Among many spiritually expressive works of art, Deep Sea Purple Moss stands out for its simplicity and depth, offering viewers a striking, almost visceral impact. This Western-style painting by H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III may appear abstract at first glance, yet it carries profound reflections on life and inner awakening.
The entire composition is built from just three colors—black, white, and purple—yet it reveals remarkable layers and tension. The black areas resemble a boundless deep sea, mysterious and unfathomable, as if there is no visible end. This depth evokes a sense of stillness infused with latent power. This “black” not only represents the unknown world but also symbolizes the unpredictable circumstances and challenges we encounter in life.
In contrast, the white surges forward like rolling waves, powerful and unstoppable. It breaks the silence of the black, injecting movement and dramatic force into the scene. These waves seem to echo life’s turbulence—the sudden changes, hardships, and trials that compel us to confront reality head-on.
Most captivating is the vibrant touch of purple. Like sea moss growing in the depths, it persists between waves and currents, embodying a resilient and vigorous life force. Here, purple is more than a visual accent; it becomes a symbol—of endurance, of hope, and of life’s ability to thrive even in adversity.
As we contemplate this painting, we begin to see that it is not merely a depiction of the sea, but a reflection of life itself. The black deep sea represents the environment we live in; the white waves, the challenges we must face; and the purple “moss” represents who we are.
In an ever-changing world, we cannot choose every circumstance, but we can choose how we respond. Just like the purple life form in the painting that continues to grow amid stormy waters, we too must learn to adapt, to temper ourselves through trials, and to seek upward strength even in difficult situations.
With its minimalist form, this work conveys a profound truth: true growth is not gained in calm waters, but forged in the midst of surging waves.
Perhaps, the next time we face the “great waves” in our own lives, we may remember this purple moss in the deep sea—growing upward, even in the darkest depths.
Every year in mid-April, the streets of Xishuangbanna and Dehong in Yunnan, China transform into a vast ocean of water.
To many, the Water-Splashing Festival is simply a joyful, all-out “water fight.” But what is often overlooked is that this grand celebration does not begin with noise or excitement—it begins with a single, quiet drop of perfumed water falling gently on the shoulder of a Buddha statue.
Today, let us step into Sangken Bimai—the New Year shared by the Dai, De’ang, and Blang peoples—and discover how traditional Chinese folk customs and Buddhist culture come together, blending seamlessly through the gentle yet powerful symbolism of water.
“Sangken Bimai” in the Dai language means “the turning of the New Year.” Its roots trace back to Sankranti, a Sanskrit term meaning “transition” or “passage,” tied to ancient Indian calendrical and religious traditions. With the spread of Theravada Buddhism, this observance took root across Southwest China and Southeast Asia, gradually evolving into a festival rich in both spiritual and cultural meaning.
Before the streets erupt in splashing water, every temple begins with a solemn and tranquil ritual: bathing the Buddha.
Devotees gather fresh flowers, soak their petals in clean water, and create a lightly scented infusion. One by one, they approach the Buddha statue, gently pouring the water over it with branches or cupped hands, symbolically washing away dust.
In this moment, there is no noise—only reverence.
This act is not merely an offering of respect to the Buddha; it is also a ritual of inner purification. It represents washing away the greed, anger, and ignorance accumulated over the past year, allowing the heart to return to clarity and light as the new year begins.
The Water-Splashing Festival typically lasts three to four days. While details vary by region, the structure follows a meaningful progression—from letting go of the old, through transition, to welcoming the new.
Day One: Farewell to the Old Year This day resembles New Year’s Eve.
Along the Lancang River, dragon boats race across the water, sending waves splashing into the air. “Rising rockets”—traditional homemade fireworks—shoot skyward, carrying people’s wishes with them. Dressed in festive attire, people gather at lively markets filled with laughter and celebration, bidding farewell to the passing year.
Day Two: The Day Between Time This is a deeply symbolic day—belonging neither to the old year nor yet to the new.
People visit temples to build sand stupas, shaping fine white sand into small pagodas adorned with colorful flags and flowers. Each grain of sand represents a good deed or kind thought.
This act of merit-making expresses hopes for favorable weather, peace, and stability in the coming year.
Day Three: Blessing and Rebirth Through Water The first day of the New Year begins again with the Buddha-bathing ritual, followed by the festival’s most exuberant moment—water splashing.
For elders, water is gently poured over the shoulders as a sign of respect and blessing. Among peers and younger generations, however, the mood shifts into joyful abandon—buckets, basins, and water guns come into play, and laughter fills the air.
The more water, the deeper the blessing.
At this point, water is no longer just water—it becomes a tangible expression of good fortune and joy, symbolizing the washing away of the past and the arrival of new life.
