We have to continue to learn. We have to be open. And we have to

The words of Thích Nhất Hạnh—“We have to continue to learn. We have to be open. And we have to be ready to release our knowledge in order to come to a higher understanding of reality.”—are not merely a gentle whisper of wisdom, but a call that resounds like a temple bell through the centuries. They remind us that life is a river, always flowing, never fixed, and that the mind must be like water if it wishes to reflect the heavens. To cling too tightly to what we already know is to stagnate; to let go is to rise. This is not easy, for the heart loves certainty, but truth demands surrender.

Consider the first teaching: we must continue to learn. Knowledge is not a treasure buried to be hoarded, but a flame that grows brighter when shared, expanded, and tested by the winds of experience. The ancients who studied the stars never stopped gazing upward, for they knew that the sky, like the mind, is endless. When we imagine that we have already reached the summit, we deceive ourselves; the mountain of wisdom rises higher still. The humble learner walks further than the proud knower.

The master also urges us: we must be open. An open heart is like a fertile field, ready to receive rain and sunlight alike. Without openness, wisdom cannot take root. Many empires fell because their rulers closed themselves to new voices, clung to old ways, and turned away from change. But those who welcomed openness—who listened to strangers, to enemies, even to the silence of the forest—found a strength that endured. Openness is not weakness; it is the courage to admit that the truth may come from anywhere.

Most difficult of all is the final lesson: we must release our knowledge. This does not mean to cast away what we have learned, but to hold it lightly, as one holds a bird in the hand. If we clutch too tightly, the bird cannot breathe; if we never let it go, it cannot fly. Releasing knowledge means recognizing that even our dearest truths may be stepping stones, not the final shore. The Buddha himself taught that his words were like a raft: once the river is crossed, the raft is not carried forever but left behind.

Let me tell you the tale of Galileo, who gazed through his telescope and saw that the heavens did not move as men believed. The knowledge of his time was cherished, guarded, and worshipped as sacred truth. Yet it was flawed. Galileo was punished for daring to release it, to say, “There is a higher understanding.” History vindicated him. His story shows us: to release what is false is to suffer, yes, but it is also to serve truth. The higher understanding does not come without courage.

What lesson shall we then carry in our hearts? That learning, openness, and release are three steps on the path to wisdom. To learn without openness is to become rigid. To be open without learning is to be rootless. To cling to knowledge without release is to build walls around the mind. But to combine all three is to awaken—to walk steadily toward reality, which is vast and ever-unfolding. The sage does not grasp but flows, does not harden but bends, does not cling but lets go.

And so, O seeker, what shall you do? Begin by reading and listening with humility, always a student of the world. Practice openness: listen even to those you disagree with, for truth often hides in unlikely places. Then, when the time comes, release what you thought was final, and let new light flood your mind. In daily life, this may be as simple as listening without judgment, questioning your assumptions, or admitting, “I do not know.” Small acts of surrender prepare the soul for greater awakenings.

In the end, Thích Nhất Hạnh’s teaching is both gentle and fierce: gentle in its compassion, fierce in its demand that we abandon comfort for truth. The higher understanding of reality is not a gift placed in our hands but a horizon we must walk toward again and again. Let us walk with courage, with humility, and with hearts open to the infinite sky.