In the summer of 1994, when I was 28, my father passed away. After the funeral was over, I started to handle my own affairs. I called my younger brother over. There wasn’t much to discuss - what was there to discuss about me becoming a monk? I didn’t consult with anyone, I just told them my decision. They didn’t have much say about it. Only when father was alive did he have veto power, because we lived together. This was my own choice, and it was not open to challenge.

       From a worldly perspective, how could you stop a young man with a promising career from becoming a monk, when he was prepared to give up everything in this glitzy and glamorous world - money, love, and more.

       No one could change his mind because he was determined to address the crucial concern in life: to break free from the cycle of birth and death.

       When my older brother heard the news, of course he didn’t want us brothers to be separated. Moreover, like many others then, he didn’t understand what being a monk entailed. He growled that if I dared to become a monk, he’d break my legs. I just laughed it off. I knew he wouldn’t do such a thing in a million years - his harsh words were just his way of showing that he cared. When I eventually did become a monk, he didn’t do much as bare his teeth at me. 

       Once someone mustered this kind of iron-clad determination, he became fearless and even the mightiest army could not stop him. Moreover, it's the right decision - for the crucial matter of life and death - breaking free from samsara, for one's ultimate happiness, for the ultimate truth of life. If I had stayed in the secular world, who could have given me life's ultimate happiness? Who could have shown me life's ultimate truth? So, for someone who wanted to become a monk, others telling them they couldn’t was just hogwash. There's no question of permission - it's only a matter of whether the right conditions have come together. For me at that time, my aspiration and resolve to become a monk was like a tsunami - not even mountains could stand in its way, nothing could hold it back.

       Personally, my connection with Buddhism was very weak when I was young. I was born in 1966, when the Cultural Revolution (文化大革命) came roaring in. What followed was a campaign to “eliminate all demons and evil spirits” (打倒一切牛鬼蛇神) -  a phrase used to target anything deemed superstitious or reactionary. Buddhist temples, statues of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, and scriptures were considered as ‘demons and evil spirits’ and were all destroyed. Schools strictly adhered to atheistic education and, with that, what chance did students have to encounter Buddhism? Absolutely zero. There wasn’t a single temple left in the small villages around us. If I rack my brain now, I can only think of a few small incidents from my youth that had any connection to religion.

       The first incident I remember happened when I was very young, perhaps before I started school, or just after. I had done something that angered my mother, and she was about to spank me, so I ran. Children could run fast, and my mother couldn't catch me. But in my panic, I wasn't watching where I was going and suddenly fell with a "thump." From behind me, my mother said "Amituofo." This was the first time in my life I had heard "Amituofo," pronounced in our local dialect. At that moment, hearing it felt very strange. I forgot I was on the run and my mother was chasing after me, and just thought: "What does this 'Amituofo' mean? Why did my mother say 'Amituofo'?"

       Clearly, this phrase wasn't Chinese - well, at that time I didn't know if it was Chinese or not. As a child I didn't have that concept - but it wasn't a phrase we used every day. Phrases like "me and you" or "where are you going" all had clear meanings, but what did these four syllables "A-mi-tuo-fo" mean? Yet it felt fitting, as if, at that moment, one should indeed say "Amituofo." What did my mother mean by saying "Amituofo"? Probably it meant “that’s karma for you,” or perhaps: "See? Serves you right for running away. Amituofo." It expressed so many meanings at once. It also seemed that saying ‘Amituofo’ helped my mother let off steam.

       The reason I still remember this is because the pronunciation of "Amituofo" left such an indelible impression on me. I've forgotten so many things from my childhood, but this memory remains clear and vivid in my mind even today.

       I think at that moment, Amitabha Buddha saw me, as my mother chanted his name behind me (Amituofo is Chinese for Amitabha Buddha). Amitabha is like a loving mother; she sees us, wants to catch us, but we try to run away. Isn't this just like how a mother tries to catch her child? This illustrates our relationship with the Buddha. The Buddha tries to catch us, but we try to run away. We don't understand the Buddha's compassion, and we 'anger' the Buddha - though that’s just a figure of speech, a very human way of looking at it. It’s not that we actually anger the Buddha, but rather that we fail to comprehend the Buddha’s compassion. This is because we have run away from our own Buddha-nature, just like a child running away from his loving mother. Using his own name, Amitabha Buddha gets hold of us, embraces us and never gives us up. He ushers us back home - Amituofo.

       Now that I think about it, that first time I heard "Amituofo" actually laid the foundation for my entire life.

       Another memorable experience that stands out is playing a word game with other kids, where we tried to outdo each other.

       “I am the Heavenly Jade Emperor!” someone would shout.

       “Well, I am the Monkey King, Sun Wukong!” another would counter, aware that the Monkey King had caused havoc to the Jade Emperor’s palace.