A Celebration of Culture and Spirit
The Water-Splashing Festival is not only a holiday—it is a vibrant expression of culture.
The rhythmic beat of elephant-foot drums echoes like thunder, while the graceful peacock dance reflects harmony between humans and nature. As night falls, people release floating lanterns onto rivers and send sky lanterns drifting into the night, symbolizing the release of misfortune and the rising of hope.
IP上海 代傲辰 图
In these moments—both dynamic and still—people express reverence for nature and heartfelt wishes for the future.
One Drop of Water, A Shared Cultural World
This festival does not belong to Yunnan alone.
Across Southeast Asia, it appears under different names, yet carries the same cultural essence.
In Thailand, Songkran is not only about water—it is a time of gratitude and family connection. Younger generations gently pour scented water over the hands of elders to receive blessings, while also participating in merit-making rituals such as building sand stupas. Bright floral shirts have become a modern symbol of the celebration.
In Myanmar, the festival—known as Thingyan—has an especially strong spiritual atmosphere. Many people observe periods of fasting, visit temples, or even temporarily ordain as monks to welcome the New Year with purity and reflection. Traditional foods, such as soaked rice infused with fragrant water, are prepared, while large city celebrations feature grand stages where water is sprayed over joyful crowds.
Though names and customs vary, they all trace back to the same origin—Sankranti, marking not only the passage of time, but the renewal of life.
From the valleys of Yunnan to the cities of Southeast Asia, this single drop of water travels across geography and culture, quietly connecting the entire region.
It begins in stillness before the Buddha, and flows into laughter among people. It symbolizes both letting go and renewal—purification and blessing.
What makes the Water-Splashing Festival so moving is not merely its liveliness, but what it reveals:
Even in the simplicity of everyday life, people continue to express kindness, cherish life, and hold hope for the future in the gentlest of ways.
A drop of water falling on the Buddha’s shoulder is an act of practice. A splash of water shared among people is a blessing.
And when that water flows through the heart, perhaps what is truly cleansed…is ourselves.
Nāgārjuna was a great Buddhist master from ancient India, widely respected as a profound philosopher and teacher who illuminated the path of wisdom and emptiness. Known for his deep insight and compassionate guidance, he helped many turn their minds toward awakening.
There is a story often told about him:
Nāgārjuna lived a simple and pure life, traveling from place to place, guiding others with wisdom.
One day, he arrived in a prosperous kingdom. The queen, a devoted follower of the Dharma, was overjoyed to hear of his visit. She had a beautiful golden bowl specially made, inlaid with precious jewels, and offered it to him with great respect.
When Nāgārjuna entered the city on his alms round, the queen personally presented the golden bowl. He accepted it calmly, without excitement or attachment, just as he would accept any ordinary offering.
Carrying the bowl, he quietly left the city and returned to a dilapidated hut where he was staying.
A thief saw everything.
He thought to himself, “Such a valuable bowl in the hands of a man who lives with nothing—how long can he keep it? If someone is going to take it, why not me?”
So he followed Nāgārjuna in secret.
As night fell, Nāgārjuna returned to his crumbling shelter. There were no doors, no roof—hardly a place anyone would visit.
The thief hid nearby, waiting for the right moment, planning to act once the master fell asleep.
After finishing a simple meal, Nāgārjuna gently placed the golden bowl outside, in a visible spot, and then sat down quietly.
The thief was stunned. He had not expected this.
After hesitating, he stepped forward and asked softly, “Aren’t you afraid someone will take your bowl?”
Nāgārjuna looked at him calmly and said, “Since you are already here, why hide? If you need it, you may take it.”
The thief was taken aback and found himself unable to reach for it.
“Do you not know how valuable this is?” he asked.
Nāgārjuna smiled gently. “If the mind is bound by it, even something precious becomes a burden. If the mind is not attached, even something simple is enough.”
The thief fell silent for a long moment, then said, “If you can see a golden bowl this way, then what you have must be far more valuable. Can you teach me?”
Nāgārjuna nodded. “Yes. But first, you must learn to observe your own mind.”
“How do I do that?” the thief asked.
“When a thought arises—whether of desire, grasping, or wanting to take something—simply be aware of it clearly. Do not follow it, do not suppress it, do not act on it. Just see it as it is.”
“That sounds easy,” the thief said.
“It sounds easy,” Nāgārjuna replied, “but it is not.”
The thief agreed to try.
When he next attempted to steal, he began to watch his own thoughts. Yet each time he clearly saw the moment of greed arise, something within him shifted. His hand could no longer move forward.
Again and again, he tried—but whenever awareness was present, the urge lost its force.
After some time, he returned to Nāgārjuna, empty-handed.
“I can no longer steal,” he said quietly. “The moment I truly see my thoughts, the desire disappears.”
