I was just a young village girl, barely more than ten rains old, when I first laid eyes on the Buddha. My name won’t be found in any scroll or sutra, but I was there that morning, standing beneath the sal trees near the great Banyan grove at Sāketa. I wasn’t looking for truth or wisdom. I was chasing a butterfly—gold-winged and swift—and somehow found myself in the middle of a quiet gathering.
There he sat, Siddhartha Gautama, the Awakened One. He wasn’t like the storytellers or the kings we heard about in the market. He had been a prince, just like in the old tales, but he had given it all up—his silk robes, his palace, even his name. They called him Buddha, which means “The Enlightened One.” He had found something deeper than gold and glory: a way to end suffering. People from all over walked miles just to sit quietly at his feet.
I didn’t understand much that day, only that the air was still, like even the wind had paused to listen. Then, a boy stood up. He looked to be a few years older than me, maybe thirteen, with curious dark eyes and the kind of mind that never sits still.
He bowed respectfully and asked, “Blessed One, if everything changes and nothing stays, how can we be happy? Doesn’t that mean we’ll lose everything we love?”
The crowd fell silent. What a bold and difficult question! Even I, who’d never studied sutras, held my breath.
But the Buddha didn’t answer right away. He looked at the boy, eyes soft and deep like a still pond. Then, he did something strange.
He smiled gently.
And said nothing.
The boy blinked, a bit surprised. He waited. We all did. But the Buddha just watched the trees, the way their leaves danced softly in the breeze, and the way a single petal slowly drifted to the ground.
At first, the boy looked confused, maybe even a little upset. But then his eyes followed the Buddha’s—up into the sky, then to a passing ant on the ground. He sat down again, quiet now. Not empty, but thoughtful.
That moment has stayed in my heart like a lantern, warm and quiet.
Later that day, when the monks were packing up and people were murmuring about the Buddha’s silence, I overheard one monk explain, “Sometimes, the wisest answer is the one that lets the question echo.”
I didn’t understand all the teachings that day. But I began to see what the Buddha meant. In the Anguttara Nikaya, one of the Buddhist collections of teachings, the Buddha spoke often of impermanence—that everything we hold will one day change. Friends leave. Flowers wilt. Even our little joys drift away. But trying to cling to them tightly only brings more pain.
By not answering, the Buddha had offered the boy space: not to hold on to an answer, but to let go of the need for one. That was the gift.
I returned home different, even though I didn’t yet have the words. I walked slower, watched more. When my pet bird flew away weeks later, I cried—but not for long. I placed her feather on my windowsill and whispered, “Thank you.”
That day in the woods, the Buddha didn’t give the boy an answer. He gave him a path. And I, just a butterfly-chasing girl, found it too—through silence, through letting go.
And that, I think, was the silent turning point.
I was just a young village girl, barely more than ten rains old, when I first laid eyes on the Buddha. My name won’t be found in any scroll or sutra, but I was there that morning, standing beneath the sal trees near the great Banyan grove at Sāketa. I wasn’t looking for truth or wisdom. I was chasing a butterfly—gold-winged and swift—and somehow found myself in the middle of a quiet gathering.
There he sat, Siddhartha Gautama, the Awakened One. He wasn’t like the storytellers or the kings we heard about in the market. He had been a prince, just like in the old tales, but he had given it all up—his silk robes, his palace, even his name. They called him Buddha, which means “The Enlightened One.” He had found something deeper than gold and glory: a way to end suffering. People from all over walked miles just to sit quietly at his feet.
I didn’t understand much that day, only that the air was still, like even the wind had paused to listen. Then, a boy stood up. He looked to be a few years older than me, maybe thirteen, with curious dark eyes and the kind of mind that never sits still.
He bowed respectfully and asked, “Blessed One, if everything changes and nothing stays, how can we be happy? Doesn’t that mean we’ll lose everything we love?”
The crowd fell silent. What a bold and difficult question! Even I, who’d never studied sutras, held my breath.
But the Buddha didn’t answer right away. He looked at the boy, eyes soft and deep like a still pond. Then, he did something strange.
He smiled gently.
And said nothing.
The boy blinked, a bit surprised. He waited. We all did. But the Buddha just watched the trees, the way their leaves danced softly in the breeze, and the way a single petal slowly drifted to the ground.
At first, the boy looked confused, maybe even a little upset. But then his eyes followed the Buddha’s—up into the sky, then to a passing ant on the ground. He sat down again, quiet now. Not empty, but thoughtful.
That moment has stayed in my heart like a lantern, warm and quiet.
Later that day, when the monks were packing up and people were murmuring about the Buddha’s silence, I overheard one monk explain, “Sometimes, the wisest answer is the one that lets the question echo.”
I didn’t understand all the teachings that day. But I began to see what the Buddha meant. In the Anguttara Nikaya, one of the Buddhist collections of teachings, the Buddha spoke often of impermanence—that everything we hold will one day change. Friends leave. Flowers wilt. Even our little joys drift away. But trying to cling to them tightly only brings more pain.
By not answering, the Buddha had offered the boy space: not to hold on to an answer, but to let go of the need for one. That was the gift.
I returned home different, even though I didn’t yet have the words. I walked slower, watched more. When my pet bird flew away weeks later, I cried—but not for long. I placed her feather on my windowsill and whispered, “Thank you.”
That day in the woods, the Buddha didn’t give the boy an answer. He gave him a path. And I, just a butterfly-chasing girl, found it too—through silence, through letting go.
And that, I think, was the silent turning point.
