Growing up, there was a magnificent tulip poplar tree in our backyard. It was close to the house and could be seen from all three floors. My siblings and I were told that when our folks were building the house, the contractor wanted to take it down as it had some sort of disease. Instead, my folks decided to treat it and let it live.
The treatment ate away at a good part of the lower trunk, creating a small cave just the size for us children to get into.
As a child, this wound caught my attention. One time, I was drawing a picture of this tree, focused on the dark scar of the wound. When my mom saw it, she sighed.
“Why do you do that? Why do you draw the darkness?’ she asked me. I didn’t know the answer. At that time, it just felt natural to look for whatever was hurt or missing.
As the years passed, the tulip poplar grew far beyond that initial wound, soon reaching 75 feet in height and 16 feet around. It was a happy home for birds’ nests and other little creatures. And every year, the hidden hollow at its base grew a bit smaller.
Though its limbs were too high for climbing, I loved to look at it. After my brother moved out, and when I wanted a quiet space, I often went up to his attic bedroom just to watch the branches and leaves blow about in the wind and a family of squirrels run up and down the trunk.
The tulip poplar eventually reached a height of 150 feet. To encircle it now required five people with open arms. And a dark little opening was all that remained of the small cave.
But for so many years, when I thought about this tree, it was the wound that first came to mind. I remembered how big the hole in the tree trunk had been. How damaged it was. How it almost didn’t make it. Instead of actually seeing this tree, I saw what I remembered was wrong about it.
Decades later, long after I’d moved across the country and had raised my own family out west, I came home for a visit. It was a few months after my dad had died, and I was in the backyard, walking around. I looked up, and it was suddenly like I was seeing this tree for the first time. It stood before me in its full beauty: shapely leaves, spreading branches, and a wide and sturdy trunk. How strong, balanced, and powerful it was!
As I stared upward, understanding washed over me. There is nothing wrong with this tree.
Yes, it had once been hurt, but no longer. It had grown way past that and had healed. In place of that old wound, there was so much beauty. So much strength.
One of the hardest things for me in my life was learning to let go of the past and accept what was true now. Much like the tree, I was wounded in my early years. And for a long time I could only see myself as broken and fragile. But that was only part of my story. I, too, had healed and grown. I’d loved, been loved, learned to forgive, and found greater peace. And standing right there in front of me, this magnificent tree mirrored back all its beauty, well-being, and strength, quietly reminding me of my own.
In that humbling and transformative moment, everything shifted. Not only was there nothing wrong with this tree, there was nothing wrong with me.
Two years later, after Mom passed away, the house was sold. The new owners decided to remove the tulip poplar. They wanted a deck, and unfortunately, this beloved tree was in the way.
I was there a few weeks after it was cut down. I gathered some scraps of bark to honor its life and my sweet memories. As I walked up close to the wide, recently-cut base of the tree, I could see saw marks, but the inner bark, the inside of the tree, was free from any rot or decay. The only lingering sign that this tree had once held a large wound was one very small, dark line.
A Thai farmer’s TEDx talk offers a refreshing lesson about happiness, freedom, and what it really means to live well.
What if the secret to a happier life is not earning more money, buying a bigger house, or becoming more successful—but simply learning to live with less?
I recently watched an inspiring TEDx talk by a Thai farmer named Jon Jandai, and his story made me laugh, think, and question many of the things we take for granted.
Jon grew up in a rural village in northeastern Thailand. As a child, he remembered a simple life in which people grew their own food, caught fish, made things by hand, and still had time to rest and talk with their neighbors.
But as television and modern ideas of success reached his village, people began to believe that rural life meant poverty and that a better future could only be found in the big city.
Jon believed it, too.
He left his village for Bangkok, hoping to build a successful life. Instead, he spent seven difficult years working long hours, struggling to afford food, and living in a cramped, uncomfortable room.
Eventually, he began asking himself a simple question:
Why was life becoming harder even though people were working so hard and technology was advancing?
He decided to leave university, return to his village, and become a farmer.
What happened next changed his understanding of life.
Back home, Jon began growing rice. He explained in his talk that he could produce enough rice for his family with only a couple of months of concentrated work each year.
He also dug fishponds and planted more than thirty varieties of vegetables. With food growing around him, his family could eat well, sell the surplus, and enjoy something he had almost forgotten in Bangkok: free time.
He found himself wondering why he had worked so hard in the city just to struggle to afford his meals, when back home he could grow his own food and have time to rest.
Of course, not everyone has access to farmland, and farming requires land, knowledge, hard work, and cooperation with nature. His lifestyle may not be practical for everyone.
But his bigger question is worth considering: Have we made modern life unnecessarily complicated?
We have more technology, more conveniences, and more products than previous generations could have imagined. Yet many people feel increasingly busy, anxious, and exhausted.
Perhaps progress should not be measured only by how much we produce or consume, but also by how much time and freedom we gain.
The Lesson of One Pair of Jeans
One of my favorite parts of Jon’s talk was his story about a pair of jeans.
When he was young, he wanted to look more attractive and fashionable, like the movie stars he admired. He saved money for an entire month to buy a trendy pair of jeans.
When he finally put them on and looked in the mirror, he realized something funny: he was still the same person!