Nāgārjuna looked at him and said, “It is not that you have lost something. It is that you have begun to see clearly.”
Tears filled the thief’s eyes. “I once believed that gaining more would bring satisfaction. Now I see that when the mind becomes still, the peace and ease I feel are greater than any wealth.”
He knelt and said, “Please allow me to follow you and learn.”
Nāgārjuna replied, “The moment you are willing to face your own mind, your practice has already begun.”
This story has been passed down not to suggest that one should ignore right and wrong, but to remind us:
True transformation does not come from force, but from clear awareness. True letting go is not merely giving things up, but releasing attachment in the heart.
When we begin to truly see our own minds, many attachments naturally fall away. And perhaps, the real turning point begins the moment we are willing to truly see ourselves.
In an age when the earth had forgotten the taste of rain, there was a valley of farmers whose lives clung to the soil like fragile roots.
The land had once been generous. Rivers flowed like silver ribbons, and the fields bowed heavy with grain. But seasons turned, and the sky grew silent. The clouds passed without mercy, the rivers thinned into dust, and the ground cracked open like a weary heart.
The farmers did not abandon the land. Each morning, they walked into their fields with quiet determination, though their hands returned empty. They dug deeper wells, prayed to the sky, and rationed each drop of water as if it were life itself—because it was.
Their suffering rose—not in loud cries, but in quiet endurance.
And far beyond the human world, Kwan Yin heard them.
She heard the mother who gave her last cup of water to her child. She heard the old farmer who pretended he was not thirsty so the young might drink. She heard the unspoken fear that soon, even hope would dry up like the riverbeds.
Kwan Yin’s heart trembled with compassion—not as a fleeting emotion, but as a boundless vow.
“I will go,” she said, “not only to give relief, but to awaken what still flows unseen.”
And so, she descended once more to the human world.
She came not as a radiant figure, but as a humble woman walking along the dusty road that led into the valley. Her robes were simple, her face serene, her steps light as though guided by something deeper than the earth beneath her.
The farmers noticed her, but paid little attention at first. Strangers came and went, and none had brought rain.
Yet she did not speak of miracles.
Instead, she walked to the driest field and knelt down, placing her hand gently upon the cracked earth. She closed her eyes, as though listening—not to the sky, but to the ground itself.
A nearby farmer approached her, shaking his head.
“There is nothing left here,” he said. “We have tried everything. Even the wells have abandoned us.”
Kwan Yin opened her eyes and looked at him—not with pity, but with a deep, steady compassion.
“Has the earth abandoned you,” she asked softly, “or have you forgotten how to listen to it?”
The farmer frowned. “What is there to hear? It is dry. It is dead.”
Kwan Yin did not argue. She simply rose and asked the villagers to gather.
When they had come, tired and uncertain, she drew a small circle in the dust.
“Bring me what water you have,” she said.
They hesitated. What she asked felt impossible. Water was no longer something to give—it was something to guard.
But something in her presence stirred trust.
One by one, they brought what little they could: a half-filled cup, a small jar, a damp cloth wrung into drops. It was not much. It was barely anything at all.
Kwan Yin poured it gently into the circle she had drawn.
“This,” she said, “is not just water. It is your willingness to share life, even in scarcity.”
Then she took a simple branch and pressed it into the center of the dampened earth.
“Now,” she said, “care for this together—not as individuals, but as one body.”
The villagers were confused, but they obeyed.
Each day, they took turns offering a few drops of water to the small patch of soil. They shaded it from the harsh sun, loosened the surrounding earth, and sat quietly beside it—some in hope, others in doubt.
Days passed.
Then one morning, a child cried out.
A small green shoot had emerged.
It was delicate, almost too fragile to see—but it was alive.
The villagers gathered around it, their hearts stirring with something they had nearly lost.
Encouraged, they continued. They began to work the land differently—not digging blindly for water, but observing the flow of wind, the shape of the land, the hidden places where moisture still lingered beneath the surface. They shared labor, tools, and knowledge. What one discovered, all learned.
And slowly, the valley began to change.
It did not happen all at once. There was no sudden storm, no dramatic flood from the heavens.
But the earth, once hardened, began to soften. Dew gathered in the early mornings. Small channels guided what little rain fell into the soil instead of letting it vanish. The fields, once abandoned, showed signs of life again.
And the farmers, who had once endured in silence, now worked together—with care, with awareness, with a renewed sense of connection.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, the farmer who had first spoken to Kwan Yin approached her again.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly. “You have not brought rain, yet you have saved us.”
Kwan Yin smiled, her gaze resting on the small green field that had begun to spread across the valley.
“I did not save you,” she said gently. “You remembered how to live—with the earth, and with one another.”
The farmer lowered his head, understanding not fully, but enough.
