Scorpion and the monk

 

My reflection today begins with a story about a monk who kept helping a scorpion, even after it repeatedly stung him. When asked why, the monk said, “It is in the scorpion’s nature to sting, but it is in my nature to help.”

That story lingers in my mind when I think about the things I’ve done—things I knew were wrong, but did anyway. It wasn’t just a lapse in judgment; it was a pattern born of ignorance and delusion. Back then, it was my nature—shaped by blindness. I stung like the scorpion, hurting those I loved without even understanding why.

Eventually, the consequences caught up with me. My mother was in tears and my father was beyond angry. He has always left parenting to my mother and had never punished me, but on that day his anger was out of control, he had punched me and he was right in doing so. I didn't mind his violence but the deep hurt which I had caused them, hurt me too.

I found myself drowning in sorrow and regret, unable to tell right from wrong, up from down. I lost everything—who I was, what I had. 

I ran. I abandoned every relationship, left behind everything I owned.

I was ready to die.

Still, my parents took me in. Despite the pain I’d caused, they offered me shelter—lifting me again and again, even as I continued to sting.

But the storm inside me didn’t settle. My mind was chaos. I wanted to escape everything. I wanted to disappear.

I remember lying with my head in my mother’s lap, briefly comforted. Yet even in that moment, I wanted to die.

When the holidays ended, I left again—distancing myself from the very people who had saved me. I wasn’t sure I’d survive. But I wasn't sure I was welcome there.

I cried in silence. No one knew. I smiled, pretending I wasn’t dying inside.

And still, the urge to die remained. It felt like the only way out.

I attempted, but failed. I found online resources  to help me end it successfully. It taught me how to bypass my own instincts that had caused failure in my last attempt.

Through it all, my mother called every week—like the monk, still lifting the scorpion. I know it hurt her. But she did it anyway. Because that was her nature. I’m sorry she had to endure that.

Seeing this, I had made the decision to not execute my plans until my parents pass away. I didn't want to her more than I already had. And so my retirement plan was set, waiting for the right time.

Later, they asked me to visit again. On the bus ride home, I was terrified. Old wounds reopened. A voice inside said I’d only bring more pain.

I called my mom, trying to sound cheerful, hiding my fear and depression. Told her I might cancel. She asked why—and the dam broke. I sobbed like a child. Her voice trembled, but she stayed steady. “Don’t think too much,” she said. “Just come.”

I could feel my father’s silence—his pain. He didn’t say much. I think he was trying to carry it quietly.

Later, I came to know that he had wept once after drinking. Maybe because of me, I suspect. My sting had cut him deep. 

When I left again, I hugged him—for the first time in many years. I said I was sorry. It was all I could say. But something in him softened. Something in me felt vulnerable, I had to hold back my tears and acted like nothing happened.

I am truly sorry for what I did to my family. I hate the version of myself that caused that pain. And that person was me.

Years have passed. Today I am in a much better harmony with my parents, I feel more grounded now. But the shame lingers—quiet, mostly hidden, ready to tell me what a wretch I am. It reminds me of the evil part of me.

As I’ve shared before, I’ve begun a daily meditation practice to address this shame. I try to guide my thoughts towards that day, witness it  again and again. Hoping that I become more desensitized to it.

 Time has made the sting more bearable, but I am not there yet. I can feel myself shrinking remembering all this.

And I hope the person I am can face the past with the same patience and compassion the monk had for the scorpion.