A Gaze Beyond the Gaze: In the spirit of sky-gazing
Lie back beneath the vaultless dome, Let clouds drift by like thoughts unknown. Release the mind, release the name, No watcher here, no self to claim.
Let sky be sky, and mind be wide, No grasping hand, no need to guide. Just openness, so vast, so clear— What you are looking from is here.
Into the Mystic
At the very top of the world, if one were to sit in silence at the North Pole, something curious happens. The compass loses its ordinary song. North, so long held as our guide, vanishes beneath your feet. South radiates in every direction. East and West dissolve—not into chaos, but into the poetry of motion. Clockwise becomes East, counterclockwise becomes West. And you, the still point, are held at the axis where meaning begins to soften.
This is not just a geographic curiosity. It is a mirror of the mind.
In the Dzogchen tradition, we are invited to rest not merely in the knowing mind (sems), but in that which knows mind itself—sems nyid, the nature of mind. It is not something we manufacture through effort, nor something distant to be attained. It is nearer than near, always already present—like Polaris in the night sky, unmoving, while all else revolves.
To sit at the North Pole and gaze upward is to dwell at a kind of worldly axis mundi, a symbol of rigpa, the primordial knowing that does not grasp, does not fabricate. From this point, every direction—every thought, every emotion, every arising—moves outward as “South”: the play of relative reality (kun rdzob), full of beauty, full of sorrow, full of form. But the upward gaze, the still recognition of what-is, lifts us toward don dam, the ultimate view.
It is not about choosing one over the other. Dzogchen does not ask us to abandon the world or reject the compass. Rather, it invites us to see clearly—to understand that East and West only appear when we begin to walk. That what we call “direction” arises with perception. That what we call “self” arises with identification. And when we rest, utterly still, not pushing, not naming—we begin to recognize what has always been there.
The pristine mind
Pure like the Pole Star. Silent like the snow. Empty of essence, yet luminous with love.
Here, the relative view—the dance of thoughts and roles and rotating worlds—becomes the compassionate display of awareness itself. And the absolute view is not elsewhere. It is this, ungrasped, unspoiled, ever-present.
The moment we stop insisting on where we are going, we arrive.
And from that still place, compassion flows—not as a moral stance, but as a natural warmth. Wisdom arises—not as accumulation, but as clarity. Loving-kindness becomes the language of space itself. We begin to see, not through the eyes of effort, but through the vision of what the Tibetans call lhun grub: spontaneously present, effortless, free.
Let us walk, then, not to reach a place, but to circle gently like the sun, like the stars, around the stillness at the center. Let us live our days as if the compass rose were etched in light upon our hearts. Let us love without needing direction, forgive without needing map.
At Earth’s bright peak where compass spins, “Up” becomes where silence begins. Polaris keeps her vigil there— a lantern hung in starry air.
And you, dear traveler, have never been far from it. Even now, it calls you home.
Once upon a time, there was a child named Sam who loved bedtime, that quiet time when the world softened, and all the day’s noise faded into whispers.
One evening, as Sam settled into bed, he felt an unusually deep sense of calm. He listened to his own breath, rising and falling like waves, each one slower and softer than the last. He let go, bit by bit, of every thought, feeling his body melt into the bed. He became part of the stillness itself, resting so fully that it felt like he was floating on a gentle cloud of peace.
And as Sam drifted further, he found himself in a dream, standing in a golden meadow surrounded by mountains bathed in moonlight. There, under an ancient tree, sat a serene figure—the Buddha, a gentle glow around him. The Buddha smiled, and Sam felt his own heart grow calm, like he was being embraced by pure kindness.
Without words, the Buddha showed Sam the beauty of being in the present moment. “When you are fully here,” the Buddha said, “you touch the world as it truly is. Peace is not something you have to find or chase. It’s right here, wherever you are, as close as your next breath.”
Sam felt this truth fill him like warm sunlight. He noticed how his mind, usually filled with thoughts and questions, had quieted. In this silence, he felt a sense of wholeness, of belonging to the world and himself, in the gentlest, most complete way.
