A Meditation in the Manner of the Wandering Sages
There was once a traveler who sat by the banks of the Ganges, watching leaves drift upon the water. Some floated gently, catching the light. Others were pulled under by the current, disappearing into darkness.
An old sadhu approached and sat beside him.
“Why do you watch the river so intently?” the sage asked.
“I am thinking of my journeys,” the traveler replied. “Some I carry like treasures wrapped in silk. Others I would cast into these waters if I could.”
The sadhu smiled and said: “Then you have asked the question that has troubled every pilgrim since the first foot fell upon the first road.”
The First Teaching: The Mirror and the Wound
From the Sufi masters of Persia comes this understanding:
The heart is a mirror. Every journey polishes it or scratches it.
When we travel through lands that reveal us to ourselves—when the mountain’s silence echoes the silence within, when a stranger’s kindness reminds us of our own forgotten tenderness, when hardship teaches us our hidden strength—the journey becomes tajalli, a divine unveiling.
These memories we cherish because they showed us who we truly are.
But when the road strips away what we were not ready to release, when it forces us to see what we wished to keep hidden, when suffering arrives without our consent and finds no teacher within us to receive it—
These journeys leave not polish, but scars upon the mirror.
Rumi wrote:
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”
Yet he also knew: not every wound is ready to become a door. Some remain only wounds, waiting for a healing that has not yet arrived.
The Second Teaching: The Nature of the Seed
The Taoist sages of the mountains understood that all experience plants seeds in the soil of memory.
A journey we treasure is one where our de—our inner virtue, our natural way—was allowed to flow like water finding its course. We moved with the Way, not against it. The seed that was planted grew into a flowering tree whose shade still cools us in old age.
A journey we wish to forget is one where we were forced to move against our nature. Like a river dammed and diverted, something within us was violated. The seed planted there grew into thorns.
Laozi taught:
“What is firmly established cannot be uprooted. What is firmly held cannot slip away.”
What is firmly established in harmony becomes memory’s garden. What is firmly established in discord becomes memory’s prison.
The Third Teaching: The Weight of Transformation
From the Buddhist path comes the deepest seeing:
Memory is not the journey itself—memory is what remains after the journey has passed through us.
When we are transformed by suffering—when pain becomes compassion, when loss becomes wisdom, when fear becomes courage—then even the darkest road becomes precious. We do not treasure the suffering; we treasure who we became because of it.
But when suffering passes through us and finds no transformation, it leaves only samskara—an impression, a groove, a scar upon the mind that replays endlessly without resolution.
This is what we wish to forget: not the journey, but the self who could not yet alchemize the experience into gold.
The Buddha said:
“Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”
But he said this with compassion, knowing that the alchemy of suffering requires readiness, support, wisdom, love—and sometimes these are not available to us when the dark road finds us.
The Closing: What the River Knows
The sadhu rose to leave.
“So what makes the difference?” the traveler asked. “Between the journey I hold close and the journey I wish to release?”
The old man paused and looked at the water.
“The journeys you treasure are those where you found yourself along the way—even if you lost everything else.
The journeys you wish to forget are those where you lost yourself—even if you arrived safely.”
He placed his hand upon his heart.
“The first road led you home, even through foreign lands. The second road led you away from home, even when you never left your village.
And here is the secret the river knows: both roads are necessary. The road that takes you away teaches you what home truly is. The road that wounds you teaches you what healing truly means.
One day, perhaps, even the journey you wish to forget will become the teacher you most needed.
But until that day—”
The sadhu smiled gently.
“—it is enough to simply wish. Even wishing to forget is a form of remembering. And remembering is how the soul finds its way back.”
Dear readers, may your life carry both the treasured roads and the difficult ones—for in story, even what we wish to forget may find its transformation at last.
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
Tinggalkan komentar