the elder monks would say. But to me, silence felt weak.
Then came the story of Bhuridatta, a monk of great wisdom. One evening, as the full moon rose and bathed the lotus pond with silvery light, our teacher, Venerable Tissa, gathered us in the meditation hall. Venerable Tissa was no ordinary monk. He had studied under some of the oldest masters in the eastern kingdoms and once spent three years meditating alone in a cave. When he spoke, we listened.
He lit a single oil lamp and began, “Long ago, in one of his many lives, the Buddha was born as a monk who lived near a peaceful pond. He had studied the Dharma deeply and knew the secret to freedom was not in action, but in letting go.”
The monk in the story lived in a simple hut by the water, and each day after his morning alms round, he would sit silently beside the pond, gazing into its still surface. He did not chase fame or comfort. He simply observed the reflection of the moon every night—soft, white, and unwavering in the water.
One night, a thief came running through the forest, chased by villagers. Seeing the monk by the pond, the thief shouted, “Have you seen anyone run by?”
The monk simply pointed toward the path. The thief ran off. Moments later, the villagers arrived, asking the same. The monk, calm as ever, pointed in the opposite direction. Confused, they ran another way. Later, when asked why he had misled people, he said, “I was silent for many years, but in that moment, I spoke the truth of the Dharma—not with words, but with compassion.”
We were all puzzled. But Venerable Tissa looked out at the pond beyond the open windows and said, “The monk protected life—not through noise or battle, but through presence. Like the moon’s reflection, he remained untouched by chaos. That is Dharma.”
I didn’t understand until weeks later, when another novice spilled a bowl of rice on my robe during breakfast. My first thought was anger. But then I remembered the quiet monk beside the pond, and without saying a word, I stood, cleaned my robe, and helped him tidy up the mess.
That night, sitting beneath the moon, I stared at its reflection dancing on the pond’s surface. No matter how many ripples disturbed it, the moon remained whole.
That was the moment I finally understood. Stillness wasn’t weakness. It was strength rooted in wisdom. It meant seeing without grasping, responding without clinging.
I walked back into the monastery halls lighter than ever. I no longer needed to shout, to prove, or to demand. I had found something more powerful than noise.
I had found the heart of the Dharma.