“Remember,” the Buddha said softly, “you are already whole. When you sit in stillness, just as you are now, you are touching something timeless and vast. Here, you can rest; here, you can simply be.”
As Sam continued to listen, he felt a deep wisdom grow within him, one that didn’t need words, only presence. Slowly, the meadow faded, and he felt himself floating gently back, back into his warm bed, still holding the peace and wisdom of his dream.
He drifted deeper into sleep, with the quiet glow of his conversation with the Buddha still warming his heart. And there, in the stillness, he rested fully, knowing he was safe, whole, and deeply at peace.
🙏🕊️🙏
If you’d like to explore more bedtime stories for children, including tales that nurture compassion and mindfulness, you can find our collection here.
A Bedtime Story for Children Inspired by Tibetan Buddhism and Mindfulness
Once upon a time, high above the Earth, there was a vast, clear sky. The sky stretched far and wide, so peaceful and bright that everyone who looked up felt warm and safe. The sky never worried; it didn’t change or rush. It simply was—always calm, always clear, like a gentle friend watching over the world.
One morning, a little cloud appeared, floating softly across the sky. The cloud was light and fluffy, happy to drift along without a care. But as the day went on, the cloud began to wonder. “What if I get too big?” thought the little cloud. “What if I block the sun and make everything dark? What if I become a storm?”
With each worry, the little cloud grew larger and heavier, its soft edges becoming thick and dark. “Oh no,” thought the cloud, “I’m growing too fast. I don’t want to stay like this!” The more it worried, the more it puffed up, until it was almost ready to burst.
The sky, watching calmly from behind the cloud, whispered softly, “Why are you so worried?”
“I’m afraid I’ll never be light and small again,” said the cloud. “What if I get stuck like this forever, covering up the sun and making people sad?”
The sky smiled, its voice gentle and kind. “Little cloud, you don’t have to worry about staying big or small. Clouds are always changing—they come and go, just like your thoughts and feelings. No matter how big or small you become, I am always here behind you—clear and open, never changing. You don’t need to be afraid.”
“But what if I can’t change?” asked the cloud. “What if I never go away?”
The sky shimmered, glowing with a quiet, peaceful light. “Even if you stay a little longer, you are still just passing through, like all clouds do. No matter how big you are, you cannot change the sky. I’m always here behind the clouds, calm and steady, waiting for you to rest.”
The little cloud listened carefully. It thought about how the sky always stayed the same, no matter how many clouds came and went. Slowly, the cloud stopped worrying and let itself just be—no longer trying to be small, no longer afraid of being big. It realized that, no matter what, it was part of something bigger, something steady and kind.
As the cloud let go of its worries, it started to shrink back to its soft, fluffy self. It became lighter and lighter, until it gently floated away, disappearing into the vast blue sky.
The sky remained, bright and clear, just as it had been all along. The little cloud knew, deep inside, that the sky had always been there—and always would be—no matter how many clouds came and went.
And so, the little cloud drifted off into the distance, feeling peaceful and light, knowing that the sky would always be there to hold it, just like the quiet, calm mind that rests behind all our thoughts and worries.
As you fall asleep tonight, remember that your mind, like the sky, is always calm and clear behind all your thoughts and feelings. Goodnight, and may your dreams be as peaceful as the clear sky.
🙏🕊️🙏
If you’d like to explore more bedtime stories for children, including tales that nurture compassion and mindfulness, you can find our collection here.
Thich Nhat Hanh, affectionately known as Thay by his students, has touched countless lives with his teachings on mindfulness, compassion, and inner peace. As a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, a poet, and a peace activist, his life’s work offers a profound invitation to awaken to the present moment and live with a heart of compassion.
Throughout his life, Thich Nhat Hanh authored over 100 books, each infused with the gentle yet powerful wisdom that encourages us to return to the breath, to find peace where we are, and to extend that peace to the world around us. Whether we are walking, eating, or simply breathing, his teachings remind us that each moment is an opportunity to cultivate mindfulness. In doing so, we transform our suffering, both inner and outer, into a source of peace.
