The Two Travelers Arriving At a New Village

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This is a well-known Zen or Buddhist parable often titled "The Two Travelers" or "Moving to a New City." It illustrates that our perception of the world is a reflection of our own mindset, rather than an objective reality. 

The Story

A traveler was moving to a new, unfamiliar village. Wishing to know if he would like living there, he approached an old man sitting by the side of the road at the entrance of the village. 

"What kind of people live in this village?" the traveler asked.

The old man, who was a wise teacher, replied with another question: "What kind of people live in the village you have just come from?"

The traveler frowned, his face filled with resentment. "They were mean, cruel, rude, and dishonest. They were terrible people, and I'm glad to be leaving them behind." 

The wise old man shook his head sadly. "I am afraid you will find the exact same kind of people in this village, too." Disappointed, the traveler walked away, intending to look elsewhere.

Later that same day, a second traveler passed by, heading toward the same village. He also approached the old man with the same question: "What kind of people live here? I'm thinking of moving here." 

Again, the old man asked, "What kind of people live in the village you are leaving?"

The second traveler’s eyes softened. "They were wonderful, generous, kind, and helpful people," he said with a smile. "I'll miss them terribly, but I must move on."

The old man smiled back warmly. "You will find the exact same kind of people in this village, too."

The Moral Lesson

A bystander who heard both conversations was confused and asked the old man, "Why did you tell the first man the people here are awful, and the second man that they are wonderful?"

The old man replied, "Because people don't see the world as it is—they see it as they are." 

• Mindset is Reality: The first traveler carried his anger and negativity with him, and therefore, he only perceived negativity in others.
• The World is a Mirror: If you approach the world with kindness and optimism, you will find kindness and optimism in others. 

The lesson is that our experiences and relationships are often shaped by our own inner attitudes rather than the environment itself.

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The Arrow Parable

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One day, Siddhartha Gautama told a story:

A man is struck by a poisoned arrow.

His friends rush to help and call a doctor.
But the man refuses treatment.

He says,
“Wait! Before you remove the arrow, I must know—
Who shot me?
What caste was he?
What kind of bow did he use?
What wood was the arrow made of?
What feathers are on it?”

The doctor pleads,
“If we don't remove the arrow now, you will die.”

But the man insists on answers first.

And so… he dies, still asking questions.

🌿 The meaning

The Buddha explained:

We are like that man.

We suffer—stress, fear, confusion—
but instead of addressing the pain directly, we get lost in endless questions:

“Why me?”
“Who is to blame?”
“What's the ultimate meaning of all this?”

Some questions matter…
but many only delay healing.

🌅 A thought for right now

At this time, if something is weighing on you:

What is the “arrow” you can gently remove today—
instead of overthinking it?

Even a small step counts.

Breathe.
Simplify.
Act on what you can.

That alone is wisdom.



Recap

The Parable of the Two Arrows (or The Arrow) is a Buddhist teaching found in the Sallatha Sutta, aimed at distinguishing between unavoidable pain and self-inflicted suffering. It highlights that the key to inner peace is not to overthink or over-analyze suffering, but to act immediately to remove its source. 

The Key Teachings

The First Arrow (Unavoidable Pain): 
It represents life's unavoidable difficulties—physical pain, illness, loss, failure, or a harsh word. Everyone gets hit by this arrow, as it is a natural part of human existence.

The Second Arrow (Self-Inflicted Suffering)
It represents our reaction to the first arrow—anger, fear, resentment, blaming oneself or others, and overthinking ("Why me?"). This arrow is optional and is shot by our own minds.

The Lesson (Don't Overthink, Just Act)
The Buddha used this parable to explain that people often waste time on useless questions (who shot the arrow? what is it made of?) while the situation demands immediate, practical action to "remove the arrow".

Mindfulness and Control
While we cannot always control the first arrow, we can control the second by acting with mindfulness, allowing the wound to be treated rather than worsening it with internal commentary. 

Practical Application:
Next time you face a painful situation, recognize that your initial reaction (the second arrow) is a choice. Instead of obsessively trying to understand or fight the pain, focus your energy on accepting the situation and taking the necessary, practical steps to deal with it. 