The expensive jeans had not turned him into a movie star.
He began questioning why he needed so many things simply because they were fashionable or because other people owned them. Eventually, he stopped chasing trends and became comfortable wearing secondhand clothes.
He also developed a simple habit before buying anything:
Do I really need this, or do I just want it because I see other people have it?
What a wonderful question!
Think about how often we compare ourselves with others. Someone buys a new car, and suddenly our own car doesn’t seem good enough. Someone takes an expensive vacation, and we feel that we are missing out. Someone buys a beautiful house, and we begin wondering whether our own home is too small.
Without realizing it, we can spend much of our lives chasing things that were never truly important to us.
There is nothing wrong with enjoying beautiful things or buying something we love. But perhaps we should pause occasionally and ask ourselves whether our desires are coming from our hearts or from the pressure to keep up with everyone else.
A House Without Thirty Years of Debt
Another memorable part of Jon’s talk was his experience building his own home.
He explained that he learned to build a simple house using local materials and traditional techniques. Instead of spending decades paying off a mortgage, he could build a house in just a few months.
He compared his situation with a friend who had followed the conventional path: studied hard, found a good job, and bought a house that would take thirty years to pay off.
Jon joked that he had gained nearly thirty years of freedom!
He later built more houses, until he had so many that he joked he sometimes didn’t know which one to sleep in.
His humor makes the story memorable, but the underlying question is serious.
Birds build nests. Animals find shelter. Yet many people spend decades working to afford a place to live.
Of course, modern homes involve safety standards, legal requirements, construction costs, and many other considerations. Building a house as Jon did is not a solution everyone can simply copy.
Still, his example invites us to reconsider the relationship between money, housing, and freedom.
Are we working to create a better life, or have we become trapped in a cycle of working simply to pay for the life we have created?
Jon’s ideas made me think about the way we define success.
I am not against making money. Money can provide security, comfort, and opportunities. It can help us care for our families, support people in need, and pursue meaningful dreams.
But money is a means to live, not the purpose of living.
Sometimes we become so focused on earning more that we forget to enjoy what we already have. We postpone happiness until we buy a house, reach a certain income, achieve a particular position, or finally retire.
But life does not wait for us.
How many beautiful afternoons pass while we are worrying about tomorrow? How many opportunities to spend time with loved ones do we miss because we are too busy pursuing the next goal?
Perhaps real wealth is also having time to enjoy a peaceful morning, prepare a simple meal, take a walk in nature, read a good book, or share a conversation with someone we love.
These moments may cost very little, but they can bring us extraordinary happiness.
Jon’s philosophy also reminds me of an important teaching in Buddhism: attachment and endless craving can become sources of suffering.
This does not mean that we should give up our responsibilities, stop working, or abandon our goals. It means learning to recognize the difference between what we truly need and what our restless desires keep telling us we must have.
When we constantly want more, we may never feel that we have enough.
But when we learn to appreciate what we already have, even an ordinary life can become rich and meaningful.
Jon eventually returned to his roots and helped establish Pun Pun, a learning center and sustainable-living community in Chiang Mai that promotes natural farming, seed saving, and self-reliance.
He did not become wealthy by conventional standards. Instead, he chose a way of life that gave him more independence, a closer relationship with nature, and time to enjoy the things that mattered to him.
We do not all need to become farmers or build our own houses. Everyone has different circumstances, responsibilities, and dreams.
But we can all learn something from his story.
Perhaps we can buy a little less, compare ourselves with others a little less, and spend more time appreciating the simple things around us.
After all, what is the point of working so hard to create a happy life if we are too exhausted and busy to enjoy it?
Maybe a truly rich life is not about having everything we want, but about discovering that we already have enough to be happy.
We don’t have to wait thirty years to enjoy life.
Sometimes, happiness is already waiting for us in a quiet afternoon, a simple meal, a walk in the sunshine, or a little more time with the people we love.
Sometimes, the most beautiful acts of kindness happen quietly, far away from the spotlight. They don’t make someone famous or bring great wealth. Yet they can change another person’s life forever.
This is the heartwarming story of Hollywood actor Chris Salvatore and his elderly neighbor, Norma Cook—a friendship that reminds us that love has no age, and family is not always defined by blood.
In 2012, when Chris Salvatore moved into an apartment building in West Hollywood, California, he could never have imagined that an elderly woman living across the hall would one day become one of the most important people in his life.
Her name was Norma Cook. She was 84 when they first met, and she lived alone with her beloved cat, Hermes.
What began as a simple neighborly greeting soon blossomed into a beautiful friendship. They enjoyed talking, sharing stories, celebrating birthdays, and spending time together. Norma was lively, witty, and full of personality. She loved champagne, animals, and a good conversation.
Over the years, their bond grew so strong that Norma began calling Chris “the grandson she never had.” Chris, in turn, came to regard her as his grandmother.
They were not related by blood, but their hearts had made them family.
As Norma grew older, her health began to decline. She had been battling leukemia for years. Toward the end of 2016, she became seriously ill and spent two months in the hospital fighting pneumonia and breathing complications.
When she was ready to leave the hospital, her doctors explained that she could not safely return to her apartment without someone providing round-the-clock care.
