Gassho 🙏🏼

@nobletruth.bsky.social

109 Followers 118 Following

In the space between thoughts there is clarity. 🪷

Photo of a monk sitting peacefully at the river Pause between in and out - a small island of not-knowing. Step there and stay awhile - the world rearranges itself.
Photograph of dew on a spider’s web in the forest A spider’s web holds dew - each bead a small mirror. Touch one, and the whole net shivers - you are never only you.
Photo of an angry man, staring at his own image reflected in his sword. He held his anger like a sword- until he saw his own reflection on the blade.
Painting of a peaceful monk, standing with his hand up in front of an angry man. Compassion is not letting them walk over you- it’s standing without hate even as you say no.
Painting of a wave. Anger rises- a wave, sharp and high. Let it pass. You are not the wave. You are the ocean.
Painting of a monk sitting with a sparrow on his shoulder. A sparrow landed on the monk’s shoulder. They sat in silence— and both understood everything.
Painting of a meditating monk. Don’t chase silence. Just stop feeding the noise.
Photo of a child monk, laughing in front of the temple. A child’s laugh echoed across the temple stones. That, too, was meditation.
Painting of a lamp lit inside a monastery doorway during the rain. You don’t have to end the storm. Just keep the lamp lit for those finding their way.
Painting of a river and landscape with snow melting toward the water. A crane sits by the shore. Forgiveness is not a river’s rush- it’s the slow work of thawed snow, finding its way to sea.
Image of the moon in a dark sky over the ocean You do not have to shine. Even the moon lets the night hold her in darkness and still the tide obeys.
Painting of a heron standing still in the lake. When the heron stands in still water, it does not wonder if the fish will come- it simply waits.
Drawing of a monk walking along the path in the countryside. You are not late. The path appears when you’re ready to walk it.
Drawing of a monk sitting in meditation. Not every answer needs a voice. Some truths are learned by sitting with the question.
Painting of a seated child monk. As You Think, So You Are A mind is a mirror. Polish it with fear, and fear will stare back. Polish it with hope, and the world will open.
Painting of a small river, moving into the distance A river’s song does not change for the ears that hear it. So too, with truth- it flows whether welcomed or ignored.
Painting of a crow calling from a branch. The crow called once- a sound sharp as winter. And yet, in that cry, the whole sky answered.
A peaceful monk encountering an angry man. You spoke gently to the one who didn’t deserve it. That was the moment you stepped free from the story they tried to write you into.
Photograph of a cherry blossom. Cherry blossoms fall— a breeze scatters this moment never to return.
Painting of a monk weeping. He wept for someone else’s suffering- and in that moment, the Dharma spoke through salt and silence.
Painting of a monk holding a steaming cup of tea. You held your breath for a life that never arrived. But it was here- in the steam of your morning tea, the soft weight of being alive.
Drawing of a monk with eyes closed in meditation. The silence you fear is not empty. It is your own voice, finally without echo.
A monk sitting in meditation. To win the war against yourself, you must lay down every weapon— especially the ones called “truth.”
Painting of a hand holding a torch, causing a field to catch on fire. Your anger is a torch in the dry field. Hold it long enough- and the fire burns your home, too.
Drawing of a monk sitting in meditation. Between two thoughts— no need, no name. Just this. And this is enough.
Painting of a monk facing a cloudy sky. You tried to fix the sky by holding the clouds. But they were never yours. Let them pass. You are not broken. You are watching weather.
Painting of a monk walking beside a river. You do not have to know where the river goes. Just walk beside it, and trust what it has already carved.
Painting of the Buddha standing with open palms on a beautiful landscape. The Buddha did not escape the world. He walked back into it, empty-handed, and gave what could never be taken.
Painting of crane facing crow by a mountain in the rain The crow does not envy the crane. The mountain does not scold the rain. Why do you compare what was never meant to be the same?
Painting of a standing wall, looking in contemplation through a window. There is no such thing as wasted kindness. Even if forgotten, it lingers - in the shape of someone’s breath, in the warmth of a room you’ll never return to.
Painting of a monk sitting in meditation beneath a tree by a doorway. Between breath in and breath out, there is a door that opens to everything and asks for nothing.
Drawing of a monk standing by a man in need after a disaster. The Ashes Sutra Compassion is not clean. It walks through smoke. It gathers the broken. It stays after the fire is out.
Drawing of a monk walking beside a man who appears sad. The Weight Sutra You don’t need to lift their burden. Just walk beside them, so they remember they’re not alone.
