Oh Fire, Why Do You Burn So Relentlessly?

A man stood over a fire, watching as he poured a handful of dry, crumpled tea leaves into a pot of steaming water. As the water reached a rolling boil, his thoughts drifted. Then, a voice whispered: “I am burned and drowning!”

Startled, he looked around. No one was there. Again, the voice called: “I am burned and drowning!”

This time, he peered more closely and saw the sound was coming from inside the pot—from the tea leaves swirling in the boiling water. A single leaf, caught in the dance of heat and movement, spoke to him: “I am burned and drowning! Get me out!”

The man gazed at the leaf with gentle understanding. Up it went, down it went, tumbling in the churning water. The fire beneath raged, heating the water, transforming it.

Again, the tea leaf pleaded: "I am sinking! Please, take me out!"

But this time, it protested further, "But I was fermented and fried before! I have already had my fair share of sufferings!"

The man stirred the pot slowly and replied, "You think that's all? And what have you learned from it? You go back to being the same old tea leaves, unchanged."

“I am sinking! Please, take me out!”

The man reached for a spoon, dipped it into the pot—and stirred. The tea leaf rose to the surface, hoping for relief. But instead, he pushed it back down.

“Did you not hear me?” the leaf protested. “I am losing myself! The water is too hot. I cannot bear it!”

The man smiled, his voice tender: “My dear tea leaf, I do this because you are not yet ready. You are still whole, still holding onto yourself. You must release, you must steep, you must surrender to the heat before you can fulfill your purpose. Only then will you reveal your true essence.”

The tea leaf hesitated, struggling against the process, resisting the fire. But slowly, it softened. It unfurled. It released its hidden richness, its fragrance, its depth. The boiling water, once clear, transformed into a golden, aromatic elixir. The tea leaf was no longer just a leaf; it had become something more.

Buddha taught that suffering is inevitable, but transformation occurs when we cease resisting it. To resist suffering is to prolong it. Like the tea leaf clinging to its form, we resist the flames of change, afraid of losing who we are. Yet, only by surrendering to suffering, by allowing it to soften us instead of harden us, do we discover our true essence. The fire is not here to destroy us; it is here to awaken us.

All of us are like this, whole and unyielding, reluctant to drown, resisting the trials that steep us into who we are meant to be. Life places us in the boiling waters of hardship, of love, of change. And we beg to be removed, afraid of the transformation, clinging to our raw state.

But if we endure, if we trust the fire, we become infused with something greater. We release our truest fragrance, exuding richness and warmth. We become the very essence of what we were meant to be—not just a leaf, but a gift of nourishment to the world.

As the Dhammapada teaches: "Just as a goldsmith refines gold through fire, so too does wisdom arise through the burning away of impurities. He who overcomes suffering with understanding shines like pure gold."

Many of us stop at being merely steeped, hesitant to dissolve completely, fearful of being lost beneath the surface. But for those who embrace the process fully, who let the boiling water carry them to their completion, they do not just steep—they transform. They become warmth itself, healing those who partake in their presence.

The Buddha compared suffering to a dart: the first dart is pain, inevitable in life. The second dart is the suffering we create by resisting it. The tea leaf does not suffer once it stops fighting the boiling water. It simply becomes what it was meant to be.

So let us not fear the boiling water. Let us not resist the steeping. Let us trust the fire. For it is only through this that we exude the deepest flavors of who we are.

Oh, divine Buddha, oh sacred fire of love — whatever you do, do not leave me complacent.