Norma had no children or close family nearby, and she could not afford the full cost of a caregiver. She also deeply wished to remain in the home she had lived in for decades.
Chris could not bear the thought of his dear friend spending her final days somewhere unfamiliar, separated from the home and companionship she loved.
He first organized an online fundraising campaign, which raised more than $50,000 to help pay for her medical expenses and in-home care.
But when the funds began running low, Chris made an even more extraordinary decision.
He invited Norma to move into his own apartment.
She brought along her beloved cat, Hermes, and began a new chapter of life under the same roof as the young man who had become her grandson in every way that mattered.
A Home Filled With Love
Their life together was simple, but it was filled with warmth.
Chris cooked for Norma. They sat together watching the news, talking about life, sharing champagne and peanuts, and enjoying the little moments that make an ordinary day special.
Norma even joked that if Chris couldn’t succeed as an actor, he could always become a chef!
The doctors had warned that it would be a miracle if Norma lived beyond the holidays. Yet, thanks to the love and care surrounding her, she was able to spend a few more precious months in comfort, celebrating the New Year with Chris.
In February 2017, Norma passed away.
Chris was heartbroken, but he knew he had given his dear friend something precious: the opportunity to spend her final days at home, surrounded by affection rather than loneliness.
He later shared that Norma had changed him forever, making him kinder, gentler, more compassionate, and more patient. He felt that her love and friendship had taught him what truly mattered in life.
The True Meaning of Compassion
What makes this story so touching is that Chris did not help Norma because he expected anything in return. He did not owe her anything. They were simply neighbors who had become friends.
Yet when she needed him most, he opened not only his home but also his heart.
In Buddhism, compassion is more than feeling sympathy for someone who is suffering. It means recognizing another being’s suffering and being willing to do something to ease it.
We often think that changing the world requires extraordinary achievements, great wealth, or remarkable abilities. But sometimes, changing someone’s world begins with something very simple: noticing that another person is lonely, offering a helping hand, sharing a meal, or making sure someone does not have to face life’s most difficult moments alone.
Chris may have thought he was simply taking care of his grandmother-like friend. But his kindness has touched countless people who have heard their story around the world.
Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful things about kindness: when we genuinely care for another person, the love does not end with the two people involved. It inspires others, travels from heart to heart, and encourages more people to do good.
We cannot always change the circumstances of another person’s life. We cannot prevent aging, illness, or the sadness of saying goodbye. But we can make sure that someone does not have to face those moments without love and companionship.
Norma and Chris remind us that family can be created through kindness, that a neighbor can become a loved one, and that a small act of compassion can mean everything to someone in need.
We may not all have the means to open our homes, but we can all open our hearts.
And perhaps the world would become a much more beautiful place if each of us quietly asked ourselves:
Who around me might need a little kindness today?
Because sometimes, the greatest gift we can give another person is simply to let them know: You are not alone.
The first time I saw this extraordinary Chinese ink painting, Look at my home I was moved to tears. The Artist is H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III. Before me was a wonderland that seemed to exist beyond the boundaries of the ordinary world—a place so pure, peaceful, and beautiful that I wished I could live there forever.
The painting evoked a profound sense of holiness and transcendence. Its majestic mountains, flowing waters, mist-shrouded forests, and serene atmosphere seemed to belong to a sacred realm where enlightened beings and reclusive sages might dwell, free from worldly entanglements.
As I gazed at the scene, I felt as though a clear spring were flowing through my body, washing away the dust of everyday life and gently purifying my soul. The painting offered more than a beautiful landscape. It opened a doorway to an inner world of stillness, freedom, and spiritual clarity.
People often say that a great painting is like a beautiful poem or an elegant piece of music. This masterpiece brought those words to life for me. As I looked at the mountains and drifting clouds, I could almost hear the graceful melodies of traditional Chinese music, Flowing Waters from High Mountains. I could also imagine the soft whisper of clouds moving through the forest and the quiet murmur of water winding through the valley.
The scene reminded me of a poem attributed to the Tang Dynasty poet Hanshan, or Cold Mountain:
Clambering up the Cold Mountain path, The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on: The long gorge choked with scree and boulders, The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass. The moss is slippery, though there’s been no rain; The pine sings, but there’s no wind. Who can leap the world’s ties And sit with me among the white clouds?
These final lines seem to express the very spirit of the painting: the longing to rise above worldly concerns and discover a place where the mind can rest in complete freedom.
The Artistry Behind the Wonderland
What makes this painting especially remarkable is the artist’s mastery of traditional Chinese painting techniques and the ability to unite them with the visual depth and realism associated with Western art.
In traditional Chinese painting, the brush is far more than a tool for outlining shapes. The movement of the brush, the pressure applied, the amount of ink it carries, and the rhythm of each stroke all contribute to the work’s character and expressive power.
The center-tip brush technique directs the tip of the brush along the center of a stroke, creating controlled, balanced lines that convey strength and refinement. The side-tip technique, by contrast, uses the side of the brush to produce broader, more varied marks, making it especially effective for suggesting rugged rocks, textured trees, and the changing forms of mountain slopes.
The painting also incorporates freehand brushwork, in which bold, expressive strokes capture the spirit of a scene rather than laboriously describing every detail. Through splash-ink techniques, the artist allows ink to spread, merge, and flow across the surface, creating atmospheric effects that suggest mist, clouds, and the mysterious depth of distant mountains. More delicate brushwork adds definition and texture, bringing selected details into focus.
