One traveler in an old Buddhist story reaches a stretch of water too wide to wade and too deep to ford, with no ferry and no bridge in sight. He gathers grass, sticks, branches, and boughs, lashes them into a makeshift raft, and paddles across with his hands and feet. Safe on the far bank, grateful for what got him there, he considers a strange idea: hoist the raft onto his shoulders and carry it onward. The story calls this exactly the wrong move. The raft did its job. That job is finished. The same logic is applied to the teaching itself: a tool built for crossing isn't meant to be hauled around afterward, however well it worked. This morning, name one thing you're still carrying that already got you across, a rule, a routine, an old way of bracing, and leave it on the bank where its work ended.