Have you heard about the Buddhist monk Wonhyo and the skull cup?
It’s a well-known philosophical anecdote that even non-Buddhists in South Korea often learn in elementary school. To summarize briefly: While traveling abroad to study Buddhism, Wonhyo once spent the night in a cave. Feeling thirsty in the dark, he found a cup of water and drank it gratefully, thinking it was fresh, pure and delicious. The next morning, however, he discovered that he had actually drunk from a human skull filled with rainwater. Shocked, he vomited — but at that moment, he attained enlightenment. He realized that our perception of a situation, its context, and our state of mind profoundly alter our experience of it.
This truth always made sense to me on an intellectual level, but remained an abstract idea — until recently, when it unexpectedly revealed itself in my ordinary, daily life: on a rainy day.
While studying abroad in Baltimore, my first home was an apartment with large windows and a wide view of the sky. I used to enjoy gazing at the sky as an easy way of refreshing myself. However, I couldn’t take advantage of this on rainy days. The bright, sunny, colorful view would turn into a wall of gray darkness right in front of me. I would feel the same weight pressing down on my mood.
Then, one day during a lighthearted chat in the lab, one of my best friends from Hopkins told me that rainy days were her favorite. From that point, I found that my perception shifted. Now, whenever I see the gray clouds gather or the first drops fall, I think, “Ah, it’s her favorite day.” The same gray that once dampened my mood now feels warm and familiar.
One morning, I was waiting for the shuttle to Hopkins. It started pouring. There were only two of us at the stop — a stranger and me. I had an umbrella and the girl pulled her jacket hood over her head. For a brief moment, I hesitated, wondering if it’d be OK to offer to share my umbrella. But my mouth moved faster than my thoughts. It was just a small, spontaneous gesture, but that was how a friendship began — a friendship that rain had brought.
Some friends later joked that it sounded like the beginning of a romance, but to me, it was something even more precious: the start of a genuine connection. My new friend, who works in research at Hopkins as well, introduced me to pottery, cooking and a calm, steady approach to life and science.
Since, I’ve come to see rain as a quiet bridge between people, a kind of blessing in disguise — something that cleanses, connects and renews.
A few days later, during a Lyft ride on a rainy day, I asked the driver if she minded driving in the rain. As a nondriver, I had assumed most drivers would dislike rainy days because of safety concerns and traffic. Her answer was completely unexpected. She told me that she loved rainy days, even loved driving in them. For her, “It feels like being washed clean — like God’s blessing that makes everything grow.” Her words echoed what I had already started to feel.
Now, each time it rains, I no longer see just the gray sky. I see someone’s happiness, gratitude, connection and growth.
While studying abroad, transitioning from clinical practice to basic biomedical research, I thought I would learn a different language — not only English but a way of thinking about human health and disease through biochemical studies and molecular mechanisms. What I didn’t expect was that the shift in daily life and environment itself would teach me something just as fundamental: Meaning lives not in things themselves, but in how we perceive them. The lab has taught me molecular pathways; Baltimore’s rain has taught me about the pathways of perspective.
What does rain mean to you?
Have you ever experienced a similar shift — when something ordinary suddenly changed its meaning for you?
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