       The playful escalation continued: “I am the Supreme Taoist Lord!” someone claimed, and another chimed in, “I am Guanyin!” (Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara).  Each declaration grew bolder, and finally, the ultimate trump card was "I am Rulai (or "Tathagata Buddha" in Sanskrit). Whoever said "Rulai" would win - it was the greatest title. Even as children, we knew Rulai was the greatest.

       At that time, I didn't really understand the term "Rulai" (Tathagata). Even many adults today don't fully grasp its meaning. What does "Rulai" or "Tathagata" mean? I now know that it's one of the ten honorific titles of Buddha, and Tathagata means “The Thus-Come-One.” In Chinese, "Ru" means motionless, absolutely still; "Lai" means movement, coming before you. The Buddha saves sentient beings by coming without coming, hence called "Rulai" or "Tathagata". He dwells in the realm of truth while manifesting in the phenomenal world. Thus, the term "Rulai" or "Tathagata" carries profound meaning. To illustrate, picture the bright moon in the sky reflected in thousands of rivers and lakes. This scene somewhat resembles the concept of "Rulai" or "Tathagata."

       The moon in the sky is "thus unchanging,” it doesn't "come". Yet it reflects in thousands of rivers and myriad waters, "coming" into the water of a small basin or a little pond - each containing a bright moon.

       When we recite the name of Amitabha Buddha, Amitabha is the "Tathagata" (Thus-Come One). He resides in the Western Pure Land, abiding in the state of nirvana. Only by being “thus unchanging” can he be stable, only by embodying permanence, bliss, true self, and purity can he save sentient beings. If the Buddha were also in chaos, how could he save sentient beings? Mother Earth must be stable to support living beings. If the earth were constantly shaking, buckling and warping, undulating like waves, how could it sustain sentient beings?

       A Buddha must certainly be "thus unchanging". But if he were only "thus  unchanging", he couldn't save sentient beings; he must also "come". At the moment of “coming” to save sentient beings, he must abide in the state of being “thus unchanging.” “Coming” while “thus unchanging,” “thus unchanging” while “coming” - this is called "Tathagata" (Thus-Come One). This second incident may have ignited my interest in Buddhism.

       The third memory is of how my mother influenced me through her words and actions. For example, in our rural environment, it was inevitable to kill chickens for food. Before doing so, my mother would solemnly pray, saying things like , “Little chick, little chick, don’t blame us,” and “You’re but a dish in the human world. This year, shed your feathers and go. Next year, don’t come back again.”

       As a child, I found this puzzling: “It’s just a chicken! Why bother saying so much to it before killing it?”

       Her words implied a hope for the chicken to be reborn into a life of prosperity and honor. Chickens were generally considered lowly creatures, but this ritual created a sense of connection between humans and animals, suggesting that we should respect life.

       Of course, at that time, I didn't have such a rational understanding. I just felt there was something meaningful in her words, and there was also that simple concept of reincarnation. The ideas of 'coming back' and 'shedding feathers' - shedding an animal's coat to put on human clothes - gave me a sudden jolt of understanding. Then I'd run off to play, not really taking it to heart, but it still left an impression on me.

       Another example was when I beat an old sow. My mother, with a stern expression, said, “Son, that’s a foul deed.” It really shook me up at the time. We didn’t have the notion of all life being equal, and I had no clue what she meant by ‘foul deed.” But when my mother spoke, my heart suddenly sank. I realized it truly was a foul deed, and something deep in my conscience was stirred.

       The fourth memorable incident was our childhood adventure of "ghost-light hunting." Around Qingming Festival, there was this old codger in our village, probably in his fifties or sixties, who'd tell us about spotting ghost lights. How did we go about it? We'd sneak out to the graveyards and hillsides, lying flat on our stomachs to keep watch. Our favorite haunts were near the Lotus Temple and Liu Jia Dang, sprawling across a hilly area dotted with burial mounds and crumbling ridges in the fields .

       Now, why were we so keen on catching a glimpse of these ghost lights? Well, the old codger had spun quite a tale: "On this pitch-black night, hordes of ghost lights leap out of the graves, making a beeline for people's homes. At the same time, other ghost lights emerge from village houses, heading out into the night. If you spot a ghost light springing from a particular house in the village, mark my words, someone in that family's bound to kick the bucket soon. And here's the kicker – if the light's got a reddish tinge, it's a young soul that's about to depart. But if it's a cool blue without a hint of red, an old-timer's got one foot in the grave."

       He'd rattle off these details with such conviction, shrouding the whole affair in an air of spine-chilling mystery.