The mountain landscape is rendered in black ink and rich green tones. The contrast between dark, powerful forms and softer, misty passages gives the scenery both grandeur and serenity. Some areas appear solid and tangible, while others dissolve into the surrounding atmosphere, allowing the viewer’s imagination to complete what the brush has left unspoken.
This interplay between precision and freedom, detail and suggestion, is central to the beauty of Chinese ink painting. What is not painted can be just as important as what is shown. Empty spaces become mist, open sky, or the boundless realm beyond the visible landscape.
Where East Meets West
Traditional Chinese landscape painting often employs scattered perspective, a distinctive approach that allows the viewer to experience a landscape from multiple viewpoints rather than from a single fixed position. Mountains, rivers, and pathways may unfold as though the eye were traveling through the scene, discovering one vista after another.
Western painting, particularly its realist traditions, often emphasizes a consistent viewpoint, spatial depth, light, shadow, and the three-dimensional appearance of objects.
Bringing these approaches together is no simple task. Yet in this artwork, the artist combines the shifting viewpoints and expressive brushwork of Chinese painting with the depth, dimensionality, and realistic effects associated with Western painting. Bold freehand strokes coexist with careful details; traditional ink techniques interact with rich color and carefully constructed space.
The result is neither simply a traditional Chinese landscape nor a Western-style realistic painting. Instead, the two traditions appear to complement one another, creating a distinctive artistic language.
The mountains seem to rise into real space, the forests possess a palpable depth, and the landscape invites the eye to travel farther and farther into its mysterious distance. At the same time, the painting retains the poetic spirit of Chinese shanshui—literally, “mountains and water”—in which nature is not merely scenery to be observed but a realm through which one may contemplate the deeper relationship between humanity and the universe.
Looking at this painting, I imagine a pristine land where mountains, rivers, forests, sun, and moon exist in harmonious balance. It feels like a sanctuary untouched by the noise and restless ambitions of the modern world—a place where one could live simply, listen to nature, and rediscover the peace within.
Perhaps this is why the painting moves me so deeply. Its beauty is not only visual. It awakens a longing for something that everyday life can make us forget: a state of purity, freedom, and quiet joy that cannot be measured by wealth or worldly achievement.
There is an old saying that a place becomes home when our hearts grow attached to its people, customs, and way of life. But sometimes, a painting can make us feel at home in a place we have never visited—a place that seems to exist somewhere between the natural world and the realm of the spirit.
When I look at this masterpiece, I find myself asking: What if such a place were not merely a distant dream, but a reminder of the peace and freedom we can cultivate within ourselves?
Wouldn’t you, too, wish to call this wonderland home?
This remarkable artwork is part of the permanent collection of the International Art Museum of America (IAMA), where visitors can encounter art that bridges cultures, traditions, and ways of seeing the world.
Sometimes, a small act of kindness can grow into something far greater than we ever imagined.
More than 40 years ago, a young Chinese woman named Yin Yuzhen arrived in the Mu Us sandy land of Inner Mongolia, China. Her home was a harsh landscape of drifting sand, fierce winds, and almost no vegetation. She lived in a simple shelter partly buried in the sand, where even daily life was a struggle.
But Yin refused to surrender to the desert.
Together with her husband, she began planting trees, determined to stop the sand from swallowing their home. Many young trees died in the relentless winds, and the work demanded years of hardship and perseverance. Yet she continued, planting one tree after another, season after season.
Then, in 1999, an unexpected helping hand came from across the ocean.
In 1999, Sakolsky was inspired by Yin’s relentless battle against desertification and chose to donate US$5,000 to support her mission. Photo: Sina
Ronald Sakolsky, an American teacher working in China, saw a television report about Yin Yuzhen and her family’s extraordinary efforts to combat desertification. Deeply moved by their determination, he wanted to help.
He reached out to charitable foundations and eventually secured a donation of $5,000 to support Yin’s tree-planting work.
It might have seemed like a modest contribution in the face of an enormous environmental challenge. But that money helped Yin purchase and plant more than 50,000 saplings.
In 2000, Sakolsky traveled to the desert and met Yin in person. They planted a tree together, beginning a friendship rooted not only in generosity, but also in a shared hope for a greener future.
Afterward, he returned to the United States. As the years passed, they lost contact.
But the trees kept growing.
Twenty-Six Years Later, a Promise Comes Full Circle
Yin never forgot the American who had helped her when she needed support. She wanted him to see what had become of the trees his donation had helped plant.
In 2026, she began searching for him through the media, hoping to bring their story to a new chapter. Their efforts to reconnect succeeded, and on August 23, Sakolsky returned to Inner Mongolia after 26 years.
Their heartwarming reunion was marked by a welcoming ceremony attended by Yin and her husband, Bai Wanxiang. Photo: Xinhua/Lian Zhen
The reunion was deeply emotional. The two old friends embraced, finally seeing each other again after more than two decades apart.
The following day, they returned to the forest and searched for the little tree they had planted together in 2000. The sapling had grown into a towering tree, more than ten meters tall.