The next morning, she was gone.
No one saw her leave. No footsteps marked the path.
But in the center of the valley, where the first shoot had grown, they found the branch she had planted—now blossoming, though no one had seen it flower before.
From that day on, the farmers told no stories of miracles.
Instead, they spoke of listening.
They spoke of sharing even when there was little. They spoke of the quiet wisdom of the earth. And sometimes, when the wind moved softly across the fields at dawn, they felt a presence—not seen, not heard, but known.
As though compassion itself had once walked among them… and never truly left.
After years of practice, we often believe we are walking the right path. We may even feel completely confident in our own “devotion.” Yet sometimes, in a single moment, a line of true Dharma strikes like thunder—and we suddenly realize that all along, we have only been practicing on the surface.
Recently, while listening to Fundamental Dharma Expounded in the East, Volume 8 by Namo Dorje Chang Buddha III, I was deeply shaken. In the teaching, a disciple shared her confusion: she was extremely respectful toward the Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and her guru, yet her practice did not truly resonate, and she gained no real benefit. In particular, whenever she saw others showing disrespect or even slandering the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, her heart would fill with anger and aversion.
The Buddha’s teaching was like a clear mirror. It revealed not only her blind spot, but also something hidden deep within my own heart.
The Buddha compassionately taught that when facing the ignorance and slander of others, a practitioner should not give rise to anger, but to compassion.
When we see someone slandering the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas out of ignorance, we should think: “Because of her ignorance, she may fall into suffering. Her pain is also my responsibility.” This willingness to take others’ suffering as one’s own is the heart of a Bodhisattva.
Not only that—we should quietly pray for them, wishing that they awaken as soon as possible. We may even make this vow: “I must attain realization as quickly as I can, so I can help liberate her. Otherwise, how could she endure the suffering of lower realms?”
The Buddha gave the example of King Kali cutting the body. When Śākyamuni Buddha was subjected to extreme physical harm, there was not the slightest hatred in his heart. Instead, he vowed that after attaining Buddhahood, he would be the first to liberate that very person. This state—where there is no separation between self and others—is true great compassion, the genuine expression of the Four Immeasurables.
As I listened, I broke into a cold sweat. I was reminded of something that happened in 2025, when I returned to my hometown to visit family.
At a family gathering, my cousin’s husband was filled with anger. He had suffered a stroke and complained that he had never done anything bad in his life, yet had not been protected. My cousin, who has faith in Buddhism—perhaps more from a wish for protection—kept a statue of Guanyin at home. After recovering, he angrily threw the statue onto the ground.
In that moment, a surge of anger rose within me. I felt this was a serious insult to the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. I argued with him fiercely, my heart filled with resentment. I even thought to myself, “For someone like you, I will never dedicate blessings or prayers again.” After that, I have not contacted with them again.
What is more unsettling is that, at the time, I even felt a subtle sense of righteousness—as if I were “protecting the Dharma,” as if I were standing on principle.
Only after hearing this teaching did I truly see clearly: my anger was not for the sake of the Dharma—it came from my attachment to self.
To “protect the Dharma” without compassion is already to go astray. The moment I gave rise to anger, refused to communicate, and gave up caring for them, I had already lost the four limitless states of mind. As the Buddha taught, if we turn away from someone, they are more likely to fall. What I thought was “holding my ground” was actually pushing away someone who needed help.
That was merely futile practice. My mouth recited sutras and mantras, but my heart built a wall of resentment. Outwardly respectful, inwardly hardened—how could such practice bring any true benefit?
Worse still, it was faulty practice. Facing others with anger creates no merit—it only accumulates karma.
This teaching helped me see the deepest blind spot in my practice.
I came to understand that the essence of practice is not how devout we appear on the outside, but this: when we encounter misunderstanding, slander, or ignorance, what arises in our heart—fire, or light?
Now, I feel both shame and gratitude. Shame for my ignorance and attachment, and deep gratitude for the Buddha’s teaching, which allowed me to turn back in time.
In my heart, I have quietly repented to my cousin’s husband. I have also begun again to pray for them, wishing that they may be free from suffering and awaken soon.
Practice is, in truth, a long process of “tearing down walls”—walls built from self-attachment, prejudice, and emotional reactions.
May we all, guided by the true Dharma, cleanse the dust from our hearts and cultivate a mind that is truly soft and vast—a heart that sees all beings as our own family.
In our daily lives, anger often appears without invitation. A single word, a small inconvenience, or an unmet expectation can stir something deep within us. Before we realize it, the mind is no longer calm, and the heart feels as though it is burning.
There was once a woman who had a very bad temper. She often got angry over small things. Afterward, she would regret it. She knew her anger hurt others, and she truly wanted to change. But when anger came, she felt she could not control it.