The Mustard Seed

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A young mother once lost her only child.
Heartbroken, she carried the child to Siddhartha Gautama, begging him to bring the child back to life.

The Buddha looked at her with deep kindness and said,
“I can help you—but first, bring me a handful of mustard seeds… from a home where no one has ever known sorrow.”

Hopeful, she went from door to door.

At each house, people were willing to give mustard seeds—
but when she asked,
“Has anyone here ever suffered loss?”
the answer was always the same:

“Yes… we have.”

A father lost his son.
A wife lost her husband.
A child lost a parent.

By the end of the day, she had collected many stories… but no mustard seeds.

Slowly, gently, something changed within her.

She returned to the Buddha—not with seeds, but with understanding.
Her grief softened, not because her loss disappeared…
but because she realized she was not alone.

🌿 A thought for your day

When everything feels still and personal, remember:

You're carrying something—but you're not the only one carrying something.

And strangely…
that shared human weight makes it a little lighter.



Recap

The Mustard Seed story is a Buddhist parable about Kisa Gotami, a grieving mother whose child dies. The Buddha tells her to gather mustard seeds from homes untouched by death. She finds that every household has experienced loss, realizing death is inevitable, universal, and natural, helping her move from grief to acceptance. 

Key Aspects of the Tale

The Request: 
The Buddha asks for a handful of mustard seeds from a house where no one has died—a house untouched by death.

The Search: 
Kisa Gotami goes door-to-door, discovering that while people have mustard seeds to share, every family has lost a loved one.

The Realization: 
She realizes she is not alone in her suffering and that death is universal and impermanent.

The Lesson: 
The story teaches that death is an inevitable part of life, and accepting this universality helps alleviate the intense suffering of grief. 

Key Themes

Universality of Death: 
Death is not a personal punishment or a unique tragedy; it is the fate of all mortals.

Impermanence: 
Everything in life is impermanent, and clinging to loved ones causes suffering.

Acceptance and Coping: 
By accepting the inevitability of death, one can find peace of mind and overcome the paralysis of grief. 

The story highlights that the only way to manage grief is to accept the natural, cyclical nature of life.

The Day Silence Spoke Louder Than Words

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It was late at night.
The kind of night where the house feels smaller than usual, and sleep comes in patches.

The phone rang.

You know that sound — not the casual ring of a friend calling late, but the sharp, wrong kind of ring.
The kind that instantly wakes you up, even before you pick up the receiver.

A stranger’s voice told me my father had been rushed to the hospital.

From that moment on, time stopped behaving normally.
Days blurred into nights.
My mother and I sat beside his bed for two weeks, counting breaths, watching machines, hoping the zigzagging line on the screen would keep doing its job.

One quiet Sunday morning, it didn’t.

The line flattened.
Two men in black arrived.
And just like that, my father was gone.

I was an only child. Which meant grief didn’t arrive alone.
It came with logistics.

Comfort your mother.
Call relatives.
Organize the memorial.
Write the obituary.
Notify the banks.
Answer questions you don’t yet have answers to.

It was the busiest time of my life.

And one morning, after making sure my mother was cared for, I did something that probably looked selfish from the outside.

I got into my car.
And I drove.

Four hours.
Along narrow, winding roads.
Up the California coastline.

I didn’t have a destination in mind—just an instinct to keep moving until the noise inside me stopped shouting.

Eventually, I parked.
Stepped out.
Sat on a bench high above the sea.

And then something strange happened.

Nothing.

No one spoke.
No phone rang.
No opinion arrived demanding my attention.

There were bells tolling somewhere down the road.
Water cooling itself around the rocks.
Bees hovering around lavender.
Wind moving through tall grass like it had all the time in the world.

For two hours, I didn’t solve anything.
I didn’t analyze my feelings.
I didn’t “process” my grief.

I just sat there.

And when I finally got back into my car, I knew exactly what I needed to do next.

Not because I’d thought it through—
but because silence had cleared the argument.

I trust that kind of silence.