One of the most transformative aspects of his legacy is Engaged Buddhism. Thay believed that mindfulness was not just for the meditation cushion but for every aspect of life. Whether advocating for peace during the Vietnam War or teaching about reconciliation, he wove together mindfulness and social action, reminding us that true peace begins with ourselves, but does not end there.
Thich Nhat Hanh’s legacy continues to inspire not only individuals but also communities, through meditation centers like Plum Village, which he founded. These centers are spaces of refuge, where people can practice mindfulness, deepen their spiritual understanding, and live in harmony with one another.
If you wish to experience Thich Nhat Hanh’s teachings more intimately, I invite you to listen to his words directly on Thich Nhat Hanh Audio.
One particularly powerful dharma talk is Love in Action, offered by Thay in Hanoi during the “Engaged Buddhism in the 21st Century” retreat. This 78-minute talk, delivered in English on May 9, 2008, is a profound exploration of how love and compassion manifest through mindful action in our everyday lives. You can listen to the full talk here.
Thich Nhat Hanh left us a rich legacy of mindfulness, compassion, and hope, a path we can continue to walk, one mindful step at a time.
For those of us living with post-viral myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME/CFS), the experience of life often feels like moving through a landscape filled with unseen obstacles. There is the fatigue—so heavy, so relentless—that it can feel like a weight we will never shake. There are the moments when even the simplest tasks become insurmountable, and the pain becomes a constant companion, whispering in the background of every day.
When I first encountered the teaching “Transforming Suffering and Happiness into Enlightenment” by Dodrupchen Jigme Tenpe Nyima, it felt like someone had gently opened a door I hadn’t known existed. At the time, I was entrenched in my own struggle—fighting the fatigue, resisting the pain, angry at the injustice of it all. I didn’t see it then, but my resistance, my frustration, and my desperate need for things to be different were only making me sicker. Each day felt like another battle against my body, and it was exhausting in every sense of the word.
The teaching introduced me to an entirely different way of relating to my experience. It was an invitation, not to fight against my suffering, but to sit with it, to gently turn toward it with a kind of curiosity. At first, the idea seemed absurd—how could I welcome something that was robbing me of so much? But as I read further, I began to understand that the more I resisted, the more I labeled my suffering as the enemy, the stronger it became. Everything around me had started to feel like an enemy—my body, the illness, even the world itself.
The first time I truly absorbed the idea that suffering, like anything else, grows stronger with the attention we give it, it was a revelation. I started to realize that I had been feeding my suffering through my resistance. In a way, I was making myself worse by constantly pushing against the reality of what I was experiencing. This was the first eye-opener: that my own mind was contributing to the intensity of my suffering.
I remember vividly when I decided to start putting this teaching into practice. I had signed up for a meditation class, feeling both hopeful and uncertain, and around that time, I also came across Tony Bernhardt’s book How to Be Sick. Little by little, I began to change how I approached the fatigue and pain. It didn’t happen overnight. In fact, it felt like planting seeds in the darkest soil—there were days when nothing seemed to grow, and I wondered if this new approach would ever bear fruit. But gradually, something did begin to shift.
The more I learned to observe my suffering without immediately pushing it away, the more space I created around it. It wasn’t that the fatigue disappeared—far from it—but my relationship to it began to change. Instead of seeing every wave of exhaustion as something to fight, I started to meet it with a kind of quiet acceptance. This didn’t mean I liked it, but I stopped resisting it quite so fiercely. In time, the constant anger and frustration began to soften.
As I practiced more, something else began to emerge—equanimity. I began to realize that the less I resisted both the suffering and the rare moments of joy, the steadier I felt inside. Over the years, my confidence in my ability to face difficulties has grown. There’s a quiet knowing now, a calmness that wasn’t there before, that when challenges arise, I can meet them without being completely swept away.
Of course, this is still a work in progress, and I expect it will be for the rest of my life. Some days are harder than others, but the difference is that I no longer see the hard days as failures. They are simply part of the ebb and flow. And in learning to embrace both the suffering and the moments of peace, I’ve discovered a kind of strength that doesn’t come from fighting but from surrendering—surrendering to the reality of my experience without letting it define me.