One day, a friend told her, “There is a wise monk nearby. Maybe he can help you.” So she decided to go.
When she met the monk, she told him everything—how easily she lost her temper, how much pain it caused, and how helpless she felt. She hoped he would give her some advice.
The monk listened quietly. When she finished, he said nothing. He simply led her to a small room, stepped outside, and closed the door.
Soon she realized—the door was locked.
At first, she was confused. Then she became angry.
“I came here for help, and he locks me in?” she thought.
The room was dark and cold. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She started shouting, knocking on the door, and scolding the monk loudly.
But there was no answer.
No matter how much she shouted, the monk did not respond.
After a long time, she became tired. Her voice grew quiet.
Then the monk asked from outside, “Are you still angry?”
She said, “I’m angry at myself! Why did I come here?”
The monk replied, “If you cannot forgive yourself, how will you forgive others?” Then he left.
The room became quiet again.
After some time, the monk returned and asked, “Are you still angry?”
She said, “No, I’m not angry anymore.”
“Why?” he asked.
She said, “What’s the use of being angry? I’m still stuck in this dark, cold room.”
Her anger had weakened, but it was still there.
Later, when the monk asked again, she said, “I’m not angry anymore, because you are not worth my anger.”
The monk said, “The root of your anger is still there. You have not let it go.”
His words stayed in her mind.
After a long silence, she asked, “Can you tell me—what is anger?”
This time, the monk came to the door. He did not speak. He simply poured the tea in his cup onto the ground.
The woman watched quietly.
Suddenly, she understood.
“If I do not get angry, where does anger come from?” she thought. “If my mind is clear, what is there to be angry about?”
At that moment, she saw the truth: anger does not come from others. It comes from our own mind.
From the teaching of Gautama Buddha, we learn that anger arises when the mind is not open—when we hold on too tightly to our own thoughts, feelings, and expectations.
If we do not hold onto anger, it cannot stay.
In our daily life, anger often feels very real. We think others cause it. But if we look carefully, we see that it begins inside us.
When anger comes, we can pause and ask: Why am I reacting this way? What am I holding onto? Can I let it go?
If we become more patient, more tolerant, and more willing to step back, anger will slowly lose its power.
Letting go of anger does not make us weak. It frees us.
When we put down the fire in our heart, we will see that things are not as bad as we thought. Other people are not as terrible as we imagined.
In the end, the lesson is simple:
If we do not create anger, it has nowhere to stay.
In the path of cultivation, many of us begin with sincerity. We read the teachings, we listen, we reflect, and we believe that we are walking the path correctly. Yet a profound question remains:
Why is it that among so many practitioners, so few truly attain realization?
Photo taken in 1999. Elder Dharma King Dorje Losang (191?-2004) was a disciple of H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III Wan Ko Yeshe Norbu (Great Dharma King Buddha Yangwo Yisinubu).
In a teaching given by Elder Monk Dorje Losang at Bodhi Monastery, a direct and uncompromising answer is offered. There are only two fundamental reasons.
First, one has not followed a true Master—one who is the incarnation of a Buddha or Bodhisattva—and therefore has not received the true Buddha-dharma, but only its outer forms, theories, or popular interpretations.
Second, even if one is fortunate enough to follow a true Master and has encountered the authentic Dharma, one’s three karmas—conduct, speech, and thought—do not truly correspond with the Master’s teachings. In this case, cultivation becomes superficial. Without true alignment, there can be no liberation, no genuine blessings, and no escape from the cycle of birth and death.
This teaching is simple, yet deeply penetrating.
It reminds us that the path is not only about what we learn—but how we live.
True devotion is not merely a feeling. It is expressed through what is called the “Four States of Corresponding”: unwavering loyalty, constancy without change, placing nothing above the Master and the Three Jewels, and reaching complete, wholehearted devotion. Only when these are truly practiced can one’s three karmas fully align.
And yet, for many of us, the challenge lies not in understanding these principles—but in applying them in the smallest moments of daily life.
A story shared by lay practitioner Wang Yuxiang offers a powerful reflection.
On an ordinary day, she decided to prepare steamed dumplings as an offering to her Master, H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III. Her heart was joyful, filled with the intention to make a sincere offering.
As she prepared the filling, she followed a habit formed over years of cooking at home—she tasted a small portion to check the seasoning, then returned it to the mixture. It was a simple, unconscious action, something she had done countless times before.
But this time, it was different.
In that very moment, something unexpected occurred. A sealed bottle of soy sauce suddenly fell and shattered, creating a loud and startling crash. Shocked, she immediately realized her mistake.
This was not food for herself or her family. This was an offering.
With deep remorse, she repented sincerely, recognizing her lack of mindfulness and reverence. Her tears flowed uncontrollably—not out of fear, but from a genuine awareness of having fallen short in her devotion.