Because silence doesn’t try to win.

Words are always dividing us.
I believe this. You believe that.
I voted for them. You voted for these people.
I’m right—so you must be wrong.

But when people sit together in silence, something deeper happens.
You’re no longer defending an idea.
You’re just sharing a moment.

I know many people find this through yoga or meditation.
And that’s wonderful.
But I also know how intimidating those words can sound.

The beauty of silence is that it doesn’t require training.
Or belief.
Or a subscription.

It’s available to everyone.

You can find it in a church, even if you’re not religious.
In a quiet corner of your room.
In your car with the engine off.
For twenty minutes.
Or two hours.
Or just one deep breath.

And yes — we all know silence has a dark side too.

There’s the silence after an argument.
The silence that punishes.
The silence that threatens.
The silence that hurts more than a lie.

But that’s not the silence I’m talking about.

I mean the kind that feels alive.
The kind you can almost touch.

For me, it’s like stepping out of a crowded skyscraper and walking into an open field.
Getting out of your head.
And back into your senses.

Because let’s be honest—we’re drowning in noise.

Notifications.
Breaking news.
Opinions disguised as facts.
Facts disguised as outrage.

Sirens outside.
Construction everywhere.
A phone ringing mid-sentence—“Sorry, I have to take this.”

We can’t hear ourselves think.
Sometimes we can’t even hear the people we love.

And all we really want is a way to turn the volume down.

For the past 34 years, I’ve found that by stepping into silence whenever I can.
Sometimes for two weeks.
Sometimes for two days.
Sometimes—like after my father died—for just two hours.

It’s funny.
I’m not religious.
And yet, a Catholic retreat house has given me some of the clearest moments of my life.

Because when the mind grows quiet, something else wakes up.

You notice the light on the water.
The birdsong.
The ocean breathing far below.
Rabbits moving through the undergrowth.

You stop thinking so hard—and start listening.

And something else happens too.

When I spend time in silence, I feel closer to my friends.
Even when they’re not in the room.

I know what matters six months from now—
instead of panicking about what needs to happen six minutes from now.

I’m convinced the deepest part of us exists beyond language.

Of course, silence isn’t always peaceful.
Sometimes it’s just rain on the roof.
Or an old heater rattling.
Or a cabin shaking in the wind.

But even then, it offers release.

And when reality makes a house call—as it does in every life—when the phone rings in the middle of the night, or nurses rush in to check for a pulse — what you draw upon is your inner savings account.

And that account is built quietly.
Minute by minute.
Breath by breath.

Silence doesn’t ask you to believe anything.
It doesn’t care what side you’re on.
It reaches places no argument ever can.

Thomas Merton once wrote,
“When the mind is silent, the forest becomes magnificently real.”

Your phone is probably ringing right now.
The news is shouting again.
You’re worried about tomorrow.
About that conversation last night.
About the state of the world.

I know.

But think about the moments that truly matter—falling in love, watching a sunrise, losing someone you love.

The truest response is often no words at all.

We worry about climate change, wars, technologies moving faster than wisdom.
And we should.

But nearby is a quieter place — where debates stop, and reserves are built.

A place where we hear an intelligence that isn’t artificial.

So maybe—just for a moment—step there.

Nothing bad will come of it.

And something good—something useful—just might.

After a long week of words, what a relief it is to say nothing together.

US Navy SEAL and The Buddha

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Recently, I came across the book Can’t Hurt Me by David Goggins. The book organizes David Goggins’ life lessons into ten challenges. It’s a self-help, motivational, autobiographical account of how he built himself from being an abused and broken child into a deadly US Navy SEAL—and beyond.

At 90,000 feet, the book tells you to grind. To push harder. To move past your boundaries and limits.

As I was trying to digest and absorb what the book was teaching, my mind wandered to the teachings of Buddhist monks—teachers like Thich Nhat Hanh, Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche, and Ven. Mahindasiri Thero.

Putting a US Navy SEAL and the Buddha side by side was not entirely a concoction of my own mind.

