The first time I meditated, I sat in a half-lotus position, with my hands resting casually on my knees and a playful, almost game-like attitude in my heart. After closing my eyes for just a few seconds, my body and mind suddenly became wonderfully clear and serene. Before my eyes, a series of beautiful images appeared—breathtaking mountains, streams, and scenery of extraordinary beauty: a peacock fanned its tail feathers right in front of me, while a gentle snake calmly crawled around my knees. At that moment, I suddenly heard the sound of waves crashing against the shore. As the tide grew clearer, it was accompanied by the roaring wind and people crying for help. Suddenly, I realized that I was sitting on a high rocky cliff on an island. I placed a lotus flower into the sea. Out on the water, a wooden boat was about to be overturned by the fierce wind and waves. The lotus flower drifted toward the boat and lifted it from beneath. In an instant, the wind and waves subsided, and everything became calm and peaceful.
Suddenly, I snapped out of that state. Opening my eyes, I saw my baby crying—he had wet himself. I hurried to change his diaper, then checked the clock: it was almost noon, and I needed to wash vegetables to prepare lunch for my husband, who would be coming home to eat. Between soothing the baby and rushing to cook, I had no time to think back on my meditation vision. The next afternoon, while my child was napping again, I lay in bed in a half-dazed state. The vision from yesterday’s meditation suddenly flashed through my mind, bringing a wave of inner delight. I realized how fun meditation could be: just closing your eyes opens up such exquisite imagery, like a dream complete with sound and a storyline (only later did I learn that not everyone sees visions during meditation). Thinking about all this, my playful curiosity came back. I thought, “Why not sit for a while today and see what I might experience?” So I immediately climbed back onto the bed and sat down, just as I had the day before.
This second experience brought me even greater joy: after just a few minutes, I found myself sitting atop the clouds on a lotus throne, with a thousand hands and a thousand eyes growing from my body. Next, my physical appearance began to shift continuously—one moment I transformed into a form with four arms, and then new heads began to sprout atop my head and emerge from my shoulders. Among the clouds, I saw many monks clad in kasaya robes and heard the sound of Buddhist chanting and wooden fish tapping coming from somewhere unseen. The scenery before me shifted endlessly, so exquisitely beautiful that I couldn’t find words to express it… Just as I was enjoying the view, a sudden cry startled me awake—it was my baby waking up beside me. Checking the clock, I realized I had been sitting for over two hours. Yet to me, it felt like only ten or fifteen minutes.
After soothing my baby, I began preparing dinner once again. The joy of this second meditation left me wanting more, and I noticed that I felt significantly re-energized over these past two days—clearly feeling refreshed and clear-headed!
Here, I would like to briefly introduce my family situation at that time. My husband was a traffic police officer. His father passed away when he was young. His family was poor, and his mother made great sacrifices to put him through university; after that, however, she was no longer able to provide him with any financial support for his living expenses. Although he had started working a few years earlier than I did, when we got married, our ‘’new home’’ was simply his unit’s single employee dormitory, and our wedding expenses amounted to only a few thousand yuan. After graduating from high school, I studied traditional Chinese painting at an art institute in Hebei, and later returned to work at the city’s Xinhua Bookstore. After working for little more than a year, I became pregnant and took sick leave, receiving only 60% of my regular salary. My husband was extremely busy with work. Aside from coming home for lunch and dinner and helping out with a few household chores, we had very little time left for conversation once the baby arrived. With a child to raise, the two of us were living on a tight budget.
After giving birth, my health was very poor, with frequent flare-ups of pelvic inflammatory disease and cholecystitis. My entire body, down to my bones, was constantly aching—sometimes the pain at night was so intense that it made me want to cry. Aside from pouring all my energy into household chores, I felt constantly exhausted and sleepy, wishing only to sleep a little longer. Having stayed indoors for so long, I rarely saw my friends anymore. Time slipped away bit by bit, and life unfolded peacefully—neither dull, nor particularly happy or sad. During that time, I lacked the time and energy to think about much else; my old dreams of becoming a painter or a poet were all washed away by the daily grind of groceries, cooking, and diapers. Occasionally, I still felt a slight sense of boredom. Looking back at my diary from those days, I described life as a glass of plain water—entirely flavorless.
The joy and curiosity of watching my son grow up were no longer enough for me; I found myself gradually longing for more out of life, constantly wishing for something—anything—to happen in my quiet existence. It was precisely in this frame of mind that those two meditation experiences brought me such profound joy. Meditation felt so wonderful that it instantly filled all the empty spaces in my life. I wanted to sit almost every day, seizing any free moment I could find, even setting aside household chores just to squeeze in time for it. At the time, I didn’t connect this behavior to any Buddhist spiritual practice; I simply loved to sit.
Time flew by, and in the blink of an eye, several months had passed. My interest in meditation grew stronger by the day because every session brought forth visionary states—each one so beautiful, mystical, and wondrous, as if I were living inside a fairy tale. Moreover, my physical health was improving day by day: my cheeks regained a healthy glow, the pain in my bones dissolved, I needed less sleep, and my energy became remarkably abundant. After this continued for a few months, one afternoon, while my baby was asleep, I hurried to take my seat on the bed as usual. Just a few minutes in, I felt my sense of self suddenly vanish. At that moment, a voice echoed from above: “You are the 80th reincarnation of So-and-So. Your mission is to propagate the Buddhadharma and deliver all living beings from suffering. Your karmic trials are not yet completed; in five years, you shall achieve ultimate liberation…” “Who are you?” I asked. “Hahaha…” After a burst of hearty laughter, a golden, glowing tablet over two meters tall dropped right in front of me. I believed the script written on it was Sanskrit, yet wherever my eyes rested, the Sanskrit characters automatically translated into Chinese, recording my name, my date of birth, and events I was destined to experience in this lifetime. Then, the tablet vanished, and like watching a movie, I saw the entire process of how I had taken rebirth through my past karma. After witnessing all this, I came out of meditative concentration. My mindset at that moment was like waking from a deep dream. I felt as though I suddenly understood so much, yet looking at my child and my home before me, I also felt as if I understood nothing at all. Still, my heart was filled with intense emotion: I felt I had found something, though I couldn’t put it into words—as if it were the very thing my heart had been longing and searching for over the past twenty-plus years.
The next day, friends came to visit for the entire day, leaving me no time to sit. By midnight, my husband and baby were both asleep. Though I was exhausted and aching all over, I couldn’t hold back the inner impulse. By then, meditation had become a daily necessity for me—a habit as routine as washing my face or brushing my teeth. If I didn’t sit for even a day, I would feel physically and mentally uncomfortable. So, I got up to meditate anyway. By this point, I could observe the visionary states during meditation with tranquility, no longer like in the beginning when I was so consumed by curiosity and excitement that I didn’t want to leave them. After a dozen minutes of sitting, I entered a state of deep meditative concentration. Suddenly, a gigantic Buddhist sutra appeared before me. It rapidly flipped open to a page near the middle, where a line of text zoomed in from the scripture, turning a vivid red that stood out strikingly against the black characters: four words—“Contemplate the mind, and realize the Buddha.”
After these four words lingered before me for a moment, the sutra vanished. I found myself stepping into a mountain valley filled with singing birds and fragrant flowers, where a winding path led deep into its depths. Sitting at the entrance of the path was a young monk, tapping a wooden fish and chanting scriptures. I walked over, bowed to him, and asked straight away: “Master, what does ‘contemplate the mind and realize the Buddha’ mean?” He seemed to explain a great deal, yet the more I listened, the more confused I became, completely unable to grasp it. At that point, he put away his wooden fish, stood up, and said, “Follow me.”
I followed him deeper into the valley until we stopped before a steep cliff. Pressing his palms together in deep reverence toward the cliff, he said, “Master, I have brought her.” He then turned and walked straight away, leaving me standing there in daze. Just then, a voice echoed from the precipice: “My child, I have been waiting for you for a long time.” I looked up toward the sound and saw an old monk standing at the very top of the cliff. He was tall and large-framed, wearing a traditional gray monk’s robe, with a massive string of sandalwood prayer beads hanging around his neck. I had no idea how I suddenly came to be standing directly in front of him. His expression was full of kindly warmth, his tone gentle and serene, and I instantly felt a deep sense of trust, intimacy, and reliance toward him.
He began explaining to me the meaning of “contemplate the mind, and realize the Buddha.” Although I cannot recall his exact words, while still in deep concentration, I seemed to understand that our communication was purely mind-to-mind telepathy. For every single sentence he spoke, my heart instantly grasped the full scope of what he intended to convey—meanings that could never be fully captured by words alone. He told me he was my Master, and that starting tomorrow, he would impart to me his dharma path: the “The Eightfold Path of Great Luminosity.” Hearing this made me very happy. I asked for his name and who he was. He smiled gently and said, “There is no need to know my name; you may simply call me the.”The old man of Tianzhu” That day, he led me on a journey through the mountains and streams of that realm, teaching me a wealth of Buddhist knowledge and principles along the way.
After emerging from meditative concentration, I could still feel his warm energy field enveloping me, and my heart had already developed an immense attachment to him. I felt like a child lost for many years who had finally found her mother—thrilled, overcome with emotion, and filled with a sense of wonder. The next day, I eagerly hoped my baby would go to sleep early. As the saying goes, sincerity brings about a response—the baby fell asleep shortly after ten in the morning. Full of excitement, I immediately took my seat to meditate.
The Master appeared before me, his expression solemn and serene, seated on a meditation cushion. I had no idea where we were; the place was profoundly still, with only the occasional sound of flowing water in the distance. Sitting across from him, I listened as he began to impart the first part of the Eightfold Path of Great Luminosity: Illuminating the Mind and Seeing One’s True Nature. He explained the origins and methods of this practice, as well as the transformations that occur within one’s mind and energy channels once it is mastered. After he finished speaking, I began to enter the state of visualization and realization according to his guidance. Within meditative concentration, time felt like roughly half an hour, during which I completed the entire realization process for the first part. Master praised me, and I was filled with immense joy.
Learning one part each day through eight consecutive days of meditation, I completed all of my Master’s teachings. From the second to the sixth part, I learned the five spiritual powers, while the seventh and eighth parts mainly introduced knowledge of divination, astrology, feng shui, and esoteric practices. Master was very pleased with me and praised me often. He always called me “child,” and in his presence, I truly felt like a young child of just a few years old. Master’s encouragement bolstered my confidence in cultivation tremendously, and my emotional attachment to him grew stronger with each passing day.
During that time, even when I wasn’t meditating, I could feel Master’s presence anywhere and everywhere at all times. Every single moment, I lived enveloped in a familiar, warm, and deeply caring atmosphere. Inside, I felt as sweet as a young girl in her first love, yet also like a child ready to nestle into her mother’s arms at any moment. Aside from essential daily chores, I squeezed out almost every spare minute to sit, driven by an urgent need to be with Master. Because I could only see him and hear his voice after entering deep concentration, I did less and less housework—I had no time to tidy the room and often even forgot to cook dinner. Back then, I seemed to lose interest in everything happening in the physical world, wishing only for time to enter deep meditation and commune with Master.
Naturally, the first person to grow unhappy with me was my husband. Above all, he felt suddenly neglected. We had been married for less than two years, and he was just one year older than me. Beyond my neglecting the housework and leaving our baby unwashed, I had also lost all interest in intimacy. At the time, I wasn’t deliberately trying to abstain for spiritual reasons; I simply had no desire for it anymore. Furthermore, from that point on, I became a strict vegetarian—the mere sight of meat made me nauseous, and eating anything non-vegetarian led to mild diarrhea. With my husband chewing on plain greens for all three meals, and me sitting facing south the moment our baby fell asleep each night, he began to feel irritable, pained, and utterly lost.
Inside, I was filled with remorse toward him, yet I had no idea what to do. The longing for cultivation had completely taken over my entire life, and I simply could not abandon it—there was no turning back. I felt as though drawn by an immense temptation; once I stepped inside, I was no longer in control of myself. A powerful momentum seemed to push me from behind, leaving me unable to take even a single step back.
I found an opportunity to talk to my husband about my experiences with meditation and cultivation, desperately hoping he would understand and believe my words. He merely smiled and said, “Are you telling me a fairy tale? I’m not a child. I won’t be the only one saying this—who would believe you if you told these things to anyone else? Whatever you do, never speak of these matters to others in the future.” My heart sank in disappointment; I knew my attempt to communicate with my husband had failed.