Soon after, she discovered that her foot had been pierced by a sharp piece of glass, causing significant bleeding. Yet despite the injury, her only concern was not to delay her Master’s meal. She endured the pain, completed the offering, and only afterward returned home to tend to her wound.
And then, something extraordinary happened.
The wound—deep, bleeding, and undeniable—had completely disappeared. There was no scar, no swelling, no trace it had ever existed.
To many, such an account may seem difficult to comprehend. But beyond the event itself lies its deeper meaning.
Through this experience, she came to a clear realization: cultivation is not an abstract concept—it is present in every thought, every word, every action.
Even a small, habitual act, when lacking mindfulness and reverence, reveals a gap between one’s intention and one’s actual state of alignment.
From a Buddhist perspective, this story is not merely about a “miracle,” but about cause and condition, sincerity and response.
When one’s mind deviates, even subtly, there is consequence. When one repents with genuine sincerity, there is also transformation.
More importantly, it reminds us that following a true Master is an immense blessing—but it also carries profound responsibility.
It is not enough to say we believe. It is not enough to feel devotion in our hearts.
Our three karmas must align—completely, precisely, and without compromise.
Not only in great matters, but in the smallest details of daily life.
How we speak. How we act. What thoughts we allow to arise.
Because it is in these subtle moments that our true state is revealed.
If we treat ordinary matters casually, how can we claim sincerity in sacred ones?
If our habits remain unchanged, how can transformation occur?
The path of cultivation is, in truth, very direct.
When the Dharma is true, and when one’s devotion is unwavering, Elder Monk Dorje Losang teaches that liberation can be “as easy as turning over one’s hand.”
But if our practice remains external, if our alignment is incomplete, then no matter how long we cultivate, the result will remain distant.
This is both a warning and a profound encouragement.
It tells us that the path is not far away. It is right here, in this very moment.
In every thought we choose. In every word we speak. In every action we take.
To truly align our three karmas is not something abstract—it is something we practice now.
Quietly. Sincerely. Completely.
And perhaps, in that sincerity, the path will naturally unfold.
For full lecture Given by Elder Monk Dorje Losang at Bodhi Monastery, please click here.
There are moments in life when compassion is no longer an idea, but a living force—quiet, unwavering, and profoundly transformative.
This is the story of such a moment.
Shared by lay practitioner Qi Pengzhi(戚鹏直), it recounts an act of extraordinary care by Namo Dorje Chang Buddha III and Namo Yuhua Shouzhi Wang Buddha Mother—an act not directed toward kings or crowds, but toward a fragile colony of bees, hidden on the rooftop of an ordinary home.
It was 2011, a year marked by an unexpected turning point. The house in which they resided had been sold, and the new owner intended to demolish it. Time was short. Departure was inevitable.
And yet, above their heads, life was quietly unfolding.
A vast hive of bees had taken refuge beneath the roof—thousands of tiny lives bound together in delicate harmony. To most, this would have been an inconvenience, perhaps even a nuisance. The simplest solution, as suggested by the landlord, was extermination.
But compassion does not choose the convenient path.
“Under no circumstances should they be harmed,” came the firm and gentle instruction. “Their lives are no different from ours.”
In that moment, the fate of the hive was no longer incidental—it became a responsibility.
What followed was not a symbolic gesture, but a meticulous and determined effort. Beekeeping specialists were consulted. Plans were drawn. A new hive was carefully constructed in advance, shaped not by haste but by respect for the natural rhythms of the bees.
Time pressed on. The day of relocation arrived.
There is a quiet tension in handling something so easily broken. Bees do not understand human urgency; they respond only to the subtle language of instinct and survival. At the heart of their world lies the queen—without her, the colony dissolves into silence.
So every movement mattered.
The disciples stood watch as professionals gently removed the hive from the rooftop. No detail was overlooked. No life dismissed as insignificant. It was a scene both practical and deeply reverent—an unspoken recognition that even the smallest existence carries its own dignity.
Yet the journey did not end with removal.
True compassion does not abandon halfway.
They followed the bees—literally—escorting them to their new home. The destination was a secluded mountainside, where wildflowers stretched across the land and human disturbance faded into absence. It was a place where life could continue as it was meant to: freely, quietly, and whole.
Only after ensuring the bees were safely settled did they return.
What remains is not merely the memory of an act, but the echo of its meaning.
In an age where humanity grapples with ecological imbalance, the significance of such care becomes ever more apparent. Bees, as science now repeatedly reminds us, are vital to the continuity of life. Their silent labor sustains ecosystems, nourishes crops, and binds the intricate web of nature together.
To protect them is, in truth, to protect ourselves.
And yet, beyond science, there is a deeper understanding—one that transcends utility.