David Goggins himself references a famous Buddhist teaching near the end of the book. It goes like this:

The Buddha famously said that life is suffering. I’m not a Buddhist, but I know what he meant and so do you. To exist in this world, we must contend with humiliation, broken dreams, sadness, and loss. That’s just nature. Each specific life comes with its own personalized portion of pain. It’s coming for you. You can’t stop it. And you know it.

In response, most of us are programmed to seek comfort as a way to numb it all out and cushion the blows. We carve out safe spaces. We consume media that confirms our beliefs, we take up hobbies aligned with our talents, we try to spend as little time as possible doing the tasks we fucking loathe, and that makes us soft. We live a life defined by the limits we imagine and desire for ourselves because it’s comfortable as hell in that box. Not just for us, but for our closest family and friends. The limits we create and accept become the lens through which they see us. Through which they love and appreciate us.

But for some, those limits start to feel like bondage, and when we least expect it, our imagination jumps those walls and hunts down dreams that in the immediate aftermath feel attainable. Because most dreams are. We are inspired to make changes little by little, and it hurts. Breaking the shackles and stretching beyond our own perceived limits takes hard fucking work—oftentimes physical work— and when you put yourself on the line, self doubt and pain will greet you with a stinging combination that will buckle your knees.

And now I find myself comparing and contrasting the approaches of a US Navy SEAL and the Buddha toward suffering.

The key difference lies in how David Goggins approaches suffering versus how a Buddhist monk would.

David Goggins actively pushes himself to the limit and chooses to suffer—because suffering callouses his mind.

A Buddhist monk sees suffering as part and parcel of life. Buddhism teaches us not to run from suffering, but to acknowledge it in the mind for what it is and as it is. It teaches us to sit with suffering, to meditate on it, and to remember that—like everything else—it is temporary.

Interestingly, David Goggins also uses this teaching of impermanence during SEAL training. He reminds himself that the pain is temporary and uses that understanding to push through the most extreme phases of training.

David Goggins teaches exerting control over your life and circumstances. That control is directed outward—toward physical effort, performance, and environment—and inward, toward mental toughness and discipline.

Buddhism, on the other hand, teaches exerting control over the mind itself. Over thoughts, reactions, and perceptions—so that suffering can pass without consuming you.

At a very high level, it feels like David teaches you to “tough it out”, while Buddhism teaches you to “wait it out.”

David Goggins sees suffering as a stepping stone to growth.
Buddhism sees suffering as an inherent attribute of life.

One important distinction between these two approaches emerges when you are imparting lessons about suffering to others—especially when the stakes in the relationship differ.

Buddhism’s way of handling suffering feels more appropriate when the stakes are high—when dealing with friends, family, or people who are vulnerable.

David Goggins’ methods are more suited to environments where the stakes are low or impersonal—places like SEAL training, military schools, or extreme performance settings—contexts very similar to the world David himself comes from.

Tags: Book Summary,Buddhism,

7 Practices for Mental Hygiene in an Unsteady World

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I teach meditation across many countries, and everywhere I go, the questions sound the same:

“Why am I so anxious?”
“Why does everything feel overwhelming?”
“Why is my mind so sensitive these days?”

And it’s true—this generation is facing intense emotional turbulence. Unstable politics, climate anxiety, polarization, racism, and a constant stream of information have made our minds fragile. Resilience has quietly eroded. Panic attacks, depression, loneliness, low self-esteem… these are no longer rare. They’re common.

After many years of teaching and speaking with scientists and practitioners, I’ve found seven practices that consistently help. I call them mental hygiene—simple, everyday habits that keep the mind clear, resilient, and grounded.

Let’s explore them one by one.

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1. Aerobic Exercise: Move to Stabilize the Mind

The first and most powerful tool is simple: aerobic exercise.

Whenever I feel tired, restless, or mentally “speedy,” movement brings me back to balance. Exercise oxygenates the brain, releases stress from the body, and naturally lifts mood.

Of course, if you have heart conditions or health concerns, consult a doctor. But in general, movement is medicine.

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2. Sleep: The Most Underrated Healer

Sleep is critical, yet many people struggle with it.

A few practical tips:

• Try to sleep earlier.

