Hey there, friend. Pull up a seat, let’s sit for a while. I’ve got a story to share with you tonight, one that’s been on my mind lately. It’s not a grand tale of adventure or heroics, but it’s the kind of quiet story that sinks in deep, you know? The kind that makes you pause and look at your own life a little differently. So, let’s just settle in, maybe imagine we’re by a soft fire or looking out at the evening sky, and I’ll tell you about a man who came to Gautam Buddha, carrying a heart full of troubles.
Picture this: a hermitage, tucked away in a peaceful corner of the world, where the air feels still and the noise of life just… fades. A man arrives here, weary, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his sorrows. He’s only been there two days, soaking in the quiet, when he decides he can’t hold it in anymore. He goes to the Buddha, sits before him, and lets it spill out. “Buddha,” he says, his voice heavy, “I’m not happy with my life. It feels like a mountain of troubles is crushing me. Nothing is going right. Why is this happening to me? Why am I so unlucky?”
I can feel that, can’t you? That ache of wondering why life seems to pile up against you. I’ve had nights like that myself—lying awake, asking the ceiling why things can’t just be easier. Anyway, the Buddha, he just looks at this man with those calm, steady eyes and says, “Tell me, what’s the reason for your sorrow? What’s got you so upset?”
The man blinks, a bit thrown off. “What kind of question is that?” he says, almost frustrated. “I came to you for answers, and you’re asking me instead?” Buddha just smiles—a small, gentle smile, the kind that feels like it knows something you don’t yet. “If you don’t know the reason for your sorrow,” he says softly, “how can you expect me to know it?”
That hits, doesn’t it? I remember a time I was venting to a friend about some mess in my life, and they just asked, “Well, what do you think is really bothering you?” I didn’t have an answer right away. Sometimes we’re so tangled up in feeling bad, we don’t even stop to trace where it’s coming from.
The man pushes back, though. “But Buddha,” he says, “people call you a god. They say you know everything, that you can read minds. Surely you must know why I’m suffering.” Buddha’s smile doesn’t waver, but his voice gets a little firmer. “You’re mistaken if you think someone else can pull you out of your troubles. No one can do that for you. You’re the only one who can save yourself. I’m no different from you—except that I’ve seen things clearly. The day you resolve your own struggles, you won’t need to come to anyone for answers.”
Then he asks something unexpected. “Have you ever really looked at a flower?” The man’s caught off guard, probably like you or I would be. “A flower?” he says. “It’s just a simple thing. Everyone’s seen one.” Buddha nods, like he expected that. “A flower starts as a bud in the morning dark,” he says, “blooms in the daylight, and withers by evening. If it spent its time worrying about fading, it would never bloom at all. In the same way, if you only think about your sorrows, you’ll never find happiness. There are still things in your life—right now—that could make you smile if you looked closely.”
I’ve thought about that a lot lately. How often do we fixate on what’s wrong and miss the small, good things? Like, just this morning, I was stressed about a deadline, but then I noticed the way the sunlight hit my coffee mug on the table, and for a second, I just… smiled. It wasn’t much, but it was there.
The man sits quietly for a while, mulling over Buddha’s words. Then he speaks up, hesitant. “But can my whole life really be fixed by one way of thinking?” Buddha’s voice softens even more. “Imagine a fortune-teller tells you that by this evening, your life will end. Would you still worry about the things troubling you now? Or would you suddenly see how small they are? In that moment, you’d realize all the time you spent worrying, being jealous, or suffering—it was wasted. We all know, deep down, that we won’t be here forever, but we act like we’re immortal, don’t we? Happiness and sadness, they’re not permanent. They come from our own thoughts, our own actions.”
The man interrupts, a bit sharp. “So, what, I should just think about dying all the time? Will that solve everything?” Buddha shakes his head. “No, not at all. Just accept that your time here is uncertain. Live with the good that’s in front of you. Let that bring you peace. Train your mind, little by little, and the problems will start to fade. Most of our sorrows come from our desires, our attachments. If you can see your mind like a child’s—curious, not clinging—you’ll find that inner calm.”
Now, the man’s curious, maybe a bit desperate. “But how do I control a mind that’s so restless?” Buddha leans in, his words steady. “First, understand what happiness and sorrow mean to you. Really dig into it. Then, practice keeping yourself in the middle—not too high with joy, not too low with pain. I call this the middle way. If you look deep into your life, you’ll see that you’re often the cause of your own struggles—your wanting, your holding on. Control that, and the sorrow starts to loosen its grip.”
Then Buddha gives him something to do, a small task. “For the next two days,” he says, “don’t speak to anyone. Take some paper, sit in a quiet corner of the hermitage, and write. On one page, list your sorrows and why they’re there. On another, write the happiness you can find, and why it matters. Take your time. There’s no rush.” The man bows, a little unsure, and goes off to sit alone.
Two days pass, and he returns, papers in hand. Buddha looks at him and says, “Read your sorrows first.” The man’s voice trembles a bit as he starts. “My family is rich, but I’m poor. I’m not successful in my work. I have no savings because I spend too much. My wife is ill, and I’ve been careless—I didn’t take her to a doctor. I’ve even had terrible thoughts, hoping she’d pass so I could remarry. I dream of easy money, but it never comes. I drink, even when I can’t afford it. These are my sorrows, Buddha, and I see now… many are my own doing.”
Buddha just listens, no judgment in his face. “Now,” he says, “read your happiness.” The man’s tone shifts, lighter. “I’m alive. I’m healthy. I have parents, a wife, children—their love is a treasure. I can work hard, provide for them. I can build a happy family. And being here, in this quiet, I’ve felt a peace I never knew before. The list of joys… it’s long, Buddha. It would take forever to read.”
Buddha smiles again, warm and knowing. “We all spend so much time chasing the cause of our pain, but life is also a vault of happiness, if we’d only look. You don’t need to read every reason for joy. Just hold them close. Life is short, friend. Don’t let worries enslave you. Sit with yourself, find the root of your sorrow, and let it go. That’s where peace begins.”
And as I think about this man, sitting there with his papers, seeing his life in a new way, I wonder—what would we write, you and I? If we took a quiet moment, what sorrows would we name? What happiness would we uncover? Maybe tonight, before you drift off, just think about one small thing that made you smile today. Hold it for a second. Let it be enough. I’ll do the same. We’re in this together, after all. Let’s talk again soon, okay?