Painting of a monk, extending a hand to someone who appears upset. The Window Sutra When he spoke harshly, I saw the wound beneath his voice. And so I opened a window instead of closing the door.
Painting of an old man offering a young monk a bowl of rice. My teacher taught me silence. The storm taught me patience. But the old man, who offered me a bowl of rice, taught me the Dharma.
Painting of a man helping to build something. The Bridge Sutra Be the one who builds the bridge, even if your feet never cross it.
Painting of a monk offering a stranger food. The Stranger Sutra He was not my brother until I fed him. He was not a stranger after he smiled.
Woodblock print of a hand burning. The Flame Sutra Thus it is: Anger burns the one who carries it before it ever touches the one it’s thrown toward. Let it fall. The fire ends where letting go begins.
Painting of man, meditating in the eye of a storm. You will not find peace by escaping the storm. You find it by becoming the eye.
Picture of a single drop of water falling into the sea. The Drop Sutra A single drop believes itself small. But in falling, it becomes the sea.
Picture of a man with a metaphorical blade, leaving his hand. The one who forgives does not erase the wound- they remove the blade still buried in their own hand.
Painting of the Dalai Lama meditating on a mountain top. Happy Birthday, Dalai Lama, Jetsun Jamphel Ngawang Lobsang Yeshe Tenzin Gyatso
Painting of the Buddha with blisters meditating in the moonlight. Even the Buddha had blisters. Even the moon has scars. Don’t wait to be flawless before you shine.
Painting of a monk sitting in meditation at the top of a mountain in a storm. Every time you pause before reacting, you reclaim your life. The storm may rise, but you are the mountain it cannot move.
Painting of person arising from trees, water and mountains. You are not in the world. The world is in you— woven of eyes, breath, sound, and seeing.
Painting of a large wave on the ocean. You are not a wave separate from the sea. You are the sea momentarily becoming a wave.
Monk standing before bamboo bent by the wind. Do not mistake gentleness for weakness. The bamboo bends in wind that splinters stone. The quiet one moves without fear— they have nothing to prove.
Kneeling monk planting a tree. Hurt people hurt others. But healed people plant trees they may never sit beneath. Be the one who breaks the cycle with gentleness.
Passing water. Symbolic image of kindness. Even the smallest kindness shifts the world. The cup of water poured for a stranger reaches the ocean.
Flowers growing from the mouth of a speaking monk. Speak as if every word plants something. One day, you’ll walk through the garden you’ve grown in others.
Drawing of monk sitting beneath stormy sky. ——- You are not the storm. You are the sky that watches it pass. Let the winds howl— they cannot move what does not cling.
The Seed of Thought The thought is a seed. Planted in the field of the heart, it does not sleep. It grows by attention, it is watered by intention, it is shaped by habit. If one sows bitterness, the fruit will be sorrow. If one sows compassion, the fruit will be peace. What is rooted in the mind will rise in the face, will speak with the tongue, will walk with the feet. Therefore, guard the seed. Tend the garden. For what you think, you shall become.
Picture of a monk aiming an arrow at a target indoors. I draw the bow— not to strike, but to meet the moment between tension and letting go. Each arrow a breath. Each breath enough.
Image of destroyed buildings with an orange sky. ——- You can’t bomb a place into peace. You can’t flatten a village and expect it to love you. We name it “freedom,” but the earth knows what fire is. So do the bones beneath it.
To the Man Behind the Orders I do not excuse you. But I do not curse you either. The boy you were— before medals, before maps, before commands spoken through clenched teeth— I see him. I hold him in my breath, In my silence: gently, but without letting it grow wild. May you meet the pain you’ve made. May it not destroy you. May it teach.
Monks sitting in silence in a dark room. A soldier falls asleep in a trench to the sound of war. He dreams of his mother singing in a language his uniform does not understand. I sit in silence not to fix the world— but to bear witness to its breaking.
A monk standing on a hilltop looking across a valley shrouded in fog. If my silence could become a bowl of rice, a roof, a reprieve, I would give it. But silence here is too light. So I speak softly, and mean it. May all beings find shelter, even the ones with guns.
Bird flying high above a lake. ——- What is emptiness? A mirror with no face. A bell before the strike. A sky that holds every wing but claims no bird. Not a void, but a cradle. Not loss, but readiness for what may come and go.
A still heron watching a peaceful lake. ——- The heron waits without thought, without time. Stillness is its nature, not its task. We too were once like this— before clocks, before striving. Stillness remembers us.
Monk sitting in meditation before a moonlit lake. I searched for the self in thought, in name, in memory— but found only space. And in that space, the moon rose, the dog barked, and laughter bloomed. How full emptiness can be.