Imagine standing beneath that tree, remembering the day it was planted, and realizing how much the world around it had changed.
The once-barren landscape had become a sea of green. The trees purchased with the original donation had grown into a forest of more than 50,000 trees, while Yin and her family had continued their tireless work for decades.
They planted another tree together, renewing their friendship and their shared commitment to a greener planet.
Thanks to Sakolsky’s contribution and Yin’s tireless dedication, today, over 80 per cent of the Mu Us Desert — a major sandy region in China — is now covered in vegetation. Photo: Sina
I was deeply touched by this story because it reminds me that goodness knows no national boundaries.
Ronald Sakolsky was an ordinary person who saw someone struggling to make a difference and decided to help. He did not need to share Yin’s nationality, background, or way of life to understand her determination. He simply saw a person doing something worthwhile and asked himself what he could do to help.
And Yin did not allow that kindness to go to waste. She turned the opportunity into action, nurturing the trees and continuing her work long after the original gift had been given.
Neither person could have known exactly what would happen over the next 26 years. Yet their meeting became part of a much larger story of perseverance, friendship, and environmental renewal.
This is what makes their story so powerful: one person’s kindness met another person’s determination, and together they helped create something that would outlast them both.
At a time when we often hear about conflict, division, and mistrust between nations, their story offers a different perspective. Behind the labels of nationality and culture are human beings who can care for one another, share a common purpose, and work together for the good of all.
The Earth, too, belongs to all of us. The air we breathe, the land we depend on, and the future we leave to our children cannot be protected by one country or one person alone.
Perhaps we cannot all plant 50,000 trees. But we can each do something—help a neighbor, support someone else’s good work, protect a little patch of nature, or offer encouragement when someone is close to giving up.
We may never see how far our kindness travels. A small act today might grow into something beautiful many years from now.
The story of Yin Yuzhen and Ronald Sakolsky gives me hope—not only for the future of our planet, but also for humanity itself.
May we learn to see one another not as strangers from different countries, but as fellow human beings sharing one home. And may every small act of kindness become a seed from which a greener, more compassionate world can grow.
The first time I saw this magnificent landscape painting, A Hidden Wonderland (別有洞天), I was immediately captivated by its dreamlike atmosphere and dazzling colors. For a moment, I even forgot to ask myself: Is this an oil painting or a traditional Chinese landscape?
The more I looked, the more fascinating the painting became.
Its colors, composition, and harmonious overall tone have the richness and realism of a Western oil painting. The luminous, almost surreal forms in the foreground appear to glow with extraordinary depth and texture. Creating such a convincing visual world requires a strong foundation in realistic Western painting.
Yet at the same time, the spirit of the work is unmistakably that of traditional Chinese landscape painting. Its atmosphere, poetic feeling, and especially its central landscape are deeply rooted in the aesthetics of Chinese shanshui—the art of expressing not only mountains and rivers, but also the spirit and energy of nature.
The longer I studied A Hidden Wonderland, the more I sensed that there was something beyond visual beauty. The composition seemed to contain a philosophical idea about perspective—about how the world can look completely different when we change where we stand.
It reminded me of a famous poem by the Chinese poet Bian Zhilin:
You stand upon the bridge, looking at the scenery; The one looking at the scenery from the tower is looking at you. The bright moon decorates your window; You, in turn, decorate another’s dream.
The poem presents two perspectives at once. Someone believes they are simply observing the scenery, while from another viewpoint, they themselves have become part of someone else’s scenery. With this subtle shift in perspective, the poet reminds us that what we see depends greatly on where we stand.
A Hidden Wonderland carries a similar idea, but takes it even further.
The space surrounding the central landscape seems like a world beyond ordinary human life—a peaceful, radiant realm resembling a paradise. At the center, however, lies the familiar human world.
The artist creates a kind of visual frame within the painting. By changing the viewer’s position, the distance between “here” and “there,” between the world we inhabit and the world we imagine beyond it, suddenly becomes much greater.
For a moment, we seem to be standing outside the ordinary world, looking back at it from a higher and more peaceful place.
And then something remarkable happens.
After allowing our eyes to wander through the magnificent scenery beyond the frame, we look back toward the human world—and discover that it, too, is beautiful.
The morning sun has just appeared. Golden light gently pushes away the soft white mist floating above the river. Quiet sails drift across the water. Lush vegetation covers the riverbanks, while graceful trees partially conceal small houses scattered among them.
On the fertile hillsides, peach and plum blossoms fill the air with fragrance. In a beautiful pond, groups of geese and ducks play and call to one another. A winding mountain path leads into the distance, while the familiar sounds of village life—roosters crowing and dogs barking—rise and fall in the peaceful landscape.
Suddenly, the ordinary world we thought we had left behind no longer seems ordinary at all.
It is beautiful.
Perhaps this is one of the deepest messages hidden within A Hidden Wonderland. Sometimes we need to step outside our familiar perspective before we can truly appreciate the beauty of the world in which we live.
The artist, H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, has not only created a visually breathtaking landscape, but also a kind of window through which we can look at our own lives from a different perspective. The radiant world beyond the frame resembles a pure and luminous realm, while the human world below gradually reveals its own extraordinary beauty.
After being immersed in such a magnificent vision, we return our eyes to everyday life with a changed heart.