       Curiosity thus got the better of us, and all kids chimed in, "Great, let's all go and see!" I jumped on the bandwagon and tagged along. We lay flat on our stomachs, like soldiers in ambush on the battlefield. We kept our distance, scared stiff that the ghost lights might spot us. To be honest, I didn't see a single one, but everyone around me was whispering excitedly: "Oh, there's one!" It seemed like they all saw it, and apparently, they were red. I was baffled, "Did they really see something?" Of course now I know ‘Ghost lights’ are will-o'-the-wisp, caused by phosphorus, which is lighter than air and can ignite. That's the long and short of it.

       To this day, I'm still skeptical about whether they actually saw anything. But if you consider the buzz at the time, they must have seen something. Why else would they all pull my leg? Could they have been making it all up, like in the story of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” where everyone claimed, "Oh, I see it too" ?

       I can’t be certain, but I know for a fact that I didn't see any, not a single ghost light.

       At that moment, everyone was chattering away, exchanging stories with one another, except for me. I felt rather sad, thinking, "Is there something wrong with me?" That's when the old codger piped up: "Those with strong flames can't see it."

       So, some people couldn't see the ghost lights because their own flames were too strong?

       What's this "strong flames" business? Well, apparently, people have fire within them, and strong flames mean strong energy, robust ‘yang qi’ blocking out the ghost lights. It kind of made sense. It's like driving at night - when your headlights are super bright, they overpower the lights of oncoming cars, making them difficult to see.

       "Oh, so having strong flames means you can't see the ghost lights. I guess I'm in the strong flames club. How can I see them then?" I asked.

       He said, "Take off your shoes and put them on your head. That'll push your flames down."

        I was thrilled at the idea, so I took off my shoes and pressed them against my crown. But still, I couldn't see a thing. I figured  that if you can't see them, you just can’t see them.

       After that night, I never went ghost lights hunting again.

       Every year when that time rolled around, it was like a festival. They'd all go to watch. Why didn't I go anymore? Well, I couldn't see anything, could I? If I went, I'd be in the minority, and I'd feel awkward admitting I couldn't see anything. It was as if those who could see were somehow superior, and those who couldn't were inferior. Going would just be asking for disappointment. I lost interest, so I never went ghost lights hunting again. That's one story, with a touch of mystery to it.

       The fifth incident occurred when I was six-year-old attending a school located in Liu Jia Dang. In that same neighborhood lived a Buddhist monk. How did a monk end up there? He was originally ordained in a temple in Xuancheng, but since his temple was demolished during that time, he had no choice but to return home. He joined the local production team and lived with his sister. But even after coming home, he kept his Buddhist faith and remained a vegetarian, which was quite remarkable. At that time, the production team was growing cotton, and the crops were often infested with bugs. While others were catching and killing the bugs, he would spend money to purchase these bugs, then release them back into the fields.

       Back then, people didn’t understand him. They said, "This monk is a menace to others." I heard about this later; as a child, I didn't know these things. I just knew there was this monk living nearby, and I found him very mysterious and strange. I didn't think monks were "people," but then what were they? They were a bit like monsters, but not exactly. Monsters were really bad, but were monks really bad? We kids didn't think he was entirely bad, but he was different from us. He dressed differently, his expression was different, even his head was different - it was bald. He was still a person, but not a normal person - he was strange.

       People tend to feel uncomfortable, even afraid of anything different from themselves. They reject what's different and accept only those who look familiar. When everyone is alike, it feels safe.

       In those days, we felt monks were different from us, and the very word "monk" itself had a creepy feeling to it. Seeing a monk made it even creepier. I remember one time, it was this same monk. We didn’t look closely at his face as he was working in the field with his head down. We were small kids and didn’t dare to bully others, but we specifically picked on monks to bully. Maybe we thought monks, being vegetarians, were easy targets. We kids threw mud at him, tossing it in his direction, hitting him - isn’t that bullying? While we’re at it, the monk suddenly lifted his head and stared at us.

       "The monk’s looking at us!" We let out a big cry.

       It was as if his gaze had sucked our spirits out. We were petrified and bolted like scared rabbits. We thought monks had supernatural powers, or some kind of dark forces. That’s how scared we were of monks.

       That was my impression of monks as a child. I never imagined that I would one day become a monk myself. I wonder if children nowadays see me and think I’m a "monster", or at least find me strange.

       Frankly, monks these days do not receive much respect or regard from society. People in the secular world don’t view monks as normal people and they tend to look down on them.

       Why is this? Firstly, there are entrenched stereotypes about monks. Secondly, the quality of many members of the monastics leaves much to be desired. They lack spiritual disposition, a cultivated sophistication, dignified deportment and countenance. There's just something off about them. But the main thing is their lack of a firm faith and their inability to bring benefits to sentient beings.

       That monk in Liu Jia Dang was a good monk, a very good one indeed. Later, when new religious policies were implemented, he went to Xuancheng to help establish the Buddhist Association there and became its president.

       These are the few small incidents I can recall that have any connection to Buddhism.

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