You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a boy with dusty feet and wide eyes—when the Buddha told the story that changed my life.
I was born in a small village near the Ganges River, not far from where the Enlightened One, Siddhartha Gautama—known to many simply as the Buddha—would often rest and teach. My parents had heard of his wisdom, and one afternoon, under the warmth of a golden sun, we walked to the edge of a forest where many had gathered. There, seated beneath a Bodhi tree, the Buddha looked so calm, like still water that reflects the sky.
He spoke gently, and even though I was small, I listened. That day, he shared the Parable of the Raft.
He began, "Imagine a man traveling through the jungle. He finds his path blocked by a wide, fierce river. Behind him is danger—wild beasts and uncertainty—and ahead is peace. But there is no bridge, no ferry. So, the man gathers branches and vines, and he builds a raft. With effort and determination, he uses it to cross the river safely.
"Now, once on the far bank, would it make sense for him to carry the raft upon his back, saying, 'This raft has helped me so much—it would be ungrateful to leave it behind'?"
The Buddha paused, and the crowd was quiet. Even the birds seemed to stop chirping.
He continued, “Of course not. The raft served its purpose. It brought him across. But if he clings to it, it becomes a burden. So it is with my teachings. They are like a raft—to bring you across the river of suffering. But once you have crossed, you must not cling to even the teachings themselves.”
I remember feeling puzzled. Why let go of the very thing that helped you? I didn't understand… not until many years later.
As I grew older, I became a monk in training. I meditated daily and memorized sutras. I was proud—too proud—of how much I knew. I thought I had found the path to peace just by studying and repeating the words.
Then one morning, during silent meditation, my teacher, an old monk named Venerable Sila, approached me. “Peace is not found by reciting peace,” he said. “You carry the raft, young one, thinking it makes you enlightened. But perhaps you have not yet stepped off and begun to walk.”
His words struck deep. I realized then that I had treated the teachings as decorations, not tools. I clung to them with ego, like trophies.
So I began again—not as someone who has all the answers, but as someone willing to let go. Like the traveler leaving the raft behind, I started to live the teachings: practicing compassion, letting go of anger, being mindful of each moment without boasting in knowledge.
And something transformed in me.
That day under the Bodhi tree so long ago came back to me. I saw the Buddha’s wisdom not as a list of rules, but as a guide to freedom. His smile had not been just peaceful—it had been knowing.
Now, when I teach others, I remind them of the raft. I ask them how they will cross their own river of pain, and more importantly, what they will carry with them after.
I walked away from my ego that day—not just as a monk, but as a true student of the Dharma. The raft was never meant to be worshipped. It was meant to be used… and then released.
And in that letting go, I found peace.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a boy with dusty feet and wide eyes—when the Buddha told the story that changed my life.
I was born in a small village near the Ganges River, not far from where the Enlightened One, Siddhartha Gautama—known to many simply as the Buddha—would often rest and teach. My parents had heard of his wisdom, and one afternoon, under the warmth of a golden sun, we walked to the edge of a forest where many had gathered. There, seated beneath a Bodhi tree, the Buddha looked so calm, like still water that reflects the sky.
He spoke gently, and even though I was small, I listened. That day, he shared the Parable of the Raft.
He began, "Imagine a man traveling through the jungle. He finds his path blocked by a wide, fierce river. Behind him is danger—wild beasts and uncertainty—and ahead is peace. But there is no bridge, no ferry. So, the man gathers branches and vines, and he builds a raft. With effort and determination, he uses it to cross the river safely.
"Now, once on the far bank, would it make sense for him to carry the raft upon his back, saying, 'This raft has helped me so much—it would be ungrateful to leave it behind'?"
The Buddha paused, and the crowd was quiet. Even the birds seemed to stop chirping.
He continued, “Of course not. The raft served its purpose. It brought him across. But if he clings to it, it becomes a burden. So it is with my teachings. They are like a raft—to bring you across the river of suffering. But once you have crossed, you must not cling to even the teachings themselves.”
I remember feeling puzzled. Why let go of the very thing that helped you? I didn't understand… not until many years later.
As I grew older, I became a monk in training. I meditated daily and memorized sutras. I was proud—too proud—of how much I knew. I thought I had found the path to peace just by studying and repeating the words.
Then one morning, during silent meditation, my teacher, an old monk named Venerable Sila, approached me. “Peace is not found by reciting peace,” he said. “You carry the raft, young one, thinking it makes you enlightened. But perhaps you have not yet stepped off and begun to walk.”
His words struck deep. I realized then that I had treated the teachings as decorations, not tools. I clung to them with ego, like trophies.
So I began again—not as someone who has all the answers, but as someone willing to let go. Like the traveler leaving the raft behind, I started to live the teachings: practicing compassion, letting go of anger, being mindful of each moment without boasting in knowledge.
And something transformed in me.
That day under the Bodhi tree so long ago came back to me. I saw the Buddha’s wisdom not as a list of rules, but as a guide to freedom. His smile had not been just peaceful—it had been knowing.
Now, when I teach others, I remind them of the raft. I ask them how they will cross their own river of pain, and more importantly, what they will carry with them after.
I walked away from my ego that day—not just as a monk, but as a true student of the Dharma. The raft was never meant to be worshipped. It was meant to be used… and then released.
And in that letting go, I found peace.