Perhaps the world itself has not changed.
Perhaps we have.
This brings to mind a profound teaching from the Vimalakirti Sutra:
“If a bodhisattva wishes to attain a pure land, he should purify his mind. As the mind becomes pure, the Buddha-land becomes pure.”
Maybe the “hidden wonderland” is not simply somewhere far away.
Perhaps it begins with the way we see.
When the mind becomes peaceful, the ordinary becomes beautiful. When the heart becomes pure, the world we see may also appear more pure.
And perhaps that is the true masterpiece hidden within A Hidden Wonderland—not only a beautiful landscape to look at, but a quiet invitation to look at ourselves, our world, and life itself from a higher perspective.
Tim Baker with one of the newly arrived orphans at the “children’s village” in Langfang, China. Nancy Fraser
One American, One Yuan, and a Village Built on Compassion
Sometimes, a story comes along that quietly restores our faith in humanity.
The story of Tim Baker, an American who devoted much of his life to caring for abandoned and disabled children in China, is one of those stories.
He first came to China as a teacher.
But in 1991, while volunteering at a children’s welfare institution, he encountered children who had been abandoned because of illness or disability. He and his wife, Pam, eventually adopted several Chinese children themselves.
They could have stopped there.
Instead, they chose to do more.
In 1995, Tim left his teaching position and founded the Philip Hayden Foundation in memory of his friend Philip Hayden. What began as a small effort gradually grew into a much larger mission to provide medical care, a home, and hope for children who had nowhere else to go.
A Piece of Land for One Yuan
As more children came into their care, Tim and Pam dreamed of building a permanent home where the children could grow up with dignity, safety, and a sense of family.
In 2002, the local government in Dawang Guzhuang, Tianjin, offered land for the project at the symbolic price of one yuan per mu. Reports describe the land as roughly 30–33 mu. Tim was reportedly so surprised that he asked more than once whether they really meant one yuan.
That land eventually became Shepherd’s Field Children’s Village, or “牧羊地儿童村.”
The name itself is beautiful.
Before the children’s village was built, the land had been used by local villagers as a place to graze sheep.
A former pasture would become a home for children who had been abandoned.
And the story did not stop with the land.
People began to help.
Companies donated materials. Professionals offered their skills. Others provided equipment, construction support, and financial assistance. What one family had started slowly became a community of compassion.
Perhaps the most touching part of Tim’s story is not the buildings or the numbers.
It is the children.
Tim once described how children often arrived with the sadness of abandonment written on their faces. But after receiving care and affection, something began to change.
Their eyes began to shine.
That simple image says so much.
Sometimes a child does not need someone to change the whole world.
They need someone to stay.
Someone to hold them.
Someone to feed them.
Someone to take them to the doctor.
Someone to tell them, through actions rather than words:
“You matter. You are not forgotten.”
In Buddhism, compassion—慈悲 (cí bēi)—is much more than feeling sorry for someone who is suffering.
Compassion begins when we recognize another being’s suffering and allow that suffering to touch our heart.
But true compassion does not stop with feeling.
It moves us toward action.
We ask:
“What can I do to help?”
This is why compassion is so closely connected with loving-kindness, wisdom, and action in Buddhist practice.
We may not be able to remove all suffering from the world. But we can lessen suffering where we are.
We can offer food to someone who is hungry.
Comfort someone who is lonely.
Care for a sick person.
Protect an animal.
Forgive instead of causing more hurt.
Or simply remain beside someone who is going through a difficult time.
Compassion does not always require extraordinary ability.
Sometimes it requires only that we do not turn away.
Tim was American.
The children were Chinese.
Their languages, cultures, and backgrounds were different.
But when a child is suffering, these differences become very small.
A hungry child does not ask where you were born.
A frightened child does not ask what language you speak.
A child simply needs love.
That is why stories like this are so important.
Our world often reminds us of everything that separates people.
But compassion reminds us of something deeper:
We are human before we are anything else.
What makes this story even more beautiful is that Tim and Pam did not do everything alone.
Their compassion inspired other people to participate.
One person donated.
Another volunteered.
Someone else offered professional skills.
Another opened a door.
Little by little, many small acts of kindness became something much larger.
This is how goodness spreads.
One person lights a candle, and another person uses that light to light another.
We may not be able to build a children’s village.
We may not be able to care for thousands of children.
But we can still participate in this chain of kindness.
We can help a neighbor.
Visit someone who is lonely.
Donate what we can.
Volunteer our time.
Care for an abandoned animal.
Speak gently when anger would be easier.
Notice someone who needs help instead of walking past.
These acts may seem small.
But we never know how far kindness will travel.
When I read stories like Tim Baker’s, I am reminded that there is still enormous goodness in this world.
There are people who quietly give without asking for recognition.
We do not have to change the whole world to make the world a better place.
We can begin with one person.
One child.
One animal.
One neighbor.
One act of kindness.
And perhaps that small light will reach someone else—and inspire them to pass it on.
Love does not become smaller when we give it away.
It becomes larger.
Perhaps this is what true compassion looks like—not asking, “What can I gain?” but quietly asking, “What can I do?”
May the kindness we receive become the kindness we give.
May compassion cross every border.
