I just returned from a solo journey and feel an urgent need to write something down.
If the first half of my 2024 was about delay and being forced to slow down, the second half has been the opposite – important events happening one after another. That’s why I haven’t published a single blog post in the last three months. It’s also why I decided to stop everything and go somewhere a bit far away, just to be alone and find some quiet. Just to hear me clearly.
Things happened in the past year – some joyful, some sad – but my inner emotions weren’t extremely happy or extremely sad. In the past, I would have wanted to share with the entire world or cry my heart out. But now, in the late year of my 20s, strangely, I don’t feel that need. My emotions are just… balanced, without the dramatic intensity of my younger years. I asked my life partner, “I should be really sad about this, shouldn’t I? But why do I only feel a mild sadness, and even a sense of peace?” He smiled and said, “That’s a sign of maturity.”
Maturity, I’m learning, means letting life flow naturally and releasing the need to control every detail. Though I often forget, I must remind myself: If I can’t even control my own breathing, how can I expect to control anyone or anything else?
Okay, I wasn’t sad, but when I visited Linh Ung Pagoda in Danang, I cried a lot.
Standing before the Buddha statues – Shakyamuni Buddha, Avalokiteshvara, Ksitigarbha – my heart was overwhelmed with an indescribable emotion. It felt like, you know, “coming home”. I was gently reminded of why I exist, and the ultimate goal beyond all the ups and downs I’ve experienced or will experience. Tears filled my eyes as I stood with folded hands before the smiling Buddha statue. I stayed there a long time until my tears stopped.
“In this brief life…”, I told myself, “I would try to live boldly and courageously, dare to move towards what my heart desires, brave the great storms of my life, and let go of things no longer fitting.”
I also found a meditation centre right by the seaside. I spent hours simply sitting there, watching waves crash and disappear. The wind and sea brought a sense of peace no music could replicate. There, I could curl up, sip tea, and just be.
Impermanence is always around me and within me, yet I often stubbornly ignore it, refusing to accept it. Sometimes I know my physical form is impermanent, that my cells are constantly dying and being reborn, but I still imagine I’m the same person, that today’s me is yesterday’s me, that others remain unchanged. That misunderstanding is the root of much suffering I’ve endured.
At that meditation centre, I was fortunate to visit the room where Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh once stayed. I was blessed to read one of his books, “Bhumisparsha” (Earth-Touching). This book is like a heartfelt conversation with Buddha, and its simple words deeply moved my heart.
“Buddha, by nurturing the insight of impermanence, I deeply understand what you have taught us to contemplate daily:
- I will certainly grow old, I cannot avoid ageing
- I will certainly become ill, I cannot avoid sickness
- I will certainly die, I cannot avoid death
- What I treasure today, I will be separated from tomorrow…
By nurturing this insight of impermanence, I recognise that I must cherish my days, my youth, my strength, and therefore I no longer wish to waste my months, my youth, and my energy. I vow to live deeply, I vow to treasure my time, my strength, and my youth. Buddha, you knew how to use your time, strength, and youth to create a legacy of liberation and enlightenment, and to pass that legacy to us. We too wish to be like you, Buddha, using our time, youth, and strength not to chase power, position, reputation, or material gain but to transform our afflictions, awaken wisdom, and cultivate love.”
I felt completely recharged after visiting that zen space. It was about 10 kilometres from my hotel, and instead of calling a taxi, I decided to walk back. My steps were steady and strong on the wide Truong Sa road, and I walked on and on without feeling tired at all.
I put on a song called “The wind rises” – with cars gliding past on one side and eucalyptus leaves rustling in the wind on the other – and suddenly, I knew I was ready.
Ready for the challenges ahead, without a hint of retreat.
Ready to give everything I have, determined not to waste this precious chance of being alive.
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