I quickly mastered everything Master taught me while in meditative concentration, and in my subsequent meditation sessions, I did not revisit or re-cultivate the methods he had imparted. Master began advising me not to fixate on any visionary realms that appeared during concentration. Around that time, terrifying images occasionally began to surface in my visions. For instance, spiders were my greatest fear, so I would frequently see them crawling all over my body while in deep focus—and the more terrified I grew, the larger they became. If I thought to myself, Please, just don’t let them crawl onto my head, instantly my head and face would be covered in giant spiders. Whenever this happened, I would recall the words from the Diamond Sutra: “All conditioned phenomena are like a dream, an illusion, a bubble, a shadow; like dew or a flash of lightning. Thus should one contemplate them.” As my mind relaxed and my thoughts shifted into the scripture, every last spider on my body vanished completely in an instant.
After some time, whether terrifying or marvelous visions appeared in my meditative concentration, I remained completely indifferent, as if none of it had anything to do with me. Gradually, these visionary realms faded, but false thoughts began to flood my mind instead, making it difficult at times to enter deep concentration as my thoughts drifted far and wide. The master told me, “Pay no mind to your thoughts. Thoughts are just like visionary realms—let them flow past you like running water. Simply observe them in stillness, without judging them as good or evil, right or wrong, beautiful or ugly. Just watch.” In this way, I became a detached observer (during this period, I no longer needed to enter deep concentration to see Master; I could see him and communicate with him at any moment).As my spiritual practice deepened day by day, family tensions also began to escalate, leading to frequent minor friction between my husband and me. By then, we had moved into a new home, partially subsidized by my family, which significantly improved our living conditions. I even hired a young nanny to help me care for the baby. Yet, my husband’s discontent only intensified. I knew I was performing terribly in my domestic duties during that period; despite trying my absolute best, I simply had no energy left to give to my home or my husband. Most importantly, he clearly felt that my heart was no longer at home, nor with him and our child. In my mind, I believed I still loved my family, but I honestly had no idea where my heart had gone. To make matters worse, my temper grew shorter and shorter. When faced with even the slightest sarcasm or cutting remark from my husband, I should have simply let it pass, just as I observed visions during meditation. Thinking it was one thing, but putting it into practice proved immensely difficult. I was far less patient than before, far more easily agitated, and prone to outbursts of anger. From the look in my husband’s eyes, I could clearly read his doubt: “How could studying the Way and practicing Buddhism turn someone into this? She must have gone astray—she’s possessed!” I would defensively justify myself, thinking, “There is no fixed form to the Way for me to show you—this living, breathing existence is the Way, exactly as I am.” Yet deep inside, I knew I was merely arguing in bad faith. My anger was no expression of wisdom; it was the eruption of my habitual tendencies—the poisons of greed, anger, ignorance, arrogance, and doubt.
Master told me that I should uphold the precept of patience. In deep distress, I asked him: “Why is it that some people don’t believe what I say, even when some of them are kindhearted, devoted Buddhists with deep spiritual roots?” Master smiled and comforted me, saying, “Have you ever spoken false speech? This is precisely the karmic retribution for telling lies.” Reflecting carefully on my past, I couldn’t be entirely sure I had never spoken untruths, so I simply vowed never to speak false words again. I then asked Master how to practice this patience. Master replied, “When conflicts arise, do not argue over right and wrong, nor cling to the notions of good and evil, beauty and ugliness in daily life. Everything happening now is what you must—and should—endure. You must not only refrain from arguing with your husband, but more importantly, you must give no rise to any thoughts of resentment. This is what you must accomplish to uphold this precept at your current stage.”
I immediately put Master’s words into practice, no longer arguing with my husband. No matter what he said, I strove to maintain a calm mind, simply listening in silence—letting his words go in one ear and out the other. Yet, easy as it was to say, waves of emotion still surged within my heart. Feeling hurt, anger, and resentment gnawed at my heart, and tears filled my eyes.
Driven by a mix of despair and defiance, my husband stopped caring about me and the baby. Sometimes he drank until late at night before coming home, and occasionally, he stayed out all night long…
Though my spiritual practice remained diligent, I was in an unusually bad emotional state, and my mindset frequently grew unstable. Sometimes, looking at my sweet baby and our home, I thought about giving up the path altogether—why should I lose everything I have now for the sake of cultivation? I still held great reverence for Master, yet I had lost that former emotional attachment to him. Master’s care for me remained unchanged; rather than lecturing me with lofty doctrines, he would sometimes even suggest I go shopping for new clothes to balance my mind. He told me, “During this period, as long as a method can restore balance to your state of mind, that method is the best teaching for you.”
During that period, even with Master by my side, I was still consumed by confusion, disorientation, hurt, pain, exhaustion, and despair whenever I stepped off the meditation cushion. I unexpectedly began to repeatedly re-examine myself, questioning why I was practicing in the first place and what on earth I was truly seeking. More clearly than ever before, I saw my own latent desires and habitual tendencies: I was no different from anyone else, and it felt as though the more I cultivated, the further backward I slipped.
I felt as though I possessed not a single grain of wisdom, having lost even my ordinary sharp intelligence. I became muddled and confused, losing all sense of direction in life. I had no idea what I was doing each day, nor what lay in wait for me in the future, while the idea of attaining Buddhahood had become nothing more than a vague concept. What truly is a Buddha? I grew increasingly bewildered. I simply listened to whatever Master said each day and followed his instructions to the letter. I no longer held any thoughts of my own; I felt foolish and utterly ignorant. Yet, my trust in and reverence for Master remained unwavering—I never doubted him for a moment. During that time, Master’s teachings to me were aimed solely at helping me maintain a peaceful mind, second only to upholding the precept of patience.
I felt that upholding the precepts was truly a painful endeavor. It was easy enough to refrain from talking back, but keeping my mind completely free of resentment proved immensely difficult. Still, I strove with all my might to do so, believing that if I could succeed once, I could succeed a second time. This realization drew from my early experience with meditation: whenever I entered deep concentration, I felt wonderfully at ease.
Gradually, I came to realize that being able to enter deep concentration right at the beginning of my practice was entirely dependent on Master’s blessings. Furthermore, my mind back then had been relaxed, unburdened by any intellectual obstacles. Later, once I began to take meditation too seriously, I actually found myself unable to settle down and sit. In my subsequent practice, false thoughts multiplied in my mind, and after sitting for a little over forty minutes (I had always used the single-lotus posture), both of my legs would begin to ache. Master told me not to uncross my legs, but to endure it second by second. Standing beside me, Master encouraged me relentlessly: “Endure for one more second, just one more second…” The pain gradually shifted from my ankles to my thighs, cycling back and forth between the two, until I was dripping with sweat from the intensity… then, suddenly, the pain vanished! In an instant, a soothing sensation washed through my legs and spread across my entire body. Master told me that after enduring this a few times, the pain would no longer return, though numbness might occasionally set in. I applied this exact experience to upholding the precepts: whenever I was on the verge of losing my temper, I would tell myself to hold on just a little longer, enduring it second by second.
However, if we lack the wisdom to see the true nature of things and ultimately embrace and dissolve them, endurance remains merely temporary. Human tolerance inevitably has its limits; once pushed past a certain point, all that bottled-up patience will erupt in a single instant. Like shaking a bunch of grapes, every single grievance you ever endured will come tumbling back into mind all at once—and you will demand to settle the entire score at once!
That was precisely how I was back then: my sudden outbursts of rage were akin to sheer madness! I threw all of Master’s teachings to the wind and completely forgot everything my parents had ever taught me. I spat out foul language and even smashed several household objects to pieces. My husband treated my behavior with absolute disdain.
Once I finished creating this “masterpiece,” I quieted down, deeming myself utterly worthless and too ashamed to ever face Master again. Yet Master did not scold me; he simply comforted me and said, “What is past is past—do not dwell on it any longer. What you did was wrong, but if you keep clinging to it in your heart, isn’t that just adding another wrong on top of the first? Child, there is immense energy within your body, and your practice has progressed to the point where your subtle channels and internal energies have begun to transform. It is extremely dangerous that you cannot control your own thoughts and impulses right now. From now on, you must retreat into the mountains every year to escape the mundane world and focus entirely on your practice to complete this energy transformation. I will inform you of the specific time and location when the moment comes.”
Sure enough, before long, Master notified me that on a specific date, I was to go to Mount Putuo, stay there for over twenty days, and then return immediately. Upon receiving Master’s instruction, I felt a wave of misgivings. First, leaving for such an extended period would certainly meet with my husband’s disapproval. Although our baby was almost two years old, he was still so young, and leaving him entirely in the care of a young nanny left me uneasy. Second, there was the financial burden. Mount Putuo was a vast distance from Shanxi, and Master had instructed me to travel by plane, which required a significant sum—money I simply did not have.
Here,I would like to take about my younger brother.
We were four siblings in total, and I was the third child. My mother was a teacher, and my father was an ordinary government cadre; my elder sister and brother were both civil servants in the municipal government. My younger brother had graduated from a medical college specializing in Traditional Chinese Medicine and was initially assigned to work at a municipal pharmaceutical plant. Six months later, he resigned to open a private clinic in the city. Gentle and courteous by nature, he treated everyone with exceptional warmth. Although he wasn’t famous, many patients were still drawn to his clinic for treatment.
Working for himself gave him the freedom to manage his own time. In his spare hours back then, he practiced hard-style qigong and Tai Chi, read Buddhist scriptures, and cultivated meditation. I described to him the vision-states that appeared after I began sitting, telling him about the whole series of extraordinary encounters I had experienced. Upon hearing this, he wasn’t interested in the visions I saw, but simply asked me calmly, “What doctrines did that Master share with you?” I replied that I understood them in my heart but couldn’t quite put them into words. He asked me to briefly express my insights. After listening, he said, “Though I cannot fully synthesize the meaning of the scriptures, his teachings do not seem to contradict standard Buddhist doctrine; he shouldn’t be a manifestation of a Mara (demon)”
I thought to myself: It had never even crossed my mind that a demon could disguise itself as a monk to deceive me. Besides, what does a demon actually look like, and what does a Buddha look like? I suppose because I had read so few Buddhist scriptures back then, I didn’t let my mind dwell on such thoughts.
Yet my younger brother’s reassurance acted like a grounding balm for my heart; at the very least, he believed what I said was true and approached it with a serious mind. From that point onward throughout my cultivation, I would often go talk to him. Sometimes, when I spoke of the phenomena arising in my meditative absorption, I had barely described a fraction before he would finish my sentence, describing the rest of the scene effortlessly. This astonished me deeply. He said he simply felt that was how it ought to be. Yet when he sat in meditation himself, he saw nothing at all—only an impenetrable darkness without even a flicker of light—and yet, he intuitively understood my states of realization.
He often teased me, “Why are you so caught up in all these petty, feminine tendencies?” To which I would tease him back, “After sitting in meditation for all these years, you’re just like a piece of dead wood—without a single spark of spiritual vitality.”
Naturally, when Master instructed me to go to Mount Putuo this time, he was the very first person I turned to for a solution.
Soon enough, he came up with a plan: I would handle my husband myself; during the day, my mother and elder sister would take turns dropping by to care for my child; at night, my husband’s younger sister—who was unmarried and worked near my home—would stay over to look after him. As for the money, my brother planned to sell the house he had newly bought for his marriage, continue living with his wife at my parents’ place, and accompany me to Mount Putuo himself.
Seeing no better alternative, we had no choice but to split up and put the plan into motion. Aside from my elder sister, who agreed readily, no one else approved of our idea. Though my parents did not inwardly oppose my practice, they felt that keeping a vegetarian diet, offering homage to the Buddha, and reading scriptures at home was more than enough—why on earth must I leave home to practice? Mother was also terrified that my pursuit of cultivation would lead to the collapse of my marriage. Yet my brother and I remained resolute, working tirelessly to sway everyone’s minds. As the date of departure drew near, the house was sold, and the matter was finally set in stone. The night before we left, my husband came home very late, thoroughly drunk. The next morning as we were preparing to set off, he suddenly returned from work. Saying nothing at all, he simply carried my suitcase downstairs for me, his eyes brimming with tears. A turmoil of mixed emotions surged within my heart. After taking my leave of my parents, I stepped onto the first leg of my pilgrimage to the sacred mountains—Mount Putuo, the holy land of Guanyin Bodhisattva.
We flew to Ningbo and stayed overnight before taking a ferry to Mount Putuo, where we checked into a hotel right near the shore. Countless times in my meditative concentration, I had envisioned the South Sea, seen the white-robed Guanyin Bodhisattva, and heard the deafening roar of the ocean tides. Today, at long last, I was sitting by the South Sea in the flesh. As I gazed out across the boundless expanse of the ocean and listened to the sound of the ebb and flow of the tides, my mind expanded into a serene, open stillness. All the anxiety, restlessness, and exhaustion of recent days were washed completely clean by the sea.
The next day, we prepared to visit Mount Luojia. When we reached the pier, however, high winds and rough waves had grounded all the boats. We stood waiting at the dock until a small, privately owned vessel offered to venture out, though the fare was raised by ten yuan. Along with a dozen or so tourists, we chartered this tiny boat. The cabin was cramped, forcing the dozen of us to huddle tightly together on the wooden floorboards.
The boat set sail into heavy wind and churning waves. It was my first time aboard such a small vessel; filled with excitement and curiosity, the thought of danger never even entered my mind. The other passengers appeared to be local devotees, almost all holding rosaries in their hands and carrying incense bags over their shoulders. From the moment they boarded, they chanted Namo Guanyin Bodhisattva in unison. I thought to myself: As expected of Guanyin’s sacred land—the devotion to Guanyin Bodhisattva here is truly profound.
As we neared the middle of the sea, the wind and waves suddenly mounted in fury. The wooden boat swayed violently from side to side. To keep the swelling waves from breaking into the cabin, a heavy curtain had been drawn shut over the entryway. Inside, the cabin became pitch-black and suffocating. It felt as though our little boat had lost its bearings entirely, spinning helplessly in place as the pitching grew ever more violent. Tossed about by the turbulence, the passengers were hurled against one another in a chaotic heap. Some began to vomit. A bright-eyed child who had been chanting the Buddha’s name quickly pulled a stack of plastic bags from his incense pouch and distributed them among the crowd. What a lifesaver! Barely able to utter a word of thanks, everyone buried their faces into the bags, vomiting uncontrollably.
I felt as though I were going to vomit up my very intestines. Just as everyone was vomiting into total disorientation, the boat gradually came to a stop—we had finally arrived!
After disembarking, it began to rain. Some of the passengers were heatedly arguing over something with the boat captain, while my brother and I hurried to locate the monastery according to the map. After walking for ten minutes or so, both of us felt something was amiss. My brother approached a roadside vendor to ask for directions. The vendor told us that this was not Mount Luojia at all—to reach Mount Luojia, we would have to take another boat.
The two of us gazed into the distance over the misty, rain-shrouded sea, and only then did we wake up as if from a dream. It turned out that, having encountered waves that were too heavy halfway through, the boat had turned back to the dock. Unfamiliar with the island, neither of us had recognized that the place where we had just stepped off was the very place where we had boarded. The two of us looked at each other—and couldn’t help bursting into laughter…
Two days later, the winds subsided and the waves calmed. We finally got our wish and took a speedboat to Mount Luojia. That night, back at the hotel, I slept soundly, only to be suddenly startled awake from a dream in the middle of the night—the room we were staying in was enveloped in a dazzling white light. A white statue of Guanyin Bodhisattva stood right in the center of the room! She was majestic and solemn, her head reaching all the way to the ceiling. This was the very first time I had ever seen an image of Guanyin Bodhisattva outside of meditative concentration. Anxiously, I glanced over at my brother sleeping on the other bed, but he seemed to be sound asleep. Not daring to call out to him, I could only stare blankly at the statue, feeling as though I were about to suffocate. The room was deathly quiet; I could hear every breath and heartbeat of my own.
Suddenly, the statue vanished, plunging the room into total darkness. Nothing remained save for the sound of the ocean tides outside, echoing wave after wave. I did not overthink it in my mind, but merely found it a bit strange—wondering what karmic conditions had brought about such a manifestation of Guanyin Bodhisattva. Shortly after, I drifted back to sleep.
Our trip to Mount Putuo came to a successful and fulfilling close. Aside from visiting and paying homage at all the monasteries on the island as Master had instructed, we devoted all our remaining time to sitting in meditation and cultivating meditative concentration. While on Mount Putuo, I did not feel any particular changes in my physical energy channels. Here, I would like to add a brief remark: when I was in my teens, I often noticed myself suddenly expanding or shrinking. It was merely a strange sensation that I never paid much mind to, nor did I ever mention it to my parents. Later in life, when dining with a table full of people, I would occasionally daze off, and suddenly the people before me would transform entirely: some became dogs, cats, or pigs, while others had tails still swaying back and forth on their chairs. I felt no shock at this, only a frequent wonderment: *Life is truly miraculous—how a mere trick of the eye can alter the whole world.*
After Master began teaching me meditative concentration for a time, I suddenly developed the ability to see through human bones and internal organs. It was simply unstable: sometimes when I actively tried to look, I could see nothing, yet when I wasn’t trying to look at all, my vision would be filled with people’s hearts, livers, spleens, and lungs, which I found deeply annoying! Master told me that this was the divine eye—the power of divya-cakṣus. Because my divine eye’s energy was still insufficient, it remained unstable, but he assured me that it would stabilize in time.
Sure enough, as my meditative stabilization strengthened, I became able to control it at will. Whenever I did not wish to look, my third eye would simply close. Furthermore, after Master explained the Buddhist concepts of the Five Eyes and Six Supernatural Powers, I came to calmly understand and accept the phenomena occurring within me. Regarding supernatural abilities, Master instructed me: “Do not play with supernatural powers. First of all, your energy channels are not yet fully opened, let alone completely transformed. Utilizing these powers consumes immense energy, making it far harder to gather and build up your energy to achieve further physical transformation. Secondly, indulging in them easily attracts external demons and interferes with others’ karma.” I asked, “But aren’t many Bodhisattvas in the scriptures described as disporting in supernatural powers?” Master smiled and said, “Once you have realized emptiness, you may play with them however you like. Besides, what you have cannot yet be counted as true supernatural power; it is merely a minor ability.” At the time, I believed that having these powers was not a bad thing. Even if it were just a minor ability, it could easily foster genuine faith in the Buddhadharma, keeping practice from feeling dull and boosting one’s confidence in the Path whenever spiritual realms are perceived.
Yet everything has both its benefits and drawbacks—with minor supernatural powers, one is all the more liable to fall into spiritual deviation. For letting go of the greed, hatred, delusion, arrogance, and doubt within one’s mind is not something supernatural powers can help with. If in the end we cannot sever our habitual tendencies and awaken wisdom, then no matter how great our supernatural powers may be, we still cannot ultimately attain liberation of body and mind, nor can we disport in supernatural powers at will…
Upon our return from Mount Putuo, all was peaceful at home, with everyone slipping back into their daily routines. I felt my greatest harvest was that my heart had broadened immensely, and my state of mind was growing increasingly serene. During this period, I began reading the Buddhist scriptures voraciously, hungrily devouring every sacred text I could buy or borrow: the *Diamond Sutra*, the *Lotus Sutra*, the *Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment*, the *Śūraṅgama Sutra*, the *Laṅkāvatāra Sutra*, the *Mahāparinirvāṇa Sutra*, the *Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch*, and the *Compendium of the Five Lamps*, alongside the recorded discourses of Nan Huai-Chin, Master Yuanyin, and various Tibetan Rinpoches, as well as select Confucian and Taoist classics. I could not fully fathom everything written in those pages, nor could I retain the details in memory. Had someone asked me what the *Śūraṅgama Sutra* was about, I might very well have answered with the contents of the *Laṅkāvatāra Sutra*. Yet I alone understood what I had gained. Reading the scriptures, my heart overflowed with a quiet, secret delight—a joy akin to a thief who had just stolen a priceless jewel… Whenever a single sentence in a book resonated with my current state of mind and resolved the doubts lingering in my heart, I instantly felt an inner knot unravel, filling me with boundless bliss. It was a profound illumination—like a sudden revelation, or sweet nectar poured over the crown of my head! I immersed myself completely in the ocean of the Buddhadharma, never wishing to leave…
During that period, my physical body also began to experience intense reactions. First came a stretch of severe, excruciating headaches. Looking inward, I saw the energy channels inside my head turn entirely red, glowing like superheated steel pipes. The headache was so agonising it felt as if I had contracted acute meningitis; even taking a deep breath or gently turning my head brought a sharp, unbearable grimace of pain. I lay motionless on the bed, watching a fleshy lotus flower bloom atop my head. With each petal that unfolded, a wave of heart-wrenching pain shot through me… When the lotus finally bloomed in full, the energy channels at the crown of my head concaved, taking on the form of a radar receiver.
This process lasted about half a month. Because Master had already informed me that my energy channels were undergoing transformation and instructed me to pay no mind, I felt neither shock nor fear.
The second phenomenon was that I periodically lost all desire for food, surviving on water alone, with the occasional piece of fruit. Sometimes these fasts lasted for seven days, sometimes half a month. In any case, I simply let nature take its course—eating when I felt hungry and abstaining when I did not. I refrained from dwelling too much on these physical shifts.
At that time, some friends who believed in Buddhism or practiced qigong would often come to visit me. Beyond receiving them warmly, I would hold forth at length on various Buddhist theories, insistently foisting upon them my own Buddhist views—which were not yet mature or well integrated—and doing my utmost to urge them to believe in Buddhism and cultivate and realize the Dharma, leaving them no room at all to get a word in. Some friends who were not interested in the Buddhadharma were truly practicing patient forbearance; almost all of them listened patiently as I subjected their ears to round after round of bombardment. It was only when lunchtime arrived, or when it was very late, that they would politely take their leave. I would press them to stay again and again, and sometimes I would even thrust a few Buddhist texts that I considered highly valuable into their hands, telling them that the books were so wonderful they must never lose them, and that we would discuss them together next time they came. I don’t know how my friends managed to endure my fervor back then without cutting ties with me. In the end, almost all of my friends began to believe in Buddhism or became interested in cultivating meditative concentration.
Although I listened to Master and did my best to refrain from using supernatural powers, I would still occasionally play with them around good friends—such as inspecting their internal organs for ailments, or looking into their past lives. I remember one day a middle-aged woman dropped by for a visit. Half-joking and half-serious, she asked me to check if she had any gynecological issues. I examined her uterus and discovered a black tumor inside. I blurted out right away, “You have a malignant tumor in your uterus!” The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted it. How could I have been so rash and reckless?
Based on my diagnostic experience at the time, internal tumors and cysts generally manifested in two colors: tending toward either black or red. Black usually leaned toward malignant pathology, while red leaned toward benign. However, having practiced medicine for many years now, I come to understand that certain benign tumors can also briefly emit a dark, pitch-black aura when they have been forming for a long time and the patient’s qi and blood are severely deficient. After a period of herbal treatment and conditioning, the tumor’s aura will shift back to red and gradually shrink.
Upon hearing my words, the auntie’s face instantly turned pale and she burst into tears. I had not expected her to be so fragile, so I quickly tried to comfort her, saying that my vision was sometimes inaccurate and that she could go to the hospital for a proper checkup—and that even if it turned out to be as I said, detecting it early was a blessing in disguise. Unconsoled by my attempts to soothe her, she wept all the way out the door. I sat at home feeling utterly dejected. I knew from past experience that whenever I happened to discover an illness in someone, the outcome was almost always frighteningly precise. My heart ached for her, and I resolved never to examine people for illnesses again; after all, if I could diagnose an ailment but lacked the power to heal it, I was merely inflicting unnecessary misery. Yet, I also felt that as a practitioner, staying silent after foreseeing someone’s illness would weigh heavily on my conscience. I sat there alone in silence for a long time, thinking to myself: If only I were a skilled physician… How wonderful it would be to save lives and heal the sick like Li Shizhen, Hua Tuo, Bian Que of ancient times. Little did I know that this faint wish of mine would soon come true!
One evening while I was meditating, Master came and said he would take me to meet another master. Traveling together for a while within meditative concentration, Master brought me before a tomb. On the tombstone was carved: “The Tomb of Li Shizhen.” Master told me to bow in reverence before the grave. Without a second thought, I prostrated myself toward the stone. Suddenly, the tomb burst open! A man leaped out from within, took my hand, and cried, “I have been waiting for you for a very long time! Come, let me teach you to recognize medicinal herbs.” Before I could even process what was happening, he whisked me away to a hill covered in wild herbs. Excitedly, he introduced them to me plant by plant, calling out their names. He spoke at a rapid pace, and I tried with all my might to commit them to memory…
Upon emerging from meditation, I recalled the experience with a heart full of doubt: Could it be that i had dozed off just now and had a dream? How could Li Shizhen still remain untransmigrated after nearly half a millennium? And yet, my mind vividly remembered the names and appearances of several herbs. I quickly sketched them onto a piece of paper, intending to ask my brother about them the following day.
The next day, after listening to my account and looking at my sketches and the names of the herbs, my brother said, “Let me check the Bencao Gangmu (Compendium of Materia Medica).” Sure enough, he found the names of those very herbs in the book, and the illustrations alongside them were almost identical to what I had drawn. He mentioned that these particular herbs were rarely used, so even he was unfamiliar with their names. While in meditative concentration, Master said to me, “You may take Li Shizhen as your master and let him impart the knowledge of Traditional Chinese Medicine to you.” From that moment on, Li Shizhen became my second master. Later, another master surnamed Huang arrived, who taught me acupuncture exclusively. Just as I had studied with Master in the past, every day after entering meditation I would listen to Li Shizhen lecture on Chinese medical theory and Master Huang teach acupuncture. They taught at a rapid pace, with vivid visuals accompanying their words. For instance, when Li Shizhen explained a herb, that plant would appear before me in living detail. If I could not see it clearly, the herb would instantly magnify several thousand times. When he described a drug’s nature as cold or its taste as sour, my own stomach would simultaneously experience the sensation of coldness or sourness. When he explained the meridians through which a drug traveled, a living human body would appear before me—except it was completely transparent, allowing me to clearly observe how the medicine traveled along its energy channels under different combinations and dosages…
When Master Huang taught acupuncture, a transparent human body would likewise appear before me. His qi and blood circulated within, the meridian network mapped out and connected by dim threads of light, with the acupuncture points shining particularly bright as flickering starlike points of light. Communicating with Li Shizhen and Master Huang was not as effortless as it was with Master; we often struggled to grasp what the other meant. While listening to their lectures, my mind was a complete blank. Upon emerging from meditation, I remembered only some of their teaching methods and visual images, retaining very little of the actual content. Somewhat concerned, I asked Master, “Learning Chinese medicine like this, I won’t be able to apply any of it once I come out of meditation.” Master replied, “It matters not. Everything they teach has already been programmed and encoded into your brain. When the time comes for you to use it in the future, it will flow out naturally.” No longer worried, I simply entered meditation every day to attend their lessons.
This kind of study went on for more than half a year, until an incident occurred that brought it to a sudden halt.
One day, my husband bought ten jin of pork fat and asked me to render it into lard. Ever since returning from Mount Putuo, the sight of meat no longer made me nauseated. At home, my husband, the nanny, and the child were all meat-eaters; I alone maintained a vegetarian diet. That morning, I placed all the pork fat into the wok and heated it up. Once it had completely melted into lard, I poured it into a large basin. By then, the oil was so intensely hot that it had begun to emit wisps of blue smoke, filling the basin right to the brim.
I set the basin of oil down on the kitchen counter, but then thought the spot was too low—if my child came playing by and accidentally knocked it over, the consequences would be unthinkable. At that moment, my mind seemed to go completely hazy: I picked up the brimming basin of scalding oil and carried it over toward the window frame. The windowsill was only as wide as the palm of a hand—even a child could tell that placing the basin there was an impossibility. Yet, that is precisely what I did.
The moment I set the basin down, it tilted to one side; as the oil splashed out, I reached out to steady it. The result was that the oil poured all over my right arm. I let out a piercing scream—I don’t even know how I leapt from the kitchen into the living room. When I came to my senses, I found myself sitting on the living room floor, clutching my right arm with my left hand and weeping hysterically in pain. My right arm quickly turned bright red, and my right hand curled inward like a chicken claw. As the fiery heat of the oil seared deeper into my flesh layer by layer, a violent, piercing pain shot through me every few seconds. I sat on the floor, kicking my feet wildly and sobbing at the top of my lungs, caring nothing for dignity, all my meditative composure gone. The nanny was frightened so badly that she ran up and down the hallway, knocking on doors to beg neighbors for burn ointment.
After applying some burn ointment, I managed to endure the pain for a brief moment. Suddenly remembering Li Shizhen, I quickly shut the bedroom door and sat in meditation. Though I did not seem to enter deep concentration, I vividly saw Li Shizhen lift a kettle of boiling water and pour it entirely over my arm (this was a visionary state in *samādhi*; do not attempt in reality). He then produced a bowl of previously prepared red, sticky paste and applied it to my arm bit by bit. I felt a soothing coolness spread across my entire arm, and the agony subsided considerably. At this point, large blisters began to break out along my hand and forearm. As he dressed the wound, Li Shizhen consoled me:It is nothing serious; you will recover very soon.I was terrified that my right hand would lose its mobility, leaving me crippled. Master then came to see me and said,This was a karmic tribulation of yours. We have done our utmost to minimize its severity, but you must still bear a degree of physical suffering. Rest assured, you will make a full recovery.Master then added,Your oil burn yielded an unexpected blessing as well: that piercing scream of yours brought a friend of mine out of his deep concentration.At that instant within my visionary state, I suddenly found myself inside a mountain cave. Sitting upon a rush mat in the cave was a Daoist hermit with disheveled hair. He possessed an extraordinary, otherworldly stature, and his piercing eyes met mine with intense clarity. He looked at Master and remarked;That almost ruined a matter of great moment! He stood up, bowed deeply to an ancient thread-bound book resting on a stone platform beside him, and reverently retrieved the volume to present it to me. On its cover were the words *Huangdi Neijing* (*The Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon*). I sat down before him, and he began expounding the contents of the text to me. I sat there in a hazy, timeless state for who knows how long before emerging from meditation…
With the help of the Masters, alongside the burn ointments I bought at the hospital myself, the large blisters had entirely disappeared after a week. My fingers could once again extend and move with complete freedom, yet the skin began to ulcerate and fester. Master said, “This burn has triggered the oil toxin to draw out all the accumulated toxins within your body, which must be purged through your hand. This discharge will persist off and on for roughly three years, bringing a degree of intense itching that you must endure.” I thought to myself that itching would surely be far easier to bear than agony—a little anti-itch cream would settle it, and if it grew unbearable, I could always scratch it. But I had jumped to my conclusion far too soon!
That itching felt as though countless ants were crawling all over me. Whenever my hand and arm flared up, my entire body reacted in unison—even my tongue and heart felt an unbearable itch. I had no choice but to toss and turn helplessly on the bed. When dealing with pain, I could still manage to sit for a few minutes, but with this itching, I could not remain in meditation for even a single second. Fortunately, the episodes followed a predictable rhythm, generally striking with the greatest intensity at noon and midnight. In the evenings, I tried to go to sleep as early as possible, yet at midnight—no matter how deeply asleep I was—the maddening itch would jerk me awake all at once.My husband was away on a business trip during that time, leaving only an elderly nanny to stay with me. I was immensely grateful for her care: whenever she heard me groaning in the dead of night, she would quickly get up, fill a basin with boiling water from the kettle, and mix in a large handful of salt. I would then lower my arm into it bit by bit. By that stage, the flesh was slightly raw and ulcerated, yet the itching was so excruciating that I paid no mind to the scalding water. Each attack lasted about half an hour, and as it passed, a yellowish, toxic fluid would seep from the broken skin. Because this was the body purging its toxins, the Masters merely observed from the side and offered words of comfort.Once, I said to Master, “This itching is beyond endurance. I wish I could just take a knife and chop this arm off!” Master looked at me with deep pity and concern, but remained silent. I thought to myself that this time, even Master was powerless to help me. Yet a few days later, Master joyfully brought someone to see me—someone Master himself addressed as Master.
This person appeared much younger than Master. He took a look at my hand and simply said, “Let us begin.” Master instructed me to sit quietly, and the two of them sat down in front of me. The moment I settled my mind into stillness, the sound of a guqin resonated—a guqin had already appeared before Master, upon which he was playing, while the other master held a pipa cradled in his arms. Master’s music sounded deep, low, and melodic, whereas the other master’s pipa produced only a low, whirring hum, like the whistling of the wind.
In an instant, countless beams of golden light radiated from the two masters’ instruments, enveloping me completely. Suddenly, an intense heat surged through my entire body, and I saw my own energy channels emit brilliant, blinding rays of white light, merging into one with the golden rays. The music echoing in my ears grew increasingly intense, until I was pierced and dissolved by tens of thousands of golden beams, vanishing into the light. In that moment, I suddenly understood that the two masters were utilizing the theory of the Five Tones to purge the toxins from my body; after that, I lost all awareness.
When I awoke, both masters were gone. Looking down at my arm, I saw that it had already improved somewhat. From then on, the severity of the itching was vastly reduced—it was confined solely to the burned area, no longer causing my entire body to itch in sympathy. Words failed me as I pondered what to say to Master; tears quietly trickled down my cheeks.
Master later told me that to help the toxins discharge from my arm even faster, I could practice Tai Chi. So, I formally took a teacher to learn Tai Chi sword and fist for a few months. Though my movements were far from standard, it nevertheless played a role in my arm’s recovery.
The second time Master summoned me was to make a pilgrimage to Mount Wutai, and this time almost no one in my family objected. Mount Wutai was only a two-hour drive from my home, and the trip was short, requiring just a single week. I had visited Mount Wutai once before, but back then it was purely for leisure—I had simply bought a few souvenirs and returned. Naturally, this trip was entirely different. My eldest sister was also in high spirits, taking a week’s leave to accompany my brother and me. Upon arriving at Mount Wutai, we first found a small inn to settle in, and then went to pay homage at Pusading (Bodhisattva Summit). As I bowed in worship within the Great Hero Hall of Pusading, a young acolyte suddenly appeared before me and said, Manjushri Bodhisattva is not here today; he asked me to inform you that he will return tomorrow when the moon is full. Afterwards, we proceeded in sequence to pay our respects at Dailuoding.
In an instant, my windowpane was engulfed in brilliant white light, and Manjushri Bodhisattva entered through the window, seated serenely upon a blue lion. I was completely stunned—he was breathtakingly beautiful! If the celestial maidens I had seen before were the pinnacle of beauty, they appeared entirely mundane when compared to Manjushri’s divine manifestation. Within the hazy radiance, Manjushri appeared in a male form, adorned in solemn and magnificent robes, holding a transverse flute to his lips. The blue lion lay curled beneath his legs. Though he appeared to be playing the flute, no sound reached my ears. I asked, “What is the Bodhisattva playing?” Manjushri replied, “I am playing every sound in the world…” Manjushri then seemed to ask if all was well with me, to which I replied that everything was fine. I told him, “Tomorrow I plan to make a pilgrimage to the Five Peaks.” After ten-odd minutes, the manifestation of Manjushri Bodhisattva faded from the room.
The five platforms of Mount Wutai are built upon five distinct mountain peaks, representing the five wisdoms of Manjushri Bodhisattva. Paying homage at Dailuoding is known as the Little Pilgrimage, whereas worshipping at all five summits constitutes the Greater Pilgrimage (Dachaotai). At that time, winding mountain roads were under construction across all five mountains, so cars could not reach the top. We rented a modified three-wheeled motorcycle, and the journey was treacherous. Except for the North Peak—which the tricycle could not ascend—we took the vehicle all the way to the summit of the other four platforms, devoting a full day to each mountain. After five days, the skin on our faces was peeling from severe sunburn. During our pilgrimage across the five peaks, we also worshipped at every temple along the way. So long as a monastery appeared on the map, we would step inside; even if nothing remained but ruins, Master instructed me to visit it all the same, explaining that it was to broadly form wholesome spiritual affinities (guangjie shanyuan).
During that time, my hand still itched every evening upon our return, the skin covered in a dense layer of tiny blisters. Moreover, my unburned left hand had begun to mirror the right: the skin turned red, ulcerated, and started oozing fluid, though the intensity of the itch remained within a limit I could endure. Master explained that this was the process of purging internal toxins. He advised me to eat less in daily life—preferably abstaining from meals altogether if possible—while drinking plenty of water, consuming fruits and vegetables, and meditating more frequently. He urged me to keep a tranquil, balanced mind and refrain from anger, so that fewer new toxins would form within my body.
After returning from Mount Wutai, my body experienced intermittent discomfort. I frequently lost all appetite for food and drink, feeling completely limp and drained of strength, often accompanied by low-grade fevers. Yet after resting in bed for a few days, everything would return to normal once more. Master explained that my energy channels (*qimai*) were undergoing transformation. He remarked that for a person to fully complete the transformation of their energy channels required over a hundred instances of shedding the mortal frame and changing the bones—a profound physical and spiritual rebirth—and that the sheer energy required for such a transfiguration was enough to blow up several Earths. I was already sitting in meditation for over two hours each day. For a certain period, Master stipulated that I must sit for a minimum of eight hours daily, so I squeezed out every bit of time I could to sit. As long as my cumulative time spent in meditation reached eight hours in a single day, I considered my task complete.
Yet Master explained that even this was far from enough energy, primarily because once I arose from meditation, the movement of my thoughts and mental activity dissipated most of the accumulated energy. Thus Master said: “To transform the subtle energy channels (qimai), you must first transform your thoughts. However much your mind becomes empty, that is how much energy you can gather. Only when you attain a mind that dwells nowhere can energy be kept from scattering en masse.” In daily life, a small fraction of the energy gathered in my meditation was drained by the six senses, while mental activity consumed the vast majority. Even if we can remain quiet and still all day long, if we fail to achieve a mind free from attachments, we will at best unblock only a portion of our energy channels. If mind transformation is not achieved, those energy channels that were once cleared will simply become blocked again. Thus, we often find ourselves caught in this process.
From my own direct experience of cultivation and realization, I discovered that in the beginning, the Central, Left, and Right Channels spoken of in Esoteric Buddhism are not fully visible. They are filled with blood, entangled with a hundred lesser channels, and intertwined with the internal organs; the channel pathways themselves are deeply polluted. Only when one’s cultivation reaches a certain stage do the channel pathways begin to purify. At that point, they take on a vague shape and occasionally open up. As one continues to practice, the channel pathways become filled with light—for when we gather energy to a certain degree, it transfigures into light. Only then do the Left, Right, and Central Channels fully reveal themselves, perfectly matching the descriptions in sacred texts, with the Central Channel emitting a bluish-red light. Because all our internal organs develop along these channels, when the energy channels are cleared, it is true that the organs shift slightly in position; however, this movement is so subtle that it is completely undetectable from the outside. The primary tangles between the hundred channels and the Three Main Channels are the subtle energy centers—the chakras. These chakras unfold to varying degrees alongside the transformation of the energy channels. With the opening of each chakra, different divine abilities (siddhis) manifest. It is exceedingly rare for an ordinary practitioner to open them completely; often, even with diligent practice, only a portion of a chakra is unfolded.
The energy channels throughout our entire body are as countless as the rivers upon the Earth. If all the energy channels are fully opened and transfigured, every single cell of our body will simultaneously be illuminated into light. This transcends even the realm of the Five Eyes and Six Divine Powers—allowing one to condense light into form at will, or disperse into pure spirit
Mind and body are mutually dependent. Most people must begin through the transformation of mental consciousness before they can further achieve physical transformation. Yet, if aided by external forces, it is sometimes possible to affect the transformation of mental consciousness by way of physical transformation instead. My own process of practice and realization belonged to this latter path. During this period, whether in deep meditative concentration or in dreams, small animals would frequently visit to seek my help—usually to evade an impending calamity or to request that I help them cross over, with snakes and foxes appearing most often. They would frequently bring gifts of ginseng, lingzhi mushrooms, or magical treasures in gratitude. In states of meditative concentration, I would consume these items to enhance my own energy. On one occasion, a short, thick black snake came to offer a treasure. I watched as it spit out a dark green orb. I thought to myself that this was the snake’s inner elixir, and if I took it, the creature would die. Just then, a voice echoed: “Quickly, take it and swallow it”! I did as instructed. Suddenly, tens of thousands of snakes as well as turtles appeared before me, all seeming immensely excited and leaping for joy. The Snake King spoke, explaining that they had lived for centuries in a marshland hundreds of kilometers away, but now a great calamity was upon them and threatened to eradicate their entire clan, and they begged me to save them…
After this incident, Master told me that whenever I encountered these animals offering anything in the future, I must accept it. If I refused, I would be unable to establish spiritual affinities with them, nor would I be able to help them cross over. What was more, my own process of practice and realization required an immense amount of energy—far more than I could gather through short-term meditation alone. The treasures they offered had accumulated hundreds or even thousands of years of energy, which I could absorb directly upon consuming them. However, there were certain drawbacks: when these energies accumulated directly within my body, they could not immediately fuse as one with me. Furthermore, any inherent toxins had to be discharged, causing discomfort. If the energy was too overwhelming, my own channels would sometimes be unable to transform it quickly enough, leaving me feeling terribly oppressed, suffering alternating spells of heat and cold, or becoming irritable and restless. Master would then teach me a few simple methods to adjust and release these energies…
I forgot to mention my Dharma Protector—the Lion King. I was very fond of him. It was my master who brought him; he followed me everywhere, inseparable, for more than three years. When I slept at night, he would lie quietly beside my bed. His whole body was covered in white fur, each hair stiff like a steel needle, and his body was more than two meters long. When I sat in meditation, he would patrol back and forth near me. Once, during meditative concentration, a clever little spirit that ran extremely fast suddenly snatched the string of prayer beads in front of my seat. Before I had even reacted, the Lion King had already caught up and bitten it in two at the waist. I watched, stunned and speechless, blaming the Lion King inwardly for not having a trace of compassion—it was only a string of prayer beads; why did he have to bite it so terribly? But the Lion King still went his own way, paying no heed to any of my preaching. Once, in a dream, the Lion King suddenly pressed his enormous head right in front of my face and stared at me with eyes as big as copper bells. That face of his was truly the most terrifying face in all the world. I was so frightened I didn’t even dare let out a breath, yet he was in no hurry to move his head away from in front of me. Though I knew in my heart he meant no harm, I was too afraid, so in the end I silently called out to my master to come and extricate me… From then on, the Lion King never did such a thing again and became very gentle and docile. Sometimes I would stroke his back with my hand. At night, lying in bed, I was used to resting my hand on his back, because although he was beside my bed, his back still remained well above the bed. He was very friendly toward the small animals that came looking for me. If I had matters to attend to, he would arrange for them to wait quietly off to one side. After three years, the Dharma Protector at my side was changed to Weituo Bodhisattva, and the Lion King left me. Weituo Bodhisattva’s protection of me was not like the Lion King’s. I could not see him at all times; only in meditative concentration, or when terror suddenly arose in me in daily life, would he suddenly appear before me, and immediately I would be afraid of nothing. Once, while in meditative concentration, I ate an elixir pill sent by a great immortal, and my whole body began to emit light. At that moment Weituo suddenly appeared beside me. He looked me over carefully and asked, “Why is blue light emanating from your head?” I smiled and said it was because I had eaten the elixir. Weituo said seriously, “Next time you take an elixir, let me know in advance. I thought something had happened.”
My master had more than eighty disciples who often attended him. The young monk who first brought me to see my master was the eldest senior brother. He and the second senior brother often came to see me. They appeared in the form of ordinary monastics, called me “little junior sister,” and brought me delicious things to eat.
My younger brother’s clinic had already been open for three or four years at the time. However, ever since I embarked on my path of spiritual practice and realization, he often accompanied me when I went out, leaving his clinic frequently closed. He held a somewhat discouraged mindset toward running the clinic, remarking that my diagnostic insights were so remarkably accurate, whereas no matter how hard he tried to master pulse diagnosis, he could never attain such precision as mine. Feeling that he could not become a truly great physician and was thus failing his patients, he considered abandoning the medical profession altogether. Yet, because he possessed a gentle demeanor and charged low fees, and because most patients visiting his clinic suffered from ordinary colds or fevers that were easily resolved with medication or a simple injection, more and more patients came to seek his care. Nearby residents also enjoyed gathering at his clinic during their free time to chat or play chess, finding the atmosphere comforting and pleasant. And so, my brother gradually kept the clinic open and running after all.
On one occasion, my mother fell gravely ill and remained bedridden for a whole week, showing no improvement whatsoever despite receiving intravenous drips every single day. For as long as I could remember, Mother had been plagued by illnesses: diabetes, congenital heart disease, severe neurasthenia, intestinal adhesions, gastroptosis, and pyelonephritis. Not a single day went by that she did not live in constant suffering. My younger brother was completely at a loss, and I was equally anxious. I prayed silently for her before the Buddha. Perhaps out of a desperate longing to save my mother, I woke with a sudden start from my dream in the middle of that night. I checked the clock; it was only past three in the morning, yet all sleepiness had vanished, so I got up to sit in meditation. Just then, a silver screen filled with radiant white light suddenly appeared in my mind, clearly displaying a medical prescription. I hurried to grab paper and pen to copy it down. Instinctively, I felt it could cure Mother’s illness. The next morning, I excitedly showed it to my brother—this was the very first prescription I had ever written. My brother looked it over and said, “The dosage for some of these herbs far exceeds standard limits, and the amount of arsenic is way too high”. Should we give it to Mother? We looked at each other, unable to make up our minds. At that moment, Mother somehow overheard our conversation from inside her room and actually said,” Don’t be afraid, go ahead and fetch the medicine for me. I’ve taken medicine for almost my entire life anyway, and this illness never gets better. Let us try your prescription this time”. My brother suddenly made up his mind and fetched the herbs. Shortly after, the decoction was brewed and brought before Mother. We watched with anxious hearts as Mother drank the medicine and lay back down. Before long, Mother fell asleep, appearing to be in no danger. She slept so deeply—perhaps because the illness had kept her from resting properly for days—and by the time she woke up, it was already noon. Her spirits were remarkably improved, and she immediately got out of bed to walk around. By the time she finished three doses, she was completely back to her normal self… And so, my mother became the very first person to take my medicine.
Mother’s temporary recovery brought me great joy, yet even then, I did not connect myself with the identity of a physician. To me, what I learned in meditative concentration belonged to a completely different realm from what I did upon arising from meditation. During this period, I also communicated frequently with Master Li Shizhen and Master Huang. Because they existed in the intermediate state, I set up several spirit tablets for them at home to offer homage. I often observed them practicing meditation in their intermediate forms as well. Whenever Li Shizhen sat in meditation, he would light a ring of candles around his seat cushion and place a yellow, gold-trimmed medicine bowl before him. On one occasion, in the middle of his meditation, he suddenly stepped away to attend to something; I quietly slipped onto his seat, eager to experience what it felt like.
The moment I closed my eyes, the sound of my own heartbeat resonated so intensely I could barely stand it. The sound of blood flowing through my veins was like a stream, accompanied even by the rumble of the Earth’s rotation. Although I could usually hear these sounds during my own meditative concentration, they had never been nearly this loud. This time, I felt so overwhelmed by the deafening noise that I could not settle into tranquility for even a single second. To make matters worse, countless cracks began splintering across the medicine bowl before me, and the candles surrounding me flickered as if struck by a sudden wind, several of them going out completely. Terrified, I scrambled off his seat cushion as fast as I could.
Afterward, Li Shizhen never brought up the incident. When he sat in meditation, I would sneak a peek at the medicine bowl, but it remained completely intact, without a single crack. When I asked Master about it, Master explained that if I could reach the state where the breath rests and the channels halt upon sitting, such phenomena would no longer occur. Li Shizhen also practiced swordsmanship; in meditative concentration, I frequently saw him performing sword dances and practicing calligraphy. One day, Li Shizhen changed his appearance entirely: he was wearing a monk’s robe, his head was shaved, and he even bore ordination scars on his scalp. Had Li Shizhen taken monastic vows?! Up until then, he had always manifested in the attire of an ancient imperial physician. Master Huang said, “Master Li has attained realization.” I did not fully understand which spiritual realm this attainment signified, yet I happily bought fruit, lit incense, and laid out wine to offer them in homage, as both Master Huang and Master Li enjoyed wine. After that day, Li Shizhen reverted once more to his physician’s appearance, but I noticed that his way of speaking had grown even more gentle and open-minded, and his physical presence became increasingly sacred and majestic, with a radiant red light frequently emanating from between his brows.
Later, several more masters arrived, all of whom were renowned physicians of antiquity. Among those unfamiliar to me were a Medicine King from Tibet and a physician from Japan. Whenever a new master arrived, I would simply set up a spirit tablet to offer them homage, for they all existed in the intermediate state. In meditative concentration, I often saw them gathering together to discuss a medical prescription or talk about matters of spiritual practice; they also frequently went into the mountains to gather medicinal herbs, though I could not fully comprehend their actions. Ever since that first prescription I wrote for my mother, I began to gain a reputation within my own household. Whenever anyone in the family felt unwell, they no longer sought out my younger brother, but came to me instead.
At the very beginning, each time I needed to write a prescription for them, I would examine the patient by day, but only in the middle of the night would a prescription manifest in my mind, just as it had that first time. As time went on, my friends and relatives also began coming to me for medical help. Gradually, as soon as I finished diagnosing a condition, the details of the patient’s illness would enter my mind, and the corresponding prescription would automatically flow from my pen. When I first started writing them down, I would even make spelling errors on certain herb names. As my reputation spread further and further, I found myself unwittingly surrounded by patients, embarking on my career of practicing medicine, treating illness, and saving lives.
When teaching me about herbal compatibility (pèiwǔ), Master Li Shizhen once explained: in ancient times, wild natural herbs were abundant, whereas today’s Chinese herbal medicines are almost all cultivated artificially, resulting in inferior quality. Furthermore, harvesting and processing are no longer strictly performed, nor do the moisture levels of the dried herbs adhere to proper standards, yet the illnesses of modern people grow increasingly complex. For these reasons, he directed me to prescribe many herbs at dosages that far exceed the standard limits recorded in the Bencao Gangmu (Compendium of Materia Medica), and to frequently employ unconventional, rare, or costly medicinal ingredients. He noted that in ancient times, due to inconvenient transportation, the exchange of herbal medicines between the north and south was extremely difficult. Moreover, rare and precious medicinal materials were confined to the royal palace; ordinary people could neither lay eyes on them nor afford them. Consequently, the classic decoction formulas left behind by famous folk physicians of old mostly consisted of inexpensive and common herbs. Today, however, the availability of Chinese herbal medicine is comprehensive; as long as an herb is included in a prescription, ordinary patients can generally purchase it. Furthermore, my prescribing method did not rely on modifying memorized classic formulas. Thus, my use of medicinal herbs differed greatly from that of ordinary practitioners of Traditional Chinese Medicine, as I also frequently used toxic substances. This posed several dilemmas for the patients. Even though I was offering my diagnostic services free of charge back then, and despite all my earnest efforts, patients could not get their prescriptions fully filled at hospitals or other pharmacies. Furthermore, obtaining the toxic ingredients required them to secure official permits, making the process of fetching medicine exceedingly inconvenient for them. In addition, certain clinics were irresponsible: the quality of their herbs was remarkably poor, and some even substituted counterfeit materials for precious ingredients, which left me deeply uneasy…
Under these circumstances, my younger brother made a further investment to procure nearly a thousand varieties of the medicinal herbs I frequently used, stocking them entirely in his clinic. To ensure a complete inventory, he had to travel across provinces to inspect and source from various pharmaceutical companies—an arduous task.
This made fetching medicine far more convenient for patients and allowed me to prescribe with peace of mind. Furthermore, because I possessed no formal medical license at the time, I was unable to hold consultations in any official clinic. Those who sought my help were all relatives bringing friends, or friends introducing relatives; I could only examine them at home, and I consistently refused to charge any fees whatsoever. When friends traveled from afar, they even stayed and ate in my home. As a result, I gradually spent less and less time meditating each day.
I signed up for the adult self-study examination in Traditional Chinese Medicine, and subsequently obtained my professional physician’s license without a hitch. Prior to earning my license, the number of patients I had treated free of charge had already reached several thousand, and their medical case files filled several large trunks. In the course of practicing medicine, I once asked Li Shizhen whether I needed to pursue several years of advanced studies at a medical college. He replied,”No, definitely not! You must never let those dogmatic and rigid concepts take root in your mind. Right now, you are like a blank sheet of paper: whatever we impart to you, you simply absorb, without bringing forth personal preconceptions to clash with ours. Teaching you in this manner is far easier for us.” Hearing this, I abandoned the idea of studying at a TCM institute, while simultaneously feeling a deep heartache for the decline of our nation’s traditional medicine.
In my more than ten years of clinical experience, I generally classify illnesses into four distinct categories:
1. Illnesses caused by the imbalance of the Four Elements—that is, diseases brought on by natural environmental factors such as wind, summer-heat, dampness, and dryness, or by human emotional turbulence. Such conditions can generally be treated by both Chinese and Western medicine.
2. Karmic illnesses: These occur when a vivid memory from a living being’s past life leaves an extraordinarily deep imprint in the consciousness. Consequently, after rebirth into this lifetime, the subtle energy channels in a specific part of the body are naturally different from those of ordinary people. Once the body’s immunity drops or certain karmic conditions ripen, the illness erupts suddenly. Western medicine usually fails to discover the underlying cause of such conditions, leading to frequent misdiagnoses and improper treatments.
For example, there was a person whose past life was a lion. It ate the carcass of a donkey that had died of an infectious disease, subsequently contracted the same illness, and died, losing all its fur in the process. In his current lifetime, when he reached his mid-forties, he suddenly developed a severe skin condition that mirrored his death in that past life: within a short period, massive patches of psoriasis broke out across his entire body, causing unbearable itching, and none of the many folk remedies he tried helped him. One day, he inadvertently ate a bowl of donkey meat, and within a few days, his skin condition was almost entirely healed. This was a karmic illness, though the manner of recovery in this particular case was rather unusual.
Another patient had been captured by the Japanese in a past life and left exposed to swarms of mosquitoes until death; upon taking human rebirth in this lifetime, mosquito toxins were naturally embedded within his energy channels. Starting at age thirty, small blisters broke out across his entire body and face, which would harden, ulcerate, and itch intensely whenever scratched. Yet another patient had been a fish in a past life that died after becoming entangled in a section of wire mesh. After being reborn into his current life, the memory of that affliction remained imprinted in his channels. One day, severe, excruciating pain suddenly seized his waist and hips; hospital examinations—including ultrasound and CT scans—revealed no abnormalities whatsoever, leaving doctors to treat him merely for neurological or rheumatic conditions. In truth, this too was a form of karmic illness.
3. Invasion by External Evils: Every second, minute creatures in nature pass away; after death, they persist in space in the form of biological waves, existing without occupying physical space. The extensive use of modern electronics—such as mobile phones and computers—alongside air pollution and environmental shifts disrupt their living sphere. Consequently, if a person experiences even a slight imbalance of Yin and Yang in a internal organ, and the vibrational frequency of their body’s biological wave aligns with theirs, these entities can instantly attach themselves to the human body from thousands of miles away. Over time, this inflicts severe damage on the affected organ. For instance, there were two patients who both suffered from spirit attachments of leeches. One had the entity attached to the liver, causing hemolytic anemia whose underlying cause the hospital could never determine. The second had it attached to the spleen, blocking the energy channels of the Middle Burner so severely that the patient could not eat. His lower abdomen became distended, and his spleen began to enlarge and suffer from ischemia. The hospital surgically removed his spleen, yet his condition did not improve, because that leech spirit remained bound within the energy channels of his spleen. For such invasions of external entities, one must completely expel them from the energetic pathways for the patient to achieve a full recovery.
4. Demonic Possession: This occurs when various cosmic entities—demons, specters, or unearthly spirits—attach themselves to a host, almost invariably stemming from some karmic entanglement in this or a past lifetime. The vast majority of these patients exhibit erratic behavior, weeping and laughing unpredictably; in severe cases, they suffer complete mental derangement and speak incoherently. This happens because these entity attachments have seized control of the host’s nervous system. (Note that while patients with schizophrenia present identical onset symptoms, the underlying cause is fundamentally different; thus, not every psychiatric patient falls into this category.)
If the underlying nature of the condition is correctly identified, this is actually the easiest type of illness to cure: the moment the entity departs, the patient recovers immediately. If the onset is recent and the nervous system has sustained no permanent damage, the patient does not even require medication.
However, persuading these entities to relinquish their hold is by no means simple. One must unravel the knots of past and present lives, reconciling their grievances. When necessary, the physician must even draw upon their own store of merit and spiritual virtue to settle the karmic debt, possessing both the authority and power to deliver and liberate the bound spirit to higher realms.
For instance, a female patient once arrived at the clinic dancing, singing, and talking in nonsensical riddles. Her family reported that she had been in this state for over twenty years—a classic case of demonic possession. During the diagnostic session, I engaged in direct dialogue with the entity, appealing to reason, offering appropriate spiritual compensation, and resolving his ancient enmity with the patient, whereupon he departed. I then prescribed four doses of herbal medicine to settle her nervous system and soothe her spirit; after taking the remedy, she was restored to complete health, and years have passed without a single relapse.
Another patient suffered from the same form of possession, but because his constitution was exceptionally frail prior to the onset, the departure of the entity left his nervous system severely impaired. He suffered from chronic insomnia, acute hypertension, and minor fluid accumulation in the cerebral ventricles, requiring more than six months of holistic conditioning before reaching recovery. Thus, the more promptly such conditions are addressed after onset, the fewer long-term sequelae the patient will endure.
Beyond these four common causes of disease, there is yet another category: global epidemics and plagues that sweep through the natural world, some of which actually originate from another dimensional plane.
For instance, there was once a giant python that had cultivated itself for over ten thousand years by consuming countless toxic substances. Due to humanity’s collective karma —arising from the escalation of killing and the intensification of greed, anger, ignorance, arrogance, and doubt—the environment of its spiritual practice was destroyed. During its migration, it accidentally contaminated our dimensional plane. Wherever it passed, all vegetation was decimated, and localized fields of toxic red mist appeared in the atmosphere above the Earth. Once these toxins entered the energy channels of our respiratory system, they combined with the unique physiological conditions of different patients to generate various mutated bacterial strains; in severe cases, the toxins directly corroded the energy channels of the lungs before bacteria could even form, subsequently damaging pulmonary function. Modern medical methods can only detect the disease after it has already manifested, remaining incapable of discerning the deeper, underlying causes behind population-wide outbreaks.
In another example, also brought about by our collective karma, the living environment of scorpions in another dimension was destroyed, causing them to suddenly appear in vast numbers in a single region and triggering an epidemic that poisoned vast numbers of livestock and poultry.
Thus, the purification of the cosmic field is a necessity for all Three Realms. For humanity, committing fewer acts of killing and harboring more thoughts of benevolence will play a monumental role in purifying the universe itself.
In truth, according to the Buddhadharma, all illnesses are simply the manifestation of our karma, for we are inherently karmic retribution bodies. Yet in the Saha World, the manifestation of karma must be triggered by diverse secondary conditions before the karmic seeds can ripen into fruition. My classification of disease is merely a way to categorize treatments based on these varying onset conditions.
At times, several of these conditions occur simultaneously within a single patient, giving rise to complex syndromes. Over the past two years, the number of patients presenting with these composite syndromes has increased sharply, particularly among middle-aged and elderly individuals over forty.
Diagnosing illnesses consumed an immense amount of my energy. At first, after examining ten patients in the morning, I had to meditate for about eight hours in the afternoon just to replenish my vital force. Later, as my meditative concentration (dìnglì) deepened, two hours of daily sit-meditation proved sufficient. Nevertheless, the toll on my mental energy (xīnnéng) remained extraordinarily heavy—at times, I was so depleted that my heart would tremble, and my hair fell out in clumps. Yet the entire path of cultivation is itself a process of relinquishing the self and offering selfless devotion. To broadly sow virtuous seeds with all beings and bring my spiritual merits to ultimate fulfillment, I paid no mind to these hardships. What grieved me most, however, was the misunderstanding of certain patients. Some were not ill at all, coming to consult me merely to test my abilities or out of curiosity. During the early days of my practice, such incidents occurred every single day; still, I strove to examine every patient with painstaking care from head to toe, completely free of charge. What brought me comfort was that every one of these patients left deeply satisfied and offered sincere apologies. Furthermore, nearly eighty percent of my patients refused to disclose their symptoms when I examined them. For instance, if a patient suffered from leg pain, they would not utter a single word about it; consequently, I had to scan them thoroughly from inside out and top to bottom before finally pin-pointing the affliction in their leg. Many patients focused solely on my diagnostic methods, viewing them as extraordinary; yet I felt that what truly mattered was the treatment itself. The unique herbal formulations I learned from Master will surely bring tidings of healing and blessing to every patient bound to me by karmic affinity.
In truth, the patients’ mindset was understandable, and I have no desire to blame anyone here; yet whenever I grew overwhelmed by exhaustion, the thought of walking away from practicing medicine would cross my mind. At such moments, Master would comfort and encourage me, saying: “Do not fear the patients’ lack of understanding or trust. It simply means your own spiritual merit is not yet fully perfected. Besides, the greed, anger, ignorance, arrogance, and doubt of sentient beings are inherently deep-seated. Since you have resolved to walk the Bodhisattva path, you must treat every living being as if they were your own kin. When they are tormented by the anguish of disease, you cannot sit idly by while possessing the medical skill to help them. Indeed, there are those who use the practice of medicine to deceive others, and patients naturally fear being defrauded. Let everything unfold according to karmic conditions; those patients who share a karmic affinity with you will naturally place their trust in you, and under your care, they will be restored to health.”
While practicing medicine, I tried to set aside as much time as I could for meditation and cultivating samadhi , while also reading Buddhist scriptures. The only sutra Master recommended to me was the Vimalakīrti Nirdeśa Sūtra. During this period, while in meditation, I occasionally employed Esoteric mantra recitation and hand mudras to assist in opening my subtle energy centers. Often in meditative concentration, realization methods would come to mind, which I would then apply directly to my own practice. Master paid little mind to which specific dharma door I pursued, merely stating, “Dharma doors hold neither right nor wrong, good nor bad; so long as your view is correct, that is all that matters.” Also while in meditative concentration, I learned the “Bashan Holy Mother practice” from a female Master, as well as the Advaced Female Alchemical practice from the Primordial Heavenly Venerable. (So while in meditation, I also learned the advanced female alchemical practice from the Primordial Heavenly Venerable, as well as the Bashan Holy Mother practice from another female spiritual Master).
Master notified me that my third pilgrimage would be to Mount Emei, the bodhimanda of Samantabhadra Bodhisattva. This time, my younger brother accompanied me. Although my family expressed a few reservations, their opposition was not severe; Master explained that this was due to the merit accumulated through my practice of the Precept of Forbearance. I stayed on Mount Emei for half a month. We lodged at temples along the way, taking in the scenery as we walked, entering every temple we passed, and halting for the night at whichever sanctuary was nearest when dusk fell. What left the deepest impression on me about Mount Emei was how delicious the temple vegetarian meals were, alongside the breathtaking beauty of the landscape. At the Golden Summit, I beheld Samantabhadra Bodhisattva. She too had just returned from afar; upon seeing me, she leaped down from the back of her white elephant. The manifestation she assumed was that of an exquisite young maiden, her hair tied into many small braids with colorful ribbons. Warm and radiant, her laughter rang out clear and joyful. We sat together, sipping tea and conversing, and before my departure, she presented me with many scriptures and spiritual gifts.
Not long after returning from Mount Emei, I received another notice from my master to make a pilgrimage to Mount Jiuhua, the sacred site of Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva. We again looked for monasteries to stay in, but an unpleasant incident occurred at the summit of Mount Jiuhua. At the time I very much hoped to stay at the monastery on the summit, so my brother went to the guest hall of that monastery to request lodging. The monk in the guest hall happened to be angry about something and refused us in a fury. When my brother tried to plead again, the monk became even angrier, and actually began cursing and shouting, trying to throw my brother out. Standing at the door of the guest hall, I felt very distressed, thinking, how could a monastic be like this — not to mention compassion and skillful means, he did not even have basic courtesy.
We then descended from the summit and stayed at a rather remote temple not far below. That night, while in meditative concentration, I ascended to the Golden Summit. Kṣitigarbha Bodhisattva (Earth Store Bodhisattva) stepped forward, manifesting in a tall male form of dignified and majestic appearance, holding a monk’s staff in his hand, bearing the unmistakable aura of royalty. Referring to what had transpired during the day, I remarked, “Why are your disciples here like this?” The Bodhisattva replied nonchalantly, “Like what? My disciples are simply like this. Why were you so insistent on staying at the summit?” I said that I felt the spiritual field up there was powerful and had wanted to sit in meditation there for the night. The Bodhisattva said, “If you had held no discrimination nor anger over this matter, then you would have already sat at the summit the entire night.” Hearing this, I awakened as if from a dream, crying out in my heart with deep shame. When did I become so attached to forms? Afterward, I met Kṣitigarbha Bodhisattva (Earth Store Bodhisattva) several more times in meditative concentration; though he manifested in different forms, he was never as stern, rigid, or curt as he had been that day, but exceedingly compassionate and gentle.
After I finished paying homage at the four great holy sites of Buddhism, I spent about two more years cultivating at home as a lay practitioner and practicing medicine. Sometimes I would go to Mount Wutai for a short retreat. During those retreats, I would sometimes fast completely, and sometimes eat just one meal a day. All my time was spent in sitting meditation or reading; in truth, they hardly counted as formal retreats—just a few quiet days set apart from the distractions of worldly trivia and the seven emotions and six desires, calmly cultivating and deepening my realization.
I remember one winter when I was staying at a small inn on Mount Wutai. I often stood on the second-floor balcony, gazing out at the snowy landscape. Every morning, I would see a monk clad in ragged robes performing a full-body prostration every three steps as he made his way toward Dailuo Peak. At that time, I held a slight prejudice against those attached to ascetic practices, thinking they were merely seeking the Dharma outside the mind.
One day, Master suddenly instructed me to climb Dailuo Peak, making a prostration with every single step. I realized that Master must have discerned the discriminating thoughts I harbored toward that monk and was preparing to discipline me. Dailuo Peak has 1,080 steps, and a heavy snowfall the previous night had left a thick blanket of snow resting upon every stair.
Wearing a padded cotton coat, thick trousers, and a pair of gloves, I began my ascent. Master instructed me, “Hold no thoughts in your mind—relax both body and spirit, and silently recite Namo Wúshàng Dàzhì Wénshūshīlì Púsà (‘Homage to Manjushri Bodhisattva of Great Wisdom’).” Of course, I did exactly as I was told. I had climbed Dailuo Peak many times before, and usually, I would be gasping for breath by the halfway point. But this time, the higher I climbed, the lighter and more comfortable I felt—as effortless as if I were merely performing a few prostrations while resting flat on level ground. When I reached the midpoint, a few tourists walked past me, and I overheard one of them say, “How pitiful—look, her cotton coat is soaked through with sweat.” Another remarked, “Who knows what purpose such suffering serves!” Hearing their words, I felt a sudden urge to stand up and say to them, “It isn’t suffering at all—I feel utterly at ease.”
I felt the energy throughout my entire body revive, like a frozen river thawing. My whole frame was filled with a gentle, cozy warmth; body and mind were completely relaxed and at ease, and my face beamed with joy. Upon reaching the top, I discovered my breath had become long, soft, and deep, as though I had just entered a state of profound meditative concentration. Lotus flowers bloomed in radiant succession from my eyes, my mouth, and my ears.
From that moment on, whenever I saw those practicing ascetics, praise and admiration would invariably arise in my heart, and I would rejoice in their merit. We may never truly comprehend their inner realizations; whatever dharma door suits you best is truly the finest path of all.
Afterward, I traveled to Tibet again with my younger brother and a friend. At the Potala Palace, I encountered Master Tsongkhapa, who explained some of the Esoteric teachings to me. As we passed a chamber where secret esoteric transmissions took place, I smiled and asked Master Tsongkhapa, “Is there truly any secret to be transmitted?” The Master replied, “There are indeed secret teachings. If you do not believe it, come inside and I will transmit the secret to you.” I followed him into the room and saw him seated across from me. As I stood before him, he suddenly assumed an expression of supreme solemnity; in an instant, I was swept up in that powerful field and overcome with deep reverence. I watched as words slowly emerged from his mouth: “Non-greed—non-hatred—non-delusion—non-arrogance—non-doubt.” With every two characters he uttered, a waterfall of white light rushed down over me from head to toe, cleansing me in a single stroke. By the time he finished calling them out,
During one session of meditative concentration, I penetrated deep into the Himalayas. There, I beheld two smooth, conical pillars of ice. The pillars were hollow inside with an opening at the top; knowing someone was within, I entered through the top opening to pay my respects. Sure enough, a practitioner was seated inside. He was delighted to see me and kindly asked me a few questions. He told me that his elder brother was inside the neighboring ice pillar, and that both of them had been practicing Esoteric Mahāmudrā here for over three hundred years. Although the temperature within was cold enough to freeze one’s breath into ice, our conversation resonated in deep mutual understanding. At the time, I was in the process of transforming my heart chakra, and my chest was in severe pain. He looked at me and said, “Beware of channel toxins attacking the heart—your energy is insufficient.” He then instructed me to hold out my hand and pressed his palm against mine. Immediately, what felt like a powerful electric current surged from his body, rapidly flowing throughout my entire frame.
After this had continued for about half an hour, he suddenly withdrew his palm. Breathing softly, he said to me, “I have just channeled all the energy within my body into your energy channels. I hope you will soon attain complete perfection and widely propagate the Buddha Dharma.” I was shocked, rendered speechless for a moment. He smiled again and said gently, “It is nothing. I was preparing to enter parinirvana in the coming days anyway, so this energy is of no great use to me now. I am leaving—would you please step over to the other pillar and inform my elder brother?” In the blink of an eye, I was inside the neighboring ice pillar, calling out to the inhabitant within: “Your brother is about to enter nirvana!” Upon hearing this, the man leaped into the air and vanished outside the pillar. Moments later, he returned, his expression touched with a faint sadness. He looked at me with a mildly reproachful gaze and muttered under his breath, “Departing without even a word of farewell…” Pained with sorrow, I recounted to him everything that had just occurred. He listened and fell into deep contemplation for a long time. Finally, he said, “Do not be sad; this is not your fault. We brothers share a karmic bond with you. We have been in the human realm for over three hundred years, and it is time for us to go. To be able to offer some aid to your cultivation before our departure brings us great joy.” With those words, he suddenly leaped upward, standing upside down in midair, and pressed the crown of his head directly against mine. I instantly realized his intent and tried to stop him, but it was already too late; my head felt fused to his, making it impossible to resist. His energy poured down through my crown like a mountainous wave crashing over me. In just a few minutes, he flipped back down from my head and settled into the full lotus posture, entering parinirvana. I sat motionless beside him, my heart surging with waves of emotion. Once my mind finally settled into stillness, I silently called upon Master. Master appeared outside the ice pillar, having already known everything that had taken place. He instructed me to bow and perform several prostrations before the ice pillar… There were a few other miraculous encounters in the Himalayas that still move me deeply whenever I recall them today. They often leave me feeling that I have offered far too little in service to others. All together, I spent over twenty days in Tibet.
After returning from Tibet, my physical transformation was intense, and the most painful part was the opening and transformation of the energy channels in my throat. I lay bedridden, without a trace of strength in my body. I could not speak or eat; even drinking water felt like a steel blade cutting through my throat and esophagus. I communicated using hand gestures and by writing, telling my family not to worry about me. Every night at midnight, the energy channels in my two lung lobes would suddenly swell, as if someone were forcing air into my lungs with a pump. At such times, I had to immediately squat or half-kneel on the bed; the pain was beyond words. If not for my master encouraging me at my side, I felt I would have broken down from the misery. This continued for half a month, and then, overnight, all the symptoms suddenly vanished. I was full of energy and my whole body felt light and relaxed. When that morning I once again sat upright on the cushion in the living room, I was so moved that tears streamed down my face—I could finally sit in meditation again. Next to the building where I lived at the time was a power plant. Every morning, starting at three o’clock, it discharged waste gas from its big chimney, so the air around my home was at its worst in the morning. But that day, as I sat in meditation, when those pungent odors entered my nasal passages, I suddenly discovered that they had been transformed—in my throat they became cool and faintly sweet, as if I were inhaling pure oxygen. My lungs seemed to have turned into a purifier. I excitedly told my master this news, but he said dismissively, “Don’t get excited. The energy channels in your throat have not finished transforming—only a third of the chakra has opened. Some channels will become blocked again. We’ll talk about it later.”
The transformation of the energy channels in my ears was not very painful. First, there was numbness and swelling at the Yuzhen point on the back of my head, and during sitting meditation my ears would emit explosive sounds and the chirping of birds; my hearing in both ears declined and grew dull. Sometimes during meditation, cone-shaped light would shine out of my ears, along with all kinds of upside-down images. Once, in meditative concentration, I saw Manjushri Bodhisattva come with a young boy who said he would cleanse my ear faculty. The boy held up a bowl of water, while Manjushri, having transformed into an old monk, reached into my ears with some object or other to clean them. I could see thick, grimy matter flowing out of my ears from time to time. The water Manjushri used had just been fetched from the Land of Ultimate Bliss in the West—water of the eight merits and virtues. Just then, two elderly men happened to pass by; as they drew close to me, they stopped, covered their noses, and said, “How can it be this foul!” and looked at me with disgust. On hearing this, the young boy said to the two elders, “Mind your manners.” The two elders said no more and simply stood nearby with their noses covered, watching. I think Manjushri Bodhisattva washed for about half an hour before leaving. After I came out of that state, I felt refreshed and clear-headed, though my ears hurt a little. A few days later, I was standing by the roadside waiting for a taxi. Suddenly, all the clamor of the street turned into the sound of the ocean tide, which I love. The ceaseless stream of cars and people before me, and the buildings, all became like a mirage—even I myself became part of a painting. I stood quietly, my body and mind dissolving into the sound of the ocean tide, unaware of the passage of time, transcending the very concept of space…
Although I could complete all kinds of Dharma methods rapidly within meditative concentration, I felt that the transformation of my physical channels was proceeding step-by-step, exceedingly slow. I would like to briefly outline the patterns of my physical transformation up to this point. When I first began sitting in meditation, I merely learned and played among various visionary realms—(which I believe was due solely to my karmic affinities from past lives and the assistance of my masters). After I finished learning what my masters transmitted to me, my practice became no different from that of ordinary meditators. The only exception was that I immediately entered the realm of light; visions and thoughts grew fewer and fewer, and for the vast majority of the time, I remained abiding in an unmoving white light. At times, I felt as though I had been dissolved into light itself, unable to see any of the subtle channels described in spiritual texts. Yet at other times during meditation, I could clearly see my own cushion. I remained within this white light—or a light devoid of any color—for over a year before I faintly began to see my central channel, left channel, and right channel emerge. I beheld my internal organs, my four limbs, and my myriad energy pathways; I heard my heartbeat rumbling like thunder, the flow of my blood singing like a rushing stream, the rotation of the earth, the hollow echo of the cosmos, and the sound of my own breath. I also smelled a foul odor emitting from every pore of my body, realizing that the human frame is indeed crude and unbearably unclean. During this period, I developed a deep weariness with the world, and a powerful mind of renunciation arose within me. As my mastery of samādhi deepened, my mind grew increasingly focused, no longer disturbed by these phenomena, though subtle thoughts continued to arise. Then, one day, I suddenly felt my pulmonary respiration cease. This occurred as tortoise breathing and embryonic breathing appeared repeatedly between my crown chakra and lower abdomen. After a period of time, a cool stillness descended upon the crown of my head every few minutes. Stepping further, even embryonic breathing vanished, and a single thread of qì seemed to come to rest at my thoracic spine. It was not within the central channel, but along the spine itself; this condensed, motionless qì allowed me to remain without eating, drinking, or breathing, as though I could sit for any length of time. From the moment breath ceased, stray thoughts could no longer arise. After embryonic breathing had been established for some time, the inner fire ignited, warming my lower abdomen. At this stage, if one’s everyday contemplative awareness—the careful mastery over the arising of thoughts—harmonizes with one’s depth in samādhi, the true primordial breath will activate alongside the appearance of warmth. I felt the entire network of subtle channels filled with a dense, shimmering primordial energy. My whole body became warmly buoyant, wonderfully soft, and supremely comfortable, while my heart was filled with boundless spiritual joy. These are merely a small portion of the physical transformations I experienced during my practice. I believe these stages naturally manifest for anyone undergoing authentic cultivation; physical transformations propel psychological ones, purifying ingrained habits and awakening inherent wisdom. Beyond the power of meditative concentration, what accumulates this transformative physical energy is, above all, the vastness of the mind’s capacity. I had once read in the Buddhist scriptures that an entire world resides within a single pore. At the time, I could not fathom such a realm; I wondered how immensely large the body would have to be, and how it could be possible to perceive every world within every pore in a single instant. But when I suddenly realized this state firsthand during a session of meditative concentration, I felt myself turn into a vast, round mirror. I saw a Vajra warrior sitting or standing within every single pore of my physical body, the expression and movement of each one clearly discernible. Gazing upon the trichiliocosm, it appeared as transparent and distinct as a fruit resting in the palm of my hand. Crucially, I realized that my physical body had not expanded at all; rather, the capacity of my mind had encompassed the vast void itself—so vast that nothing lies outside it, yet so subtle that nothing can enter within it. Though I had read these scriptural passages in the past, they had always drifted by like passing clouds. Yet this single direct realization became a treasure I shall draw upon for the rest of my life. In that moment, I truly knew that this physical name and form are merely the false self, and I recognized the original face of the true self. In an instant, Zen koans such as “So, after all, the nun is made of a woman!” or “The nostrils indeed point downward!” became crystal clear to me, and I could not help but laugh out loud. When I emerged from that deep concentration, I wept. I offered my deepest gratitude to my benevolent Master, and to all the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas for their boundless compassion!
A friend once said to me, “Over these past few years of practice, you have contributed far too little to your family. Now you are leaving for Guangdong, thousands of miles away, burdening your parents with constant worry and anxiety. As the ancient saying goes: ‘While one’s parents are alive, one should not travel far.’ Isn’t acting this way terribly selfish?” I replied to him, “There are many ways to repay a debt of gratitude. I lived alongside my parents for over twenty years, yet my presence beside them never stopped their worries, never eased their sorrow, nor spared them the torment of illness. Countless times, I watched my parents struggle helplessly in the whirlpools of worldly distress, unable to alter their plight. They are both in their sixties, with little time remaining in this life; I do not know whether, at the moment of death, they will attain rebirth in the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss they so deeply long for. I have profound faith in the law of cause and effect. My true filial duty is to deliver my parents from the cycle of endless rebirths, so that across all future lives, they will suffer worry and affliction no more.”
Though I spoke these words, as the time for my departure arrived, looking upon my aging parents and my young child, a quiet struggle raged within my heart. I could only dedicate all the merit accumulated from my practice to them, and to all those who have ever offered me their help and love…
In Guangzhou, I felt her vastness and all-embracing warmth, and I began to fall in love with this city.
In Guangzhou, I formed karmic connections with people through the practice of medicine. Six months later, I generated a pure aspiration to travel to a monastery elsewhere in Guangdong to assist in establishing a place of practice . However, due to various circumstances, things did not go as wished. I wondered: my intention was noble, so why did the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas not bestow their blessings, allowing adverse conditions to ripen instead? Examining my subtle thoughts and intentions with care, I discovered that I had become attached to the notion of “karmic affinity” —believing I shared a special bond with certain masters, and favoring a monastery that suited my personal liking. The moment attachment takes hold, one’s mind deviates from the Way; naturally, adverse conditions will then ripen. I used to believe that a place was a true sanctuary only if it possessed the Way. In truth, I was biased toward karmic affinity, biased toward stillness and solemn dignity, attached to tangible cultivation and conditioned phenomena . The instant I stepped out of the monastery, a sudden awakening flashed through me: across the trichiliocosm, what place is not a sanctuary of practice? What place is not the manifestation of the Way? “One flower, one world; one leaf, one Tathagata” I had recited those words in the past, yet never had I experienced their meaning with such profound depth. Returning to the bustling city center, I felt like a fish returning to water. The mundane world itself is the greatest and most complete place of practice.—just as holy lotuses can blossom only out of thick mud. For a truly awakened being, the arising of a single thought can move the three realms. The sanctuary of practice lies right within one’s own body, speech, and mind. Addressing a single individual or preaching to tens of thousands carries no distinction whatsoever. When you become the living embodiment of the Way, your every intention and thought is a sermon. Words spoken from such a state naturally echo like a lion’s roar —what need is there then for formal “propagation of the Dharma”?
Now, I have made many friends in Guangzhou, and they almost always ask me the same question: “Why did you come to Guangzhou?” At times, I would offer a few casual excuses to evade the question, but here, what I truly wish to say is this: If, even for a single moment, you come to understand the nature of equality, universal love, and compassion, then every one of your actions becomes free of ulterior motives—and you will no longer ask your Master “Why?” Throughout the entire course of spiritual practice, we may relinquish family, career, friends, fame, wealth, and every other external thing; yet in the end, we discover that the hardest thing to let go of is our self. The process of shattering self-attachment is like standing by with open eyes, watching your old self die so that a new being may be born. This alone is the truly perfected fruit of Buddhahood. To attain this state, you must enter the domain of universal love and great, selfless compassion; otherwise, you will never reach complete perfection. In that state of true selflessness, every action exists solely in response to the needs of karmic affinity.
In March of this year, I completed my pilgrimage to the last great Buddhist site in China — Mount Jizu in Yunnan. Our group of five first stayed at a small temple at the foot of the mountain — Fangguang Temple — and set out for Huashou Gate the following day. The path was rough and rugged; by the time we reached a small shrine, everyone was panting with exhaustion. I saw the words “Requests Are Never in Vain” inscribed above the shrine door, and I thought it must enshrine Guanyin Bodhisattva inside. When I entered, the statue did not look like the usual images of Guanyin Bodhisattva found in temples. I thought, whichever bodhisattva it may be, I will make my prayer all the same. Of all the countless temples I had visited, this was the very first time I prayed with such utter sincerity and reverence, without a single stray thought in my mind, asking the bodhisattva to bless my parents with good health, and I was willing to dedicate all the merit from my cultivation to them. Suddenly, the statue before me blazed with golden light. The solemn image of Venerable Mahakasyapa appeared in the sky. He said, “I shall fulfill your wish!” Then my parents appeared in the sky as well. The Venerable sprinkled the water of the eight merits and virtues from below the mountain upon their heads, and then the vision vanished. At that moment I suddenly realized that we had already arrived at Huashou Gate. Sure enough, behind the small shrine was the very cave where Venerable Mahakasyapa dwells in meditative concentration, preserving his form in the world. I quietly sat down outside the cave entrance again, and upon entering meditative concentration, I saw a Dharma protector standing at the cave entrance leaning on a great blade, with a large white bird perched on his left shoulder. This bird is Venerable Mahakasyapa’s messenger, and it often guides beings with an affinity to meet the Venerable. The cave door opened, and the Dharma protector messenger standing at the entrance invited me inside. I stepped into the cave; it was vast. A beam of light slanted down from above, and I followed its direction for a dozen or so paces before I saw Venerable Mahakasyapa. He wore a gray robe and held a string of recitation beads in his hand. Tall in stature, he stood there with an easy, peaceful bearing. Seeing me looking all around as I walked, he simply said calmly, “There is no need to look around — there is nothing in my cave. Go out and head upward; there is a very good vegetarian meal up there.” I smiled too, then turned and departed.
After leaving the cave, I realized I was ravenously hungry. My traveling companions were also famished. After we had wolfed down a hearty meal at a vegetarian restaurant, we prepared for the return journey. Passing by Huashou Gate, I suddenly felt I should bid farewell to Venerable Mahakasyapa. I saw the Venerable emerge from the cave as if setting out on a distant journey. I went to take my leave, but he merely raised a hand, as if to say, “Go on.” A slight grievance rose in my heart. I thought, we have come such a long way to pay homage to you — surely you must have some words for us, something like a teaching? Mahakasyapa had already understood my thought. He said, “When did you ever come, and when did you ever leave?” I stood there watching the Venerable recede into the distance, unable to help sighing with emotion, and laughed at my own habitual tendencies and attachments. We are forever unable to live in the ordinary, forever using our clinging minds to seek something, never understanding that the ordinary itself is the true meaning of the Way — there is neither coming nor going. What, then, was I still clinging to and longing for?
Here, I am reminded of when I first arrived in Guangzhou and went to Nanhua Temple to pay homage to the intact physical body of the Sixth Patriarch. I knelt reverently before his relic, prostrated several times, and then stared directly at the Sixth Patriarch’s image, curious to see what he looked like. At that moment, the three sacred physical bodies enshrined in the hall suddenly transformed into three Bodhisattvas. They looked at me and then smiled at one another. I said, “Greetings, Three Bodhisattvas! Master Sixth Patriarch, I would like to ask: what is the ultimate mind-transmission of Chan passed down by Patriarch Bodhidharma?” The Sixth Patriarch smiled faintly. Suddenly, a brilliant white light radiated from his heart, instantly enveloping the entire grand hall. Countless shimmering particles of light began to flow throughout the space, and within these particles appeared innumerable Chinese characters for “Mind”, large and small. Engulfed by this powerful energetic field, I felt myself slowly dissolve. I became pure existence itself—an existence transcending all things—while simultaneously feeling myself flow alongside the light particles, becoming a joyous movement. The light particles and the characters for “Mind” spun together as I was thoroughly purified and cleansed. I do not know how much time passed before I emerged from that state, finding the grand hall restored to stillness. The physical relic of the Sixth Patriarch sat upright and solemn once more as before—there were no Bodhisattvas, nor any floating characters for “Mind.” I stood up, but at the precise moment I was stepping out of the grand hall, a sudden wave of attachment arose within me. I wanted to turn back for one last look at the Sixth Patriarch’s sacred body, and a flicker of doubt crept into my mind regarding the vision I had just experienced. Just as I turned my head to look back, I saw the Sixth Patriarch standing behind his own physical body, raising his foot and kicking his sacred relic right off the altar! He then reached out and tore away the red canopy hangings above. I felt the entire hall quake violently as dust rained down from the ceiling. I sensed that if my mind lingered for even a fraction of a second longer, the Sixth Patriarch would tear down the entire hall itself. I turned away and walked out, completely unattached and utterly free.
Here, my path of cultivation comes to a temporary close. I have not written of what I gained or realized throughout this journey; I have simply recounted my experiences, what I witnessed and heard, and a few of my physical transformations as they truly occurred. Because each person’s spiritual capacity and inclinations differ, everyone’s realms and experiences in cultivation are naturally unique. Every single individual is one-of-a-kind—there is no Dharma method that is inherently superior, nor is anyone’s spiritual experience more extraordinary than another’s! Over a decade of spiritual cultivation has served only to deepen my understanding of what true ordinariness really is. Because of this, the wild, seeking mind has suddenly come to rest. I now engage in work, daily life, and study with complete grounding, dwelling entirely in the present moment and enjoying every single instant of life with my whole heart and mind. To me, whether eyes are open or closed, every state is a realm. This “self” that seeks realization, that “fruit” which is realized, and the four dhyānas and eight samāpattis are nothing more than illusory phenomena. If the mind remains free of distinction, living at ease according to cause and condition, only then will you truly comprehend the eternal meaning of ultimate truth. It is my hope that every fellow practitioner of the Buddha Dharma will not be quick to affirm or deny anything, nor easily mistake the realizations of others for their own insight. Choose a Dharma method in earnest, and dive deep into actual practice with your body and mind. You must taste the flavor of the Dharma for yourself; only then will you gain true and lasting benefit. (The End)