When I say the word renunciation, what happens for you?
For many of us, there’s an immediate reaction. Renunciation can sound bleak: it can sound like deprivation, denial, or turning away from life. I certainly felt that way when I first encountered the teaching.
I was deeply drawn to meditation and the Buddhist path, though I wasn’t entirely conscious of why. I was suffering quite a bit. There was anxiety, existential angst, and a growing awareness that life was not going to last forever. That realization created a kind of panic in me, and I was searching for a different way to live.
Yet when I started hearing about renunciation, it didn’t resonate. I thought, “No, I don’t think so. I’m not interested in giving things up.” The word seemed wrapped up in images of a joyless life full of sacrifice.
What’s interesting is that the Buddha described having a similar reaction. In one early discourse, he explains that before his awakening, renunciation did not appeal to him. He did not see it as peaceful, nor did “his heart leap up at the thought of it.” I find that comforting. The Buddha understood the resistance many of us feel.
But the Buddhist understanding of renunciation is very different from what we often imagine.
A Wise Bargain
There’s a passage from the early teachings that helps illuminate the meaning of renunciation:
If by renouncing a lesser happiness, one may realize a greater happiness, let the wise one renounce the lesser, having regard for the greater.
That feels very different. Renunciation isn’t about choosing misery over pleasure, it’s about making a wise exchange.
If I want a deeper happiness, a fuller life, a more meaningful life, I may need to let go of things that offer temporary satisfaction but ultimately don’t nourish me. It’s a wise bargain.
Sometimes we need to turn away from certain things in order to turn toward something more valuable. The question becomes: What am I holding onto that no longer serves me? What patterns, habits, or pursuits leave me feeling depleted rather than enriched? And what would I like to cultivate instead?
These questions become especially important when we remember that life is precious and finite. We don’t have unlimited time. The choices we make about where we place our attention and energy matter.
The Story of the Two Friends
There’s a beautiful story from the Buddhist tradition that illustrates this teaching. Once upon a time, two friends left home in search of opportunities that would help them provide for their families. As they traveled, they came upon an abandoned village and found large piles of hemp. Since hemp was valuable, both men gathered large bundles and continued on their journey.
Later they came upon another abandoned village. This time they found hemp thread, which was more valuable than raw hemp. One friend said, “Let’s exchange our hemp for the thread.” The other replied, “No, I’m familiar with this hemp. I’ve been carrying it all this time. I know how to manage it. I’ll stick with what I have.”
So one friend exchanged his bundle while the other kept carrying the hemp. Further along, they discovered hemp cloth, which was more valuable still. Again, one friend upgraded while the other stayed with the familiar bundle. Then they found linen. Then silver. Then gold.
At every stage, one friend was willing to let go of what he was carrying in order to receive something more valuable. The other clung to the original bundle of hemp because it was familiar. When they finally returned home, the difference was obvious. One arrived carrying gold. The other arrived carrying hemp.
The story is simple, but it speaks directly to our lives. As we move through life, are we willing to put down familiar patterns when something wiser becomes available? Or do we cling to what we know simply because it’s comfortable?
Our Attachment to the Familiar
The challenge is that we often become attached to things that don’t actually serve us. We can even become attached to our suffering. That may sound strange, but suffering can feel familiar. Familiarity creates a sense of safety. We know how to carry it. We know what to expect from it.
It’s like the friend carrying the bundle of hemp. “I know this. I’m comfortable with this. I’ll stick with it.” Even when something healthier becomes available, part of us hesitates. Change asks us to step into unfamiliar territory. That’s not always easy. Many of us would rather stay in a familiar struggle than risk moving toward an unknown freedom.
But renunciation asks us to consider a different possibility. What if putting something down could actually make us lighter? What if letting go creates space for something better?
Outer Renunciation and Inner Renunciation
Some forms of renunciation are external. We might decide to spend less time on social media, to let go of unhealthy habits, compulsive consumption, or relationships that consistently pull us away from what matters most.
When I stopped using Instagram, I felt a surprising sense of freedom. There was simply more space in my life. More presence and ease. Recently my husband and I downsized after living in the same house for twenty years. We raised our children there and accumulated a lifetime of possessions. Letting go of so much stuff was a tremendous amount of work, and yet I felt lighter afterward. You really can’t take any of it with you.
But there is also a deeper form of renunciation. The Buddhist path speaks about letting go of unwholesome states of mind—ill will, greed, hatred, judgment, resistance, and delusion. These are burdens too. In their place, we cultivate compassion, kindness, wisdom, generosity, and love. This inner renunciation may be the most important freedom of all.
Trading Candy for Gold
One of my teachers offers another metaphor for renunciation. He says it’s like trading candy for gold. Of course you’d trade candy for gold. The problem is that we often want to keep the candy while also receiving the gold. We want both. We don’t entirely trust that the gold is real.
Our culture constantly encourages us to chase the next purchase, the next distraction, the next fleeting pleasure. Life is short, it tells us. Buy the shoes. But how long does the happiness last? Usually not as long as the shoes.
The Buddhist path points toward a different possibility. It suggests that there is a deeper kind of happiness available to us—one rooted in presence, wisdom, love, connection, and freedom. Finding that happiness often requires swimming against the stream of habit and conditioning.
It asks us to let go of lesser happiness in order to discover something greater. Not because we should, or because someone tells us to. But because, through mindfulness and direct experience, we begin to feel for ourselves what truly leads to freedom.
The question is simple: What is the bundle of hemp you are still carrying? And what might be the gold waiting for you to pick up instead?
Thank you for reading,
Lisa Kring
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