• Avoid caffeine after 1 PM if you’re sensitive to it.

• Keep gadgets out of your bedroom—if the phone is near your pillow, your hand will find it.

• Make the room slightly cool.

• Before bed, relax your body from head to toe and feel the pull of gravity.

• And most importantly: don’t chase sleep. If you look for sleep, it runs away.

Some scientists say eight hours is best; others say six to seven. I personally sleep six hours, sometimes seven. Find what works for you.

---

3. Food: What You Eat Shapes How You Feel

Healthy eating really does matter.

More vegetables, balanced meals, and less processed foods—simple choices that have profound effects on mood and energy.

I’m vegetarian. But whether you choose to be vegan, vegetarian, or otherwise, aim for freshness, balance, and mindfulness in your diet.

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4. Three Deep Breaths: Nature’s Built-In Reset Button

Notice what happens when you feel tired or stressed—you naturally sigh.
That deep breath is your body trying to heal itself.

The practice:

1. Inhale slowly through the nose.

2. Exhale gently.

3. Rest your mind and body in the space between breaths.

Just three deep breaths can shift your state. Later in the day, if you feel a bit better, do another three. Oxygen calms the nervous system and re-energizes the body.

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5. Meditation: Start with Sound

Meditation doesn’t have to be complicated.
One of the easiest methods for everyone is sound meditation.

• Lie down or sit comfortably.

• Listen to music without words, or natural sounds—wind, birds, flowing water.

• Let both the ear and the mind listen together.

This is meditation.
The essence is awareness.

With practice, you can meditate with any sound—even traffic. (Though I admit, a baby crying is still difficult!)

Do it while sitting, walking, or resting. Sound is a doorway to presence.

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6. Appreciation: Gratitude as a Daily Practice

Gratitude changes the brain. Literally.

Science talks about neurons, electric charges, rhythms. In Tibetan terms, we say Prana Bindu Nadi. The ideas are different; the effect is the same. Appreciation rewires the mind.

Start a journal and write down three things each day:

• Something about yourself

• Someone in your life

• Something about the world

Examples:

• “I’m alive—how wonderful!”

• “I can see, hear, smell, feel.”

• “This food reached my plate through countless hands—the farmers, the sellers, the cooks.”

Gratitude builds new pathways in the brain.
It transforms how you see reality.

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7. Being “Okay with Not Okay”: The Wisdom of Imperfection

We live with an “all or nothing” mindset—wanting 100% perfection or feeling worthless.

But mistakes, failures, and struggles are not your true nature.
At the fundamental level, you are already whole.

We say in Tibet:
“No mistake, no success.
Repeating the same mistake—no success.”

Failure is the mother of success.
Growth requires gentleness.
Forgive yourself.
Let the past be past.

Be here now.

Thoughts are just opinions—they are not you.
Let them come and go.

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A Final Word

These seven practices—exercise, sleep, healthy eating, deep breathing, meditation, appreciation, and embracing imperfection—create resilience. They protect your mental hygiene and support both body and mind.

In an unstable world, caring for your inner world is not optional.
It is essential.

Thank you for practicing.
Thank you for being here.

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The Story of the Zen Master and a Scholar—Empty Your Cup

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Once upon a time, there was a wise Zen master. People traveled from far away to seek his help. In response, he would teach them and show them the way to enlightenment. On this particular day, a scholar came to visit the master for advice. “I have come to ask you to teach me about Zen,” the scholar said.

Soon, it became obvious that the scholar was full of his own opinions and knowledge. He interrupted the master repeatedly with his own stories and failed to listen to what the master had to say. The master calmly suggested that they should have tea.

So the master gently poured his guest a cup. The cup was filled, yet he kept pouring until the cup overflowed onto the table, onto the floor, and finally onto the scholar’s robes. The scholar cried, “Stop! The cup is full already. Can’t you see?” “Exactly,” the Zen master replied with a smile. “You are like this cup—so full of ideas that nothing more will fit in. Come back to me with an empty cup.”

From the book: "Don't believe everything you think" by Joseph Nguyen

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