And may each of us, in our own small way, become a light for someone else.
I Chose to Be the Sun—and My Relationship With My Father Changed
There is a saying that has stayed with me:
“If you have never experienced what others have gone through, do not be quick to judge their faults. If you have never endured their suffering, do not be quick to tell them how they should behave. If you had suffered what I have suffered, you might not have done any better than I did.”
It sounds like such a simple truth. Yet for many years, I failed to truly understand it.
Growing up, my father was strict and authoritative. My relationship with my mother was completely different—we were close, comfortable, and deeply connected.
As I grew older, conflicts between my parents became more frequent. I instinctively took my mother’s side and rarely tried to understand my father’s perspective. Over time, my judgments about him became deeply rooted.
Even when I became seriously ill and my father cared for me tirelessly, without complaint, I still struggled to let go of my resentment. I continued to hold on to painful memories of the arguments between my parents.
I was looking at my father through the lens of the past.
After my mother passed away, my father was overwhelmed with grief. Yet he tried to remain strong for me, knowing that talking about my mother might make me sad.
Suddenly, there were only the two of us.
When we went for walks together, my father often talked about things that had happened many years ago. Instead of recognizing the loneliness behind his words, I became impatient. I corrected him, contradicted him, and sometimes lost my temper.
Eventually, he quietly said something that touched me deeply:
“If you don’t like talking to me, at least don’t lose your temper with me.”
His words made me stop and look at myself.
One day, I suddenly saw my own behavior clearly.
I realized that I had been holding on to the painful history of my parents’ marriage and using it to justify my inability to understand my father.
But how could I possibly know all the causes and conditions behind their relationship? How could I know everything my father had experienced, feared, endured, or carried silently in his heart?
I began asking myself a different question:
Instead of waiting for someone else to change, can I change myself first?
I decided that I could.
I wanted to become a more patient and understanding daughter. I wanted to listen instead of judge, to let go instead of cling to the past, and to practice filial love through my everyday actions.
I remembered Aesop’s fable The North Wind and the Sun. The North Wind tried to force a traveler to remove his coat, but the Sun simply warmed him, and eventually the traveler took it off himself.
I decided that I wanted to be the sun.
Little by little, something changed.
When I was away from home, I began calling my father at the same time each day just to check on him. When I was with him, I made a conscious effort to sit down, listen, and talk rather than hurry away.
I did not change him.
I changed myself.
And as I changed, our relationship changed too.
The coldness between us gradually softened. The two people who had once struggled to communicate began sharing a much more peaceful and harmonious life.
Looking back, I realize that sometimes the distance between two people is not created by a lack of love. Sometimes it is created by old judgments, unresolved attachments, and our unwillingness to see beyond our own version of the past.
This transformation came through sincerely learning and practicing Buddhism, and through receiving guidance from the Dharma discourses of Namo H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.
I came to understand more deeply that Buddha Dharma is not separate from ordinary life. It is practiced in the way we speak to our parents, how we respond when someone frustrates us, and whether we can recognize our own faults before pointing out the faults of others.
We often wish that other people would become more patient, more understanding, or more compassionate.
But perhaps the first question should be:
Have I become the person I am asking others to be?
Every person carries a story we may never fully know. Before judging someone, perhaps we should remember that we have not walked in their shoes.
There may be painful knots in our relationships that seem impossible to untie. But sometimes the first knot begins to loosen when we stop asking, “Why doesn’t this person change?”
And instead ask:
“What can I change in myself?”
Sometimes, one small change in ourselves can bring warmth into an entire relationship.
Charlie White was retired in 1997 when this photo was taken, but he still practiced medicine a bit, flying to Haiti on a medical mission. “It’s a doctor’s fundamental dedication to take care of people whether we get paid or not,” he told The Star at the time. Jeff Roberson The Kansas City Star
What does it take to live well—not simply to live a long life, but to remain hopeful, curious, and strong through difficult times?
Dr. Charlie White lived to be 109 years old. He experienced more than a century of enormous changes, but what fascinates me most about his life is not his age. It is how he faced adversity.
When Charlie was only eight years old, his father died suddenly in a tragic elevator accident. His father was just 42. Charlie’s mother was left a widow with five children and no job or obvious means of support. Charlie’s mother turned their home into a boardinghouse to make ends meet. She expected her children to help and gradually taught them to become independent and responsible for their own lives. Charlie later remembered that his mother had essentially put “the responsibility of life” on them. Because she believed they could manage, they learned to believe in themselves.
Something else important happened during those difficult years. Among the people who stayed in their home were medical missionaries. Meeting them helped inspire Charlie to become a doctor.
He did not allow the loss of his father to become the definition of his life.
Instead, he continued his education, entered medicine, and eventually built not one but two medical careers. He lived through the Great Depression, two world wars, enormous changes in medicine, personal losses, and many other challenges.
What strikes me most about Charlie’s story is that resilience did not mean that life stopped hurting. It meant that he continued to participate in life after the hurt.
He learned to adapt.
When medicine changed, he changed with it. When opportunities were lost, he looked for new ones. When he made mistakes, he did not seem to spend his life regretting them. He remained curious about what could come next. His biographer, David Von Drehle, described him not simply as a survivor, but as someone who learned how to thrive through change.
