The Sweetest Lesson I've Ever Learned About Kindness...

When a small act enters the room, the whole room remembers how to breathe.

Our Novices Standing Patiently in Line to Get Their Ice Cream. It Was Hard to Hide the Joy Within :)

The novices were all seated together, small red plastic tables arranged in rows, while the full monks sat at their own. The midday meal was simple, quiet, ordinary. But inside me, something stirred.

I had been planning it for days — the small surprise, the gift that felt almost childish in its simplicity. And yet, I was waiting for the right moment. That moment came when the sound of an ice cream truck rattled its way down the road toward the temple.

Before I even thought twice, I was on my feet. I waved the truck down, my robes brushing against the earth as I hurried forward like a stressed child.

Our abbot knew about this. I’ve told him earlier about my plan, so he smiled and spoke into the microphone so everyone could hear: “Phra Nick is buying the novices ice cream.” (Phra means monk in Thai)

The novices froze, and then erupted in joy. Pure, unfiltered joy.

They jumped to their feet, some lined up with bowls still in their hands, and their laughter rang out across the temple yard. They began to joke, to tease one another, to act like the children they were.
For that short window of time, there was no weight of suffering, no memories of loss, no shadow of war or poverty.

It was just ice cream. But it was also so much more.

Some of these novices are orphans.
Some come from families so poor that they could not be cared for at home.
Others fled across the border from Myanmar, carrying scars no child should ever have to bear.

Their childhoods were interrupted, reshaped by hardship. And yet, here they were, smiling wider than I had ever seen, over something so simple, so ordinary.

But as I watched the novices line up, laughing and glowing with excitement, something shifted in me.
At first, I had only thought of them. They were the youngest, the ones who had already carried so much pain, and I wanted them to taste this little moment of joy.

But then I looked over at the kitchen ladies, the ones who quietly prepare meals every single day without ever being noticed, their hands tired but their smiles always ready.

I saw the elder monks, dignified and calm, who had given their lives to Dhamma, sitting a little apart in their usual silence. And I saw our meditators, who had come here searching for peace, sitting quietly with their plates, eating and smiling.

And in that moment, I realized:

Kindness doesn’t end where you first direct it. It expands. It spills over. It wants to touch everyone.

So I stood up again, and I said to myself, why should joy be limited? If there is ice cream for the children, let there be ice cream for the mothers who cook, for the monks who guide, for the meditators who seek. Let everyone taste this sweetness together.

So I shouted and waved at all of them and pointed at the ice cream truck. They nodded and smiled, some even rushed to the truck. I felt pure joy in their eyes.

And when the truck stayed and the bowls kept filling, the joy expanded.

It wasn’t about ice cream anymore — it was about the room itself lighting up, the invisible string of happiness connecting us all.

It was as if the more people joined in, the bigger the fire became. A fire of joy. A fire of love. A fire that, even when the ice cream melted, would not go out.

Because that is the nature of kindness: it doesn’t stop with one act. It multiplies.
It writes itself into the air and into the memory of the heart, where it continues to ripple in all eternity.

That moment was a teaching in itself:

Joy doesn’t come from grand achievements.
It comes when kindness meets the present moment.

What struck me most was how their laughter changed the air itself. It wasn’t just happiness in their faces — it was the way the whole vibration of the temple shifted.

The heaviness dissolved. Even the elder monks, often serious and reserved, found themselves smiling and watching with delight.

It reminded me that kindness isn’t only a gift to the one who receives it.

It’s medicine for the one who gives it, too.

And here’s something I noticed in myself that day:
The little anxieties I had been carrying, the restless thoughts, the worries that sit like stones in the chest, they disappeared.

They didn’t need solving, they simply lost their weight. Kindness has that power. When we step outside ourselves and give, anxiety loosens its grip.
It becomes invisible, distant, like a shadow that can’t survive in the sunlight of joy.

In its place rises a quiet calm, a peace that feels so natural you wonder how you ever lived without it.

When we give, something softens in us. The walls around the heart loosen, and we glimpse the truth:

We don’t own joy. We create the conditions where it can arise.

For me, that day was more than just generosity. It was about gratitude.

Gratitude for the abbot and my fellow monks who had welcomed me into the temple like family.

Gratitude for the novices who, despite their struggles, radiated a kind of hope that humbled me every day.

Gratitude for life itself, for the strange, fleeting chance to be here, to witness this, to share a moment of sweetness with boys who had already endured more bitterness than most.

And it taught me something about kindness I will never forget.

Kindness isn’t about size. It’s about sincerity.

The ice cream wasn’t special. The price wasn’t high. But the intention — to say, “I see you, I care about you, you matter” — that was what filled the air with love.

Kindness doesn’t ask, “Is this enough?”
It asks only, “Is this real?”

That night, as I sat in meditation, I reflected on what I had seen. The way their eyes lit up. The way laughter echoed like bells across the temple yard. The way giving freed me from myself — from my worries, from my ego, from the weight of all the things I thought mattered.

And I realized:

This is why kindness is so powerful.
It heals.
It grows.
It’s free.

It doesn’t care about skin color, or religion, or what’s in your bank account.

And once you taste it — once you truly feel it — you understand it’s not optional. It’s the very thing that keeps us human.

And as the Buddha once taught, kindness is not just a momentary act, but a boundless way of being:

“Just as a mother would protect her only child with her own life,
so with a boundless heart should one cherish all living beings;
radiating kindness over the entire world —
spreading upwards to the skies,
and downwards to the depths,
outwards and unbounded,
freed from hatred and ill-will.

Whether standing or walking, seated or lying down,
free from drowsiness,
one should sustain this recollection.
This is said to be the sublime abiding.” – The Buddha, Karaniya Metta Sutta

So I want to leave you with this small practice.

Try it for yourself:

• Set a goal to be kind three times a day for the next 30 days.

• Notice what shifts inside you.

• Notice how your heart feels at the end of the day.

Don’t overthink it. Smile at a stranger. Call someone who feels forgotten. Offer food, or time, or presence.

Because kindness doesn’t just ripple outward. It circles back.

It plants peace in the one who gives, just as surely as in the one who receives.

The joy you give away is the joy you get to keep.

That day at the temple, as I watched the novices joke and laugh with ice cream dripping down their hands, I felt something more than happiness. I felt home.

Because in that moment, there was no division. No monk and novice, no teacher and student, no rich and poor.

There were only human beings, sharing sweetness under the sun.

And isn’t that what family really is?

They have become mine. And I, somehow, have become theirs.

That is the miracle of kindness.

It dissolves the walls between us.
It heals what seems unhealable.
It makes strangers into family.

And maybe, just maybe, it reminds us that the world can be good again.

Until next week,
With metta💛
Sadhu 🙏

---

🌿 If this story touched something in you and you feel ready to explore more stillness, you’re welcome to message me or book a quiet conversation. No pressure, no rush — just two people breathing in the same moment.

Reach out 👈