The Empty Bowl of Elder Potila

As the temple bell faded, the lecture hall was still crowded with young bhikkhus. On the dharma seat, Elder Potila closed his eyes, his voice deep and warm like a stream flowing through a forest. He spoke of impermanence (anicca), of suffering (dukkha), of the path to liberation, his words slow yet deeply penetrating. The young bhikkhus sat below him, some nodding in agreement, some joining their hands as if drinking in every word. Everyone thought, "This teacher is truly a master of high virtue and profound attainment." Yet Elder Potila himself, after finishing his discourse, quietly stepped down from the seat, his lonely silhouette stretching long across the warm brick floor.

Potila was renowned throughout the Sangha as a brilliant teacher. The Buddha had entrusted him with the responsibility of instructing newly ordained bhikkhus. Thanks to his clear and coherent discourses, many young monks were able to practice diligently, some attaining realization, some reaching the fruits of the path. Yet Potila himself, day after day, night after night, no matter how eloquently he taught, no matter how deeply he understood the doctrine, his mind had never once rested in meditative concentration. He remained an empty vessel—his mouth pouring out streams of dharma water, but his heart never absorbing a single drop.

The Buddha, the Greatly Awakened One, knew clearly Potila's capacities and the rigidity in his mind. One day, before the assembled community, as Potila approached, the Buddha called out, "Empty Potila, come here!" Potila was startled, but assumed the Buddha must be calling someone else. The Buddha called again, "Empty Potila, come here!" A third time, a fourth time—each time he called his name, the Buddha added the word "empty." At first Potila told himself, "The Buddha must have some purpose in this." But the word "empty" followed him everywhere. Walking outside, the young bhikkhus looked at him; some whispered, "There goes the empty elder!" Others smirked. The self-respect of a teacher was wounded to its very core. Potila felt ashamed—not before the Buddha, but before his own companions in the Dharma. He returned to his room and sat in silence, tears welling up. "I have taught the dharma to so many people—could it be that I myself am the one who is utterly empty?"

In the days that followed, Potila no longer felt any enthusiasm for teaching. He went to the Buddha, knelt down, and said, "Venerable One, I ask permission to leave this crowded assembly. I wish to find a quiet place to devote myself to the practice of meditative concentration, hoping to open my spiritual mind and attain realization." The Buddha looked at him with eyes that were gentle yet full of hidden meaning, and nodded. Potila learned of a place, deep in a secluded forest, where thirty Arahants were practicing together. He set out to find them.

When he arrived, Potila saw the Arahants seated in meditation beneath the trees. He approached the eldest elder, prostrated with five points touching the ground, and humbly said, "Venerable sir, I am Potila. Please, out of compassion, teach me the method of practice." The elder pointed to a monk seated further down: "Go to that one and ask to learn." Without a word of complaint, Potila quietly went and bowed to the second monk. The second monk pointed to the third. And so it went, from one elder to another, each humbly directing him to someone of lower rank. Potila remained patient, showing no wounded pride or anger. Finally, he was directed to a novice monk who was still very young—only in his teens—yet had already attained the fruit of an Arahant.

That novice was sitting on the bank of a small pond, his legs stretched out loosely. Potila approached, prostrated, and respectfully said, "Venerable one, I am Potila. The elders have directed me to you. Please, with joy, teach me how to apply myself in practice." The novice looked at him, smiled, and pointed to the still surface of the pond: "If you wish to practice, then jump into the pond!" Without a moment's hesitation, Potila rose, keeping his robes on, and walked straight into the water. The icy cold seeped through every layer of cloth, mud sank beneath his feet, but he stood there, eyes raised toward the bank, waiting. Seeing this, the novice nodded with satisfaction: "Enough—come back up." Potila dragged his soaked body onto the bank and stood silently before his young teacher.

The novice spoke calmly: "Imagine a house with six doors. Wind enters, rain enters, noise enters, so the person sitting inside never knows peace. Now close five of the doors, leaving only one open!" Hearing this, Potila's heart suddenly brightened. He needed to ask nothing more. He bowed to the novice, found a flat spot at the base of a tree, sat down, and crossed his legs in full lotus. He closed his eyes and began practicing exactly as instructed: closing the five doors of the senses. He no longer heard birdsong, no longer saw colors, no longer smelled flowers, no longer tasted flavors, no longer felt the touch of sensations. He kept only one door open: the breath and full-body awareness. He knew clearly that his body was sitting, knew clearly each breath coming in and going out, knew clearly every sensation on his skin. His mind gradually settled, mindfulness arose, and he sank deeper and deeper into concentration.

While Potila was in deep meditative absorption, a radiant light suddenly appeared before him. The Buddha manifested, standing in midair, his light illuminating the entire forest. Gazing at Potila with compassion, he slowly spoke this verse: "Meditation gives rise to wisdom; without meditation, wisdom withers. Know clearly the two paths—one leading to downfall, one to liberation. Therefore, strive earnestly to let wisdom grow!" The moment the verse ended, Potila's mind burst open. He saw clearly the path he had walked, saw clearly the ego he had clung to throughout his career as a teacher. Now, all attachments dissolved—he attained the fruit of an Arahant, his mind completely liberated.

From that day on, Elder Potila was no longer an empty vessel. He became a noble one with perfected wisdom, yet he forever maintained the practice of humility. He understood that his earlier teaching had only been a means, while the ultimate goal was spiritual realization. And he remained forever grateful for the Buddha's stern rebukes, for the seemingly insulting words of the young novice—all of these were acts of compassion in disguise, guiding him to the shore of enlightenment.

## The Meaning of the Story

The story of Elder Potila teaches us that sometimes harsh words and adversity in practice are precisely the means to awaken us. Let us practice letting go of the self, never becoming complacent with outward achievements, but always striving in meditative concentration so that spiritual wisdom may grow. Only realization is the ultimate purpose of this human life.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang.