In 1989, at the age of 23, I was not yet a monk and was still working at the airport.

       I remember one autumn evening when I was reading the Diamond Sutra, and it filled me with an incredible sense of calm, peace, and serenity. After reaching about page 51, I closed the book and settled down, preparing for bed. My mind lingered in the tranquility and joy that the Sutra had imparted. As I lay there, I could hear the gentle chirping of insects outside. A deep sense of comfort, tranquility, and harmony enveloped me. However, this serenity was fleeting, as a vision suddenly manifested before me: a full, bright moon emerged, surrounded by drifting clouds - all strikingly vivid and clear.

       Was I seeing this with my eyes? Not at all. It felt as if I no longer existed as a separate person, as though I had become part of the very space around me, while still retaining an awareness of my own presence. Normally, when we gaze at the moon, it feels like a distant object, separate from us. But at that moment, it felt as if we were one and the same - an experience that is difficult to articulate.

       I've always loved the moon. Back then, there were usually no flights at night, so I would ride my bike to the end of the airport runway and sit there alone. The runway was expansive and, on moonlit nights, I could sit for hours, immersed in the joy that the sight of the moon brought me. 

       As I mentioned, when we typically look at the moon, we perceive a sense of space - we’re grounded, gazing up at the sky. Yet that autumn night, the moon felt as if it resided within me, as if my heart embraced the entire universe, with the moon and clouds contained within it. There was no sense of distance, no feeling of separation. It even seemed as though I was looking down on everything, with it all existing inside my body - though “body” isn’t quite the right term as, at that moment, I had no concept of physical form. Still, that’s the closest way I can describe it: as if everything was contained within me. Just as I was marveling at how magical the experience was, everything before me vanished when a thought arose and I was momentarily taken aback. The moon, the clouds - all were gone in a blink. All that remained was the darkness of the room and the sound of insects chirping outside. I was bewildered and almost ready to dismiss it as a dream. Yet, it didn’t feel like a dream at all.

       At the time, I had read a bit about Buddhism and knew that some people could possess supernatural powers. I wondered to myself, “Did I just develop some kind of special ability? Did my eyes somehow see through the ceiling and spot the moon outside?” Intrigued, I opened the door and stepped outside to check. But the sky was pitch black.

       I was puzzled. The moon I had seen in my vision felt far more vivid and real than the one I usually observed while sitting at the runway.

       So, what exactly is reality? Where did that moon come from? If you say I didn’t see it, I clearly did - though the word “see” doesn’t quite capture the experience. Yet if you assert that I did see it, then when I stepped outside to look at the so-called real world, there was nothing there.

       This prompted me to question the nature of reality itself. Later, I visited Mingjiao Temple and consulted a monk about my experience. I shared the entire story with him, and he explained:

       “This happened because your mind was quite calm at that moment, which allowed you to see this vision. However, your mind wasn’t calm enough. If it had been calmer, even the moon would have disappeared.”

       His explanation reminded me of a Buddhist notion: that "all phenomena are created by the mind."

       Speaking of “reality,” if we consider the moon I saw while sitting on the runway as real, it’s only because I perceived it with my eyes. Yet, the moon I witnessed that night while lying in bed was also real - perhaps even more so, in my personal experience, than the one I saw at the runway. If what I saw in bed is deemed an illusion, how can we prove that the moon I saw on the runway is real? In other words, if the first experience is an illusion, then the second could be as well; conversely, if the first is real, then the second could also be real.

       What this suggests is that the external world is merely an experience we perceive. At one mental “frequency,” we view the world in a certain way; at a different mental “frequency,” we perceive it differently.

       For instance, the moon I saw on the runway is visible to anyone - any Tom, Dick, or Harry - because humanity shares a common karma. We’re all tuned into the same karmic frequency. It’s akin to using the same app on our phones; if we’re all using WeChat, we can send and receive messages and share information within that space. Alternatively, we might use another shared platform, resulting in the same kind of interaction. However, if you switch to a different platform, or one that’s unique to you, then others cannot participate in it, nor can you share your experience with them. You can’t claim that your platform is the only real one while dismissing others as fake or illusory.

       This explains the difference between “collective karma” versus “individual karma.”

       Buddhist scriptures teach that the world around us reflects the collective karma of sentient beings. People with similar karma perceive the world in one way, while those with different karma experience it differently. For instance, Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara perceives the human world and its physical environment in a way distinct from our own. As ordinary beings, we are defiled by shared karma born from unwholesome deeds, whereas the Bodhisattva, cultivating only virtues that result in pure and uncontaminated karma, sees this world as a pure land.

