Beautiful days with my Dad (1.2)

My father was not just a figure of respect in our village; he was special to me in a way that words could scarcely capture. His presence was a commanding one, and while his towering height and fair complexion might have drawn the admiration of those who saw him, it was his inner strength that left an indelible mark on my heart.

Dad had the kind of intelligence that earned him the reverence of the people in our village. It wasn't just book smarts; it was a profound wisdom, an innate understanding of life's intricate tapestry. Many regarded him as a beacon of knowledge, someone to turn to for guidance in times of need.

His physical stature was a testament to his vitality. Tall and strong, he stood as a pillar of strength in our family. He was as physically capable as my late grandfather had been during his prime, a formidable presence that few could challenge in terms of sheer physical strength.

Yet, life's relentless demands had taken their toll. The intense pressures he faced had gradually receded his hairline into baldness. The burdens of existence had etched lines on his face, marks of resilience and sacrifice. But even in the face of adversity, his hands remained nimble, gifted in carpentry and wood carving. He crafted objects of beauty and tradition, turning raw materials into works of art that would endure for generations.

However, despite his many talents, he was not without his quirks. His singing voice, for instance, left much to be desired, and his dancing skills were equally unimpressive. But in the realm of chants, he was a master among his peers. His voice resonated with a spiritual power that could stir the hearts of those who listened.

His role as a ritual master at our local temple was a testament to his dedication to his faith. He took on the responsibilities of an astrologer in our village, guiding the people with his wisdom and insight. During these years of service, he earned a sterling track record, marked by diligence and humility.

So far, my father has journeyed to many sacred places, receiving blessings from high religious lamas. Among his many root Gurus, the H.H. 14th Tshegtse Rinpoche held a special place in his heart, a connection to a world of spirituality that ran deep within him.

My father was not just a man of physical strength; he was a man of principles and values. He had a profound sense of good upbringing and instilled in us the importance of good manners and conduct. He believed in leading by example, and his integrity was unwavering.

Amidst the backdrop of his wisdom and steadfastness, there was another facet of my father that added vibrant colors to his character – his irrepressible sense of humor. While many respected him for his intelligence and revered him for his spiritual role, they also cherished him for his ability to bring laughter and joy into their lives.

My father possessed a remarkable talent for imitating other people's actions and mannerisms, turning everyday situations into moments of uproarious comedy. His jokes were like precious gems, their brilliance captivating both young and old alike. Whenever he spun his tales of mirth, it was as though a veil of seriousness lifted, revealing the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. His sense of humor was infectious, a joyous contagion that spread wherever he went. Laughter would ripple through the room like a gentle wave, and people would find themselves chuckling, their spirits lifted by his playful antics. His jokes weren't just ordinary; they were engrossing narratives that drew listeners into a world of mirth and delight.

Whether it was a casual gathering or a solemn occasion, my father's fun-loving character was a constant companion. He had an uncanny ability to find humor in the most mundane of situations, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary through the lens of laughter. It was a gift that endeared him to everyone he met, forging bonds of friendship and camaraderie. In a world that could often be burdened by its own weight, my father was a ray of sunshine, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was room for joy and levity.

As I reflect on this aspect of my father, I am reminded that life is not just about the serious pursuit of knowledge or the weighty responsibilities we bear. It's also about finding joy in the everyday moments, about sharing laughter and smiles with those we hold dear. In this, my father was a master, a jester who brought happiness wherever he roamed, a reminder that in the tapestry of life, humor is a thread that binds us all together.

However, despite his many qualities, he had his share of shortcomings. In our culture, it was taboo to point out the flaws of our parents or elders, but I believed that right was right and wrong was wrong, regardless of the individual. While he cared for us deeply and wanted the best for our grooming, his methods were sometimes too harsh.

One of the greatest sources of contention between us was his aversion to games. He saw them as distractions from our responsibilities and was resolute in preventing us from indulging in them. I had a particular fondness for archery, but I longed to join my friends in their games, especially during the evenings. Yet, my father's strict stance left me yearning for those moments of play.

Another point of disagreement was his disapproval of us watching videos or movies. For us, who were exposed to this form of entertainment for the first time, it was a source of fascination and joy. To me, getting the chance to watch a movie was akin to winning a million-dollar ticket, and I was crazy about it. Unfortunately, such freedoms were a luxury we couldn't afford in our home.

Yet, my father balanced these restrictions with a deep commitment to our education. He began teaching me the Tibetan alphabet before I even enrolled in school. His dedication to my education knew no bounds, and he instilled in me a love for learning that would shape my future. He taught me the basics of recitation and introduced me to a prayer dedicated to the God of Wisdom.

