The Parable of the Poisoned Arrow: Letting Questions Rest
Some mornings, the mind feels restless—a riverbed turned by the press of rain. Curiosity, doubt, and the ache to know why we suffer can move like eddies beneath the surface. If you find yourself tangled in questions—about purpose, meaning, or the heartache of not knowing—know that you’re stepping onto a path as ancient as rivers and just as tender.
The Arrow in the Flesh
The parable of the poisoned arrow tells of a man, wounded deeply and suddenly, who refuses to let the arrow be removed until every question is answered: Who shot it? What was the bowstring made from? From which village did the arrow come? His longing for understanding—every detail, every reason—keeps the arrow buried, and the poison moves quietly, steadily inward.
How often do we do the same—pausing our own healing, holding back from presence because our minds clamor for perfect clarity? I know these seasons: sitting stunned by trouble, running my thoughts around each sharp corner, searching for who to blame, what to fix, what to know—when what’s asked first is simply: can I tend to what hurts, right here?
Beyond Spiritual Pride and the Lure of Knowing
In our search for meaning—on the meditation cushion or in wild solitude by the river—we might start to believe answers are a measure of wisdom. This is a form of spiritual pride: the mind’s quiet hunger to be sure, to be right, to arrive. Yet the heart of presence is not in the tight fist of certainty, but in the open hand that can touch pain and let some questions remain unspoken.
Sometimes it helps to reflect on the parable about the ego, how our desire to be right or certain can keep us seeking rather than meeting what is real. The story of the poisoned arrow is an invitation to soften in the face of not knowing.
The Finger and the Moon
Another old story says: when a finger points at the moon, do not mistake the finger for the moon. The teaching itself—a metaphor, a parable, a practice—is not the living truth, only a direction. Time spent fixating on who points, how, or even the quality of the finger itself, keeps our gaze from the pale shining arc the finger means to show us.
This reflects what is found in many traditions—the way that words and methods simply gesture toward what cannot be held or proved. If you are curious about how riddles and paradox serve a similar function, you might notice how Zen koans meaning can open the heart to a direct seeing, beyond answers.
Truth has a way of moving between the reeds and roots—sometimes in words, more often in the hush that follows them. Real transmission of truth is not about explanation, but the quiet loosening of our grasp; it is what is left in the air when questions, for a moment, fall silent.
Invitations for the Heart
- Notice the questions that return again and again—breathe with them, without answering.
- Feel into the ache, the wound, the arrow—what is asking to be tended, rather than analyzed?
- When a teaching points to something vast, look beyond the words. Let what’s true settle, like silt in clear water.
- If other stories call you, such as the story of the blind men and elephant, notice how exploring different metaphors can open space for not-knowing.
If you find your mind circling questions, pause by whatever river, window, or patch of sky calls to you today. Perhaps you find comfort in wisdom from spiritual teachers or in letting spiritual stories with meaning accompany you. Let your next breath be a soft beginning—not to know everything, but to meet your own experience, as it is, with one less layer of resistance. What is still here, present and whole, when the search for answers grows quiet? And if you wish for a small touchstone, reflect gently on wisdom quotes explained, letting a single phrase ripple through the surface of your day.