This teaching has shown me that suffering, far from being something to avoid, can become a profound teacher. When we allow ourselves to meet it with openness, we can begin to transform it. It doesn’t mean the pain or the fatigue will disappear, but our relationship to it changes. We become less fragile, more resilient. Over time, the suffering no longer feels like something that has complete power over us.
For those of us living with ME/CFS, this teaching offers a way to shift the narrative. Instead of seeing our illness as something that has taken everything from us, we can begin to see it as part of our path. By practicing mindfulness, by gently turning toward our suffering instead of away from it, we begin to cultivate a heart that is steady, a heart that can hold both the fatigue and the fleeting moments of ease without being shaken by either.
It’s a slow process, and it requires patience—patience with ourselves and with the process of healing. But there is a quiet beauty in this work. Each time we meet our suffering with compassion, we are planting a seed. And while the fruits may take time to blossom, they do eventually grow.
For those of you who are interested in exploring this teaching more deeply, I encourage you to take your time with it. Let it sit with you, and consider how it might apply to your own experience. And if you’d like to read the full teaching by Dodrupchen Jigme Tenpe Nyima, you can find it freely available online here.
This journey isn’t easy, but together we can learn to transform our suffering into something that doesn’t just weigh us down but also lifts us toward a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us.
🙏🕊️🙏
Biography of Dodrubchen Jigme Tenpai Nyima
Dodrubchen Jigme Tenpai Nyima, the Third Dodrubchen, was born in 1865 in the sacred Ma valley of Golok, Tibet, into a family deeply rooted in the spiritual lineage of his father, Dudjom Lingpa. From the very beginning, his life was marked by extraordinary recognition, with his teachers and mentors seeing in him the incarnation of profound wisdom. But his journey was not without struggle. As a young boy, he found study difficult, often frustrated to the point of tears. Yet, through perseverance and the support of his teachers, his understanding blossomed, revealing a deep capacity for spiritual insight.
What makes Dodrubchen Jigme Tenpai Nyima so relatable is his humanity. Even as a master of Tibetan Buddhist teachings, he encountered challenges that shaped him into the teacher he became—a man of great compassion, who dedicated his life to training countless students in both Nyingma and Sarma traditions. His accomplishments were vast: he rebuilt his monastery, composed celebrated commentaries, and gave teachings tirelessly. And though he eventually retreated into seclusion due to his failing health, he continued to guide his closest disciples with unwavering dedication. His life, both ordinary and extraordinary, stands as a testament to the power of persistence, humility, and the profound depth of spiritual commitment.
About Lotsawa House
Lotsawa House is a rich and invaluable resource for those seeking authentic Tibetan Buddhist teachings. The website offers an extensive collection of translations from Tibetan texts, including teachings from many great masters such as Dodrubchen Jigme Tenpai Nyima. This is where the teaching “Transforming Suffering and Happiness into Enlightenment” can be found, along with countless other treasures, all freely available for anyone to access.
Whether you are new to Tibetan Buddhism or have been practicing for years, Lotsawa House provides a space to explore the wisdom of these great teachings. The site is dedicated to making the profound texts of Tibetan Buddhism accessible to a global audience, offering translations in English and other languages, so that anyone, regardless of background, can benefit from these ancient spiritual insights. It’s a place where the wisdom of the Tibetan masters is preserved and shared, so that all who seek it may find the path to peace and understanding.
You can explore the full collection of teachings and discover more about the great teachers who brought them to life by visiting Lotsawa House.
We chase the air and call it solid ground, A path to walk, yet never to be found. Enlightenment, it dances in the breeze, A dream we seek, but slips with gentle ease.
Like floaters in the eye, it drifts away, Each time we think we’ve found it for a day. And angels laugh, for they can take to flight, By knowing not to hold their burden tight.
The mind’s a joke, it tries to make its stand, While life just moves the pieces out of hand. So let us fly and let the effort go, For lightness is the only truth to know.
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