It is the recognition that life, in all its forms, is not hierarchical but shared.
That the boundary between “us” and “them” is far thinner than we imagine.
That a single act of protection, offered without condition, can restore a fragment of harmony to a fractured world.
Perhaps true compassion is not measured by grand gestures, but by the willingness to pause… to notice… and to protect even that which the world has overlooked.
On a rooftop, in a fleeting moment before demolition, a choice was made.
Not to destroy—but to preserve.
Not to disregard—but to honor.
And in that choice, something far greater than a hive was saved.
This post is translated and edited from Interview with a Buddhist Disciple (64): AM1300 Chinese Radio Station – Exclusive Interview with U.S. Layman Qi Pengzhi 《佛弟子訪談（六十四）：AM1300中文廣播電臺-專訪美國 戚朋直居士》by Linda Chang. For original records, please click here.
Click here to Wikitia page on H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III that list major accomplishments and teachings with links.
The following account is excerpted from a post published by Holy Miracles Temple on April 15, 2022, titled “Recent Talk Records of Venerable Zhai Mang.”
Sometimes, in the course of spiritual practice, there are moments that quietly remind us how limited our ordinary understanding truly is. What we see, hear, and reason through the lens of everyday experience may only be a small fragment of a far greater reality.
Venerable Zhai Mang once shared a personal experience that deeply illustrates this truth.
In January 1996, he accompanied the Buddha and the Holy Mother to Shenzhen. At that time, Brother Li Dehe, the general manager of the Luohu Hotel, arranged a temporary Dharma altar on the 16th floor, where teachings were given and disciples gathered.
One day around noon, it was time to invite the Buddha and the Holy Mother for a meal. Yet, to everyone’s surprise, the Buddha could not be found.
Venerable Zhai Mang went up to the altar to look—no one was there. Another disciple went, and then another. Each time, the result was the same: the room was empty.
Finally, Sister Liu Ge went to check. Unlike the others, she did not leave immediately. She stood quietly by the doorway, facing a large mirror. Behind her was a sealed window, reflected clearly in the glass.
Then, something extraordinary happened.
In the mirror, she suddenly saw a foot appear near the window—seemingly out of nowhere. In the next moment, she witnessed the Buddha step into the room from midair.
Startled beyond words, she cried out.
Everyone rushed over. Inside the altar, the Buddha was already seated calmly, as if nothing unusual had occurred. Sister Liu Ge then recounted what she had just witnessed.
When sharing this story, Venerable Zhai Mang did not focus on the miraculous itself. Instead, he pointed to something far more important.
In simple terms, he reminded us: the realization and abilities of the Buddha and the Holy Mother are beyond the comprehension of ordinary minds. Trying to measure the enlightened with our limited understanding is like trying to contain the vast sky within the palm of a hand.
What, then, should we do?
Not to speculate. Not to doubt blindly. But to turn inward.
With sincerity, we reflect on ourselves. With humility, we cultivate. With a heart of repentance and reverence, we create the conditions to receive true guidance.
Moments like this are not merely stories of the extraordinary. They are gentle awakenings—reminding us that the path of spiritual practice is not built on curiosity about miracles, but on the transformation of our own hearts.
In a world that often demands proof for everything, perhaps the deeper wisdom lies in recognizing what cannot be fully explained, yet can be quietly felt.
To walk the path is to let go of arrogance, to open the heart, and to trust that there are dimensions of truth far beyond what we can see.
And perhaps, when the mind becomes still and sincere, what once seemed unimaginable may no longer feel so distant.
The Legacy of Venerable Denma Tsemang
Venerable Denma Tsemang was one of the twenty-five great Dedengbas under Guru Padmasambhava when he journeyed to Tibet over a thousand years ago to spread the Dharma. During that same period, Shakyamuni Buddha dispatched Denma Tsemang to descend into this world to assist Guru Padmasambhava in propagating the Buddha-Dharma.
According to the traditional biographies of Guru Padmasambhava’s twenty-five foremost disciples, Denma Tsemang was highly accomplished in transcription and writing. He possessed extraordinary wisdom and was especially skilled in translation. Under the guidance of the great ācārya Guru Padmasambhava, he received numerous esoteric teachings, including secret mantras and profound Dharma instructions.
He attained remarkable realization, great spiritual powers, abundant merit, and deep wisdom. It is said that he never forgot any teaching he received, retaining everything completely. Many important terma (hidden treasure texts), including the Collection of Eight Sadhana Teachings, were transcribed by him. In addition, Denma Tsemang, together with other great Bodhisattvas, participated in translating the sutras and treatises contained within the Tripitaka.
