Kisa and the Mustard Seed

Lie back. Let this be the last thing you do today.

There was a woman named Kisa who lost what she loved most, and could not accept it.

She walked from house to house through her town, asking for medicine, asking anyone to undo what had happened.

People were kind to her, and then they were tired, and then they looked away.

At last someone said: go and see the Buddha. He is sitting under the trees by the river.

So she went, in the late light, with the dust of the road on her feet.

She asked him for medicine. And he said: yes. I will make it. Bring me a handful of mustard seed.

Her heart lifted. Mustard seed was in every kitchen in the town.

But he said: the seed must come from a house where no one has ever died.

So she went back, door to door. And at every door, they gladly offered the seed.

And at every door, when she asked her question, the answer was the same.

We lost a father here. We lost a child here. We lost a sister, two winters ago.

Each house had a story. Each story had a name in it. Each name was still loved.

By evening she had walked the whole town and carried no seed at all.

She sat down at the edge of the road, and for the first time since her loss, she was not alone in it.

That was the medicine. Not that the pain was wrong, but that it was shared by every single person behind every single door.

Whatever you are carrying tonight, someone in every house on your street is carrying something too.

You are not being singled out. You are being human, along with everybody else.

Let the tears come if they come. They are the same salt as the ocean, and the ocean keeps moving anyway.

Kisa slept that night under the trees by the river, and the water went on and on beside her.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the river take one more thing.

You are held by a very old company of people who have all survived their own nights.

Rest now. Morning always comes, and it is gentler than you expect.