A Pink Rose and the Seed of Hope

I remember a few years ago, just before the pandemic. I was on my way to a meditation center in Texas, having signed up to serve the course. As a server, my role was to prepare food for the students—supporting them silently and mindfully while they undertook the inward journey of Vipassana meditation.

At the arrival point, waiting for the shuttle, I noticed a young man—white, maybe in his early twenties. He was thin, with delicate features, almost too beautiful for this world. His face reminded me of a soft pink rose, but there was no light in his eyes. He looked hollow, fragile, like something that had already withered. He carried a sadness so deep, it seemed to cling to him like fog.

Then I saw him take out a small syringe and, without much care or secrecy, inject himself in the lower part of his hip. It looked like a diabetic needle, but I couldn’t be sure. What I do know is how numb and lifeless he appeared—like a dried-up fish left on a sponge, long dead, waiting for someone to notice.

Ten days later, when the course ended, I saw him again—and I almost didn’t recognize him.

He was glowing.

His eyes were lit with joy. He smiled—truly smiled—for what seemed like the first time in years. I watched him laugh as he carefully tried to catch a small bug with the center’s insect-catcher, gently releasing it through an open window. It was a beautiful moment. According to the five precepts we all take before the course begins, we vow not to kill any living being. Even the tiniest bug deserves compassion.

In that quiet room, filled with sunlight and stillness, I saw transformation in its purest form. That same pink-rose face, once so drained of life, now radiated gentleness, hope, and playfulness. I often think of him when I reflect on the deep power of Goenka’s teachings. Meditation doesn’t fix everything, but it can wake something up inside—a spark, a clarity, a return to ourselves.

And now, tomorrow, I will sit another 10-day course. But this time, something is different: my daughter is joining me. It will be her first time. I feel both protective and proud. I know how hard the silence will be, how the mind resists stillness, how the body aches from long hours of sitting. But I also know what waits on the other side: the gift of seeing clearly, even for a moment.

I will pray for her, and I will meditate for her. I will send her all the love a mother can carry in her breath. I hope she sees the beauty of life—that she touches that quiet, inner place where new hope is born. And perhaps, a seed will take root in her too—one she can carry forward, into the noisy world, into her own path, her own becoming.