In this present lifetime, Denma Tsemang has reincarnated as H.E. Longzhi Tanpe Nyima, a devoted disciple of H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III. He remains by His Holiness’s side throughout the year, serving as an attendant with unwavering dedication.
His strengths in this life closely mirror those of his previous incarnation. He diligently transcribes and organizes the recorded Dharma discourses of H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, preserving these teachings for the benefit of future generations.
During a sacred inner tantric initiation known as “Drawing Lots from a Golden Vase and Casting a Lot,” performed personally by H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, the lot revealed the mandala of Guhyapada Vajra—a powerful vajra being of immense spiritual strength. Following this, he demonstrated extraordinary ability by telekinetically moving a vajra pill, clearly revealing the level of realization of a true reincarnated great Dedengba.
The return of H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, Yun Gao Yixi Nuo Bu, to this world is widely recognized. His supreme moral virtue and mastery of the Five Vidyas are unparalleled—there is no second holy being who can be compared to Him. This is something well known to many.
As for the extraordinary spiritual states that people often find astonishing, such manifestations occur frequently in His presence. Those of us who have served closely around H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III have witnessed so much that, over time, we have almost grown accustomed to these sacred phenomena—perhaps even somewhat numb to them.
However, the two events I wish to share here are not significant simply because I personally experienced them. Rather, they are directly connected to the karmic blessings of all sentient beings in this world.
The First Event: A Mysterious Earthquake
The first incident took place on the afternoon of July 30, 1999, at around 4:00 PM.
Due to changing circumstances, H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III decided to leave China. At that time, the departure could not be made public, so I was the only one accompanying Him. We stood outside the South Entrance of Meijing Building in Luohu District, Shenzhen, waiting for a car to take Him to the airport.
Suddenly, I felt my body shake. Behind me, the thirty-story building began to sway. Even the heavy streetlights fixed onto the granite base rattled loudly, their glass covers clattering continuously for dozens of seconds.
I immediately realized that the earth was trembling—an earthquake. Yet my heart felt heavy, and I remained silent.
After a moment, H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III asked calmly, “Was that the earth shaking?”
I simply replied, “Yes.”
His expression remained composed. He clearly understood that the buildings would not collapse, for this was no ordinary earthquake—it arose from a profound karmic cause connected to the Dharma.
According to the scriptures, the earth trembles only when a Buddha descends into the world or enters parinirvana. At that time, however, I did not fully comprehend the deeper significance of what had occurred.
Only later did I come to realize: beings in the Western world were about to receive great blessings—they would have the opportunity to encounter the true Dharma.
The Second Event: A Manifestation Beyond Imagination
The second event occurred on the very day I first paid homage to H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.
Beginning that day, a grand Dharma assembly was held over many consecutive days. During this assembly, H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III expounded profound teachings, including “Debates Between Monastics and Laypeople” and “What I Have Seen and Reflected Upon,” addressing beings of different capacities and karmic conditions.
Before the teachings began, an elderly practitioner, Huang Huibang, shared his personal experience of receiving blessings from the Buddha that very day.
Huang Huibang was a highly respected figure in China, formerly serving as Vice Chairman of the Jiangxi Buddhist Association, and was often referred to as the “Living Buddha of Jiangxi.”
From a young age, while studying in Japan, he encountered Buddhism and devoted himself wholeheartedly to its practice. For over seventy years, he maintained a vegetarian lifestyle and rarely parted from the scriptures. His lifelong dedication and sincerity were deeply moving.
Even at nearly ninety years old, he traveled alone to Tibet in search of the Dharma. The revered master Jigme Phuntsok was profoundly touched by his devotion and told him:
“Your roots of virtue are exceedingly deep. You should go and study higher Dharma under H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.”
He then informed him where to find the Buddha.
Huang Huibang recounted that on that day, he personally partook of sacred offerings bestowed through H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III. He was also told that his wish could be fulfilled—that he could behold a Buddha.
Yet at the moment when this was about to happen, Huang Huibang hesitated and said he would rather see a Dharma protector instead.
At that instant, H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III casually called out.
Mahakala Vaja Protector
Suddenly, a Dharma protector appeared out of thin air—towering like an iron pillar, clad in black armor, with a thunderous roar. The sheer presence overwhelmed Huang Huibang, and he fell backward onto the ground before he could react. (A recording of Huang Huibang recounting this event exists.)
One may ask: who could summon such a being with a single call?
Only a Buddha possesses such majestic power and virtue.
A Solemn Affirmation
These two events are entirely true.
If I have spoken falsely to deceive others, may I bear all negative consequences. But if what I have shared is true, then may all be auspicious, and may all beings have the opportunity to hear the true Dharma of H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, increasing in both merit and wisdom, and ultimately attaining liberation.
Disciple of the Buddha: Longzhi Danbei Nima November 15, 2007
Peace LiLy 