Sometimes we misunderstand resilience.
Being resilient does not mean that we never feel sad, afraid, or discouraged. It means that pain does not have to become the end of our story.
We may lose someone we love.
We may fail.
Our plans may suddenly change.
Someone may disappoint us.
Life may take us in a direction we never expected.
We cannot always choose the circumstances. But we can ask:
What can I do now?
That simple question can give us the strength to take the next step.
Adaptability Is a Form of Wisdom
Charlie lived through a world that changed almost beyond recognition.
Yet he continued to learn and adapt.
This is something we all need today.
The world changes quickly. Technology changes. Our circumstances change. Our bodies change. Relationships change. Sometimes even our dreams change.
Adaptability does not mean abandoning our values.
It means learning how to carry our values into new circumstances.
We can remain kind while adapting.
We can remain honest while adapting.
We can remain hopeful while adapting.
Charlie lived for 109 years, but longevity itself was not his greatest lesson.
A meaningful life is not measured only by the number of years we receive.
It is measured by how we use those years.
Can we continue learning?
Can we forgive?
Can we help others?
Can we remain curious?
Can we appreciate what we have?
Can we face uncertainty without giving up hope?
Charlie understood that life would never be perfect. Yet he continued to meet it with optimism and openness.
Perhaps that is why his story speaks to me.
When something painful happens, we can allow ourselves to grieve—but still move forward.
When circumstances change, we can adapt without losing ourselves.
When we make mistakes, we can learn rather than remain trapped in regret.
When tomorrow is uncertain, we can still choose hope.
Dr. Charlie White could not choose what happened to him when he was eight years old.
But he could choose what he did with the life that followed.
And perhaps that is the deepest lesson of his 109 years:
We cannot always choose what happens to us. But we can choose how we meet what happens.
Sometimes, that choice becomes the beginning of our greatest strength.
Recently, I came across a video about Bodhisattva Candrakīrti, one of the great Buddhist masters of ancient India.
The video told a remarkable story: according to Buddhist tradition, Candrakīrti was able to obtain milk from a cow that existed only in a painting.
When I first heard this, I was amazed.
How could a cow painted on a wall or in a picture possibly give milk?
Curious, I looked into the story and discovered that it is more than a fascinating Buddhist legend. Behind it stands a great master in the history of Buddhism and, more importantly, a profound teaching about emptiness.
Candrakīrti lived in India around the sixth or seventh century. He was one of the most important masters of the Madhyamaka, or Middle Way, school of Buddhist philosophy, and an important commentator on the teachings of Nagarjuna.
His best-known work, Madhyamakāvatāra (Introduction to the Middle Way), became an important text for the study of Madhyamaka philosophy.
Candrakīrti deeply explored a central Buddhist teaching:
All things arise in dependence upon causes and conditions. Nothing exists with an independent, permanent, unchanging essence.
This is one of the meanings of emptiness.
According to a story preserved in Buddhist tradition, Candrakīrti once lived and practiced at a monastery. Because some people did not understand his way of practicing, they misunderstood him.
Later, he was given responsibility for providing milk for the monastery. It is said that Candrakīrti released the cows into the forest, allowing them to roam freely.
Yet somehow, milk continued to appear at the monastery.
People were puzzled.
If the cows were far away in the forest, where was the milk coming from?
Some people secretly followed Candrakīrti.
According to the traditional story, they saw him approach a painting of a cow—and somehow draw milk from the painted cow.
It is an extraordinary story.
But perhaps the most important question is not whether the event sounds miraculous.
It is what the story invites us to think about.
We normally think:
A real cow can give milk.
A painted cow cannot.
That seems obvious.
Yet the story of the painted cow quietly asks us:
What exactly do we mean when we say something is “real”?
This question goes to the heart of Candrakīrti’s teachings on emptiness.
Emptiness does not mean that nothing exists.
Rather, it means that things do not exist independently, permanently, or entirely on their own. Everything depends upon causes, conditions, relationships, and the way we designate and understand it.
For example, someone is called a “teacher” because there are students. Someone is called a “parent” because there is a child. These identities arise through relationships and conditions.
When we look more deeply, we begin to see that many things we regard as fixed and permanent are actually dependent upon countless conditions.
What I find most meaningful about this story is that it encourages us not to be too quick to conclude:
“Things must always be this way.”
“That is absolutely impossible.”
“I already know the answer.”
Our understanding of the world is often shaped by our past experiences, habits, assumptions, and fixed ideas.
Buddhist practice encourages us to hold our views more lightly—to have less attachment, more observation; less prejudice, more humility.
When we loosen our attachment to the belief that “I must be right,” we may begin to see possibilities and truths that we could not see before.
So when I think about the story of Candrakīrti and the painted cow, I no longer see it simply as a miraculous tale.
To me, it feels more like a doorway.
A doorway inviting us to question our ideas about reality, to recognize our own attachments, and to explore the deeper wisdom of dependent origination and emptiness.
Perhaps the story was never meant simply to leave us amazed.
Perhaps it is inviting us to look more deeply.
Just when we think we have completely understood the world, there may still be much more for us to discover.
And perhaps that is one of the most beautiful lessons we can receive from the wisdom of Bodhisattva Candrakīrti.
