The Raft You Can Put Down

Let your body get heavy. Nothing tonight requires you to be alert.

The Buddha once told a story about a traveler who came to a wide river.

There was no bridge. The far bank was green and safe, and the near bank was not.

So the traveler gathered branches and reeds and grass, and bound them together, and made a raft.

It took a long time. His hands were sore. But the raft floated, and he crossed.

On the other side, standing in the sun, he thought: this raft saved my life. I will carry it with me always.

And he lifted it onto his head, and walked on with it, through the fields, up the hills, for the rest of his journey.

The Buddha asked the people listening: was that wise?

And they laughed softly, the way you laugh when you recognize yourself.

You are carrying rafts. Ways of thinking that kept you safe once and are only heavy now.

The vigilance. The bracing. The habit of checking the water before you have even reached the water.

They were not foolish. They got you across something real.

But you are on this bank now, and the raft can be set down in the reeds, and the grass will take it back.

Tonight, put it down. You can pick it up in the morning if you truly need it. It will still be there.

The lake laps quietly against the shore, the same small sound, over and over, all night.

Nothing is being carried on that water. Nothing needs to be.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel how much lighter your arms are when they are only resting.

The traveler slept in the tall grass by the far bank, empty-handed and safe.

Rest now. You have already crossed.