       This concept is beautifully illustrated in a story from the Vimalakirti Sutra. Venerable Śāriputra once asked Shakyamuni Buddha: “World-Honored One, you, like other Buddhas, have attained enlightenment, why is it that your Buddha field - this Saha world - is so filthy, ruined, and the landscapes are rugged, while the worlds of other Buddhas are all pristine and smooth pure lands?”

       Shakyamuni Buddha said, “So, you wish to see my pure land.”

       Then, with a touch of his big toe to the ground, the entire billion-world universe was transformed into a pure and magnificent realm, adorned with precious gems, much like the majestic Land of Bliss of Amitabha Buddha. Upon withdrawing his supernatural power, the world manifested to Śāriputra reverted to its former state.

       The Buddha’s land is always pure; the problem lies in our perception. We cannot see this purity because our minds are polluted by karma. To glimpse the Buddha’s Pure Land, we must rely on his miraculous power, as we are not yet attuned to his frequency.

       Many people cling to the belief that the world they see is real, unaware that different eyes perceive the same thing in vastly different ways. The perspective of the world differs greatly - from ants to humans, and even more so from humans to Buddhas. My journey into Buddhism began with reading the Diamond Sutra, whose teachings resonated deeply with me, especially after the small incident involving the moon vision on that autumn evening.

       The Diamond Sutra teaches that “all appearances and notions are not appearances and notions…” and that “what the Tathagata speaks is true, real, and as it is. His words are neither deceptive nor contradictory.” This led me to firmly believe in the truth of the Buddha’s words. Reading the Diamond Sutra also dismantled my misconceptions about certain Buddhist concepts. For example,  the Buddha teaches ‘emptiness’ (śūnya in Sanskrit), stating that all things are empty and the mundane world is an illusion. Did the Buddha lie when he said this, given that things in the world clearly exist? Of course not. The notion of śūnya doesn’t imply extinction or total nothingness - it’s far deeper and more subtle than that.

       I came to realize that Buddhist Dharma has perfect interconnectedness, internal coherence, and profound meaning. How little I had understood before! It was a humbling experience, revealing how conceited I had been in assuming my limited understanding was correct. I felt embarrassed and ashamed of my ignorance and arrogance, but this realization filled me with newfound humility and reverence for the Dharma.

       At that time, I was practicing a Chan meditation technique called Hua Tou (the thought before words are spoken). The practitioners probe hard into the meaning of a short phrase for intense meditation and introspection, aimed at uncovering the truth behind words and becoming enlightened.

       Though it ideally requires guidance from a qualified master, I was navigating it on my own, uncertain if my efforts truly qualified as Hua Tou. Typically, the subjects of meditation involve questions like “Does a dog have Buddha-nature?” guided by a master.

       During this period, I felt deeply unhappy, fixating on a single question: “What exactly am I?” or “What is this ‘I’?” This inquiry was closely tied to my daily life. I once believed I should be in control of my happiness and pride, that I could do whatever I desired. But that belief crumbled; I longed for happiness yet remained mired in suffering. Who was this “I”?  “I” was meant to be autonomous, deciding things for myself, yet this “I” felt like a traitor, constantly undermining me and making me feel agitated. I became consumed with the need to understand its true nature.

       It seems that dwelling on a thought for too long can begin to affect your senses.

       I was terrified by an experience one day. I recall being on my way to work at the Administration Office of the Civil Aviation Bureau when, suddenly, it felt as though I had entered a thick fog, or as if I had stepped into a painting. In an instant, I lost all sense of space and distance. Normally, we perceive depth; some things appear far away, while others are close. But at that moment, everything in front of me seemed flat, like a two-dimensional image. Though I was still walking, it felt as if my feet were floating - light and unstable, as though I were treading on cotton. A wave of panic washed over me, as I remembered stories of people who had “lost themselves” due to improper meditation. I thought, “Am I losing my mind from practicing without guidance? Have I gone off the deep end?”

       Frightened, I stopped walking, trying to calm myself as I blinked repeatedly. Gradually, it felt like the fog lifted, and my sense of distance and space returned.

       From that day forward,  I dared not practice Hua Tou anymore. I was afraid things could spiral out of control without proper guidance. This marked the beginning of my journey on the Buddhist path.

(Translated by the Pure Land School Translation Team;
edited by Householder Fojin)