By the time I entered school, I was well-versed in these lessons, and they became the foundation upon which my academic success was built. His greatest gift to me was a narrative story from the book "The Words of My Perfect Teacher." This story shared verbally, kindled a deep love for Buddhism within me. I remember once requesting him to gift me the book, but he didn't have an extra copy. Fortunately, I was able to obtain it from my Akhu, who was mastering Buddhist philosophy at Namdroling Monastery at the time.

My father knew of my academic prowess and understood my potential. He constantly reminded me to keep learning and to explore anything that piqued my interest, even if mastery eluded me. His words of wisdom served as a constant source of motivation, encouraging me to work tirelessly.

In school, I learned modern subjects, but when I returned home, I was groomed to handle the basic responsibilities of a Gomchen. My father took me along with him wherever he went, allowing me to learn and experience the world beyond textbooks. As I reached grade 9 and beyond, I began to feel a sense of embarrassment about representing the role of a Gomchen in our community. But with the wisdom of hindsight, I now understand that there is no shame in embracing such a heritage. I should not feel ashamed; instead, I should be proud of the rich teachings and experiences that my father bestowed upon me.

In the grand story of my life, my father played a central role, in shaping my character and guiding my path with unwavering love and discipline. He was more than just a parent; he was a mentor, a guardian, and a source of inspiration. The lessons he imparted continue to influence my journey, a legacy that I cherish deeply.

Younger days (1.1)

As the seasons cycled through the years, four little souls danced around the hearth of our family, cocooned in the warmth of our parents' love. My eldest sister, a precious gem, found her nurturing sanctuary in the embrace of our maternal grandparents at Murbi. Her days were painted in the hues of their care, while I, just three years her senior, was not yet of an age to assist in tending to my immediate brother, Tshering.

In those days when our parents were away, my elder sister stepped into the role of guardian, watching over us with a vigilant eye. Yet, my fondest memories centered around my youngest brother, Sangay. He was the bundle of joy who filled our home with his tender presence. With my newfound responsibility as the designated babysitter, I eagerly piggybacked him, cherishing the moments when his laughter filled the air.

However, Sangay's early days were marked by fragility. My mother's complications during his birth had prevented him from nursing, and he was nourished by a humble wheat flour solution, a form of porridge. His cries, incessant and shrill, tested my patience. On one harrowing occasion, my frustration reached its peak. I held him to my back, and in my exasperation, I shook him violently. Fate intervened, sparing him from serious harm, as he narrowly missed colliding with the corner of our wooden wall, a stone bearing the mark of a few tiny hairs, a chilling reminder of what could have been.

The memories of that near tragedy still sent shivers down my spine, a testament to the delicate balance between youthful folly and guardian responsibility. In another youthful escapade, my sister and I sought refuge in the attic of our home, leaving Tshering to search for us below. Our playful antics turned sour when a misaimed missile of sand, turned rock, struck him on the forehead, causing a profuse bleeding that stained our innocent play with guilt. Our father's sudden return unveiled the aftermath of our mischievous deeds. He meted out justice to my sister, but the weight of guilt settled upon my young shoulders as I wrestled with the knowledge that my stone had struck my brother.

Yet, amid these trials and tribulations, we were not devoid of beautiful and joyous memories. My youngest brother and I were our late grandfather's darlings, and we slumbered by his side. He showered us with gifts and treats from his travels, filling our hearts with boundless joy.

One wintry night, as the land lay barren beneath the radiant winter moon, my friends and I, joined by Tshering, engaged in the timeless game of "Doegor," tossing pairs of circular stones across a moonlit expanse. In a moment of unintentional mishap, my stone found an unexpected target: Tshering's nose, causing it to bleed profusely. Panic set in as I rushed him beneath our playground, tending to his wound in secret. However, my mother soon discovered our misadventure, and in her customary way, she sought to discipline us first.

I, fearing her wrath, took flight, hurling a stone in desperation, which found its unintended mark on her hat. In hindsight, I recognize the folly of my actions and the pain I must have caused my mother. My regret lingers to this day, an unfulfilled desire to erase that moment of thoughtless rebellion.

These memories, a tapestry of childhood, are etched into the fabric of my being, a blend of laughter and tears, joy and remorse. They remind me of the complexity of family bonds, the interplay of love and discipline, and the enduring lessons learned on the journey from innocence to maturity.

From the earliest age, our parents instilled in us the virtues of responsibility, teaching us life's essential lessons with unwavering determination. At the break of dawn, when the world was still wrapped in the embrace of dreams, my sister and I were assigned our morning duties. She would assume the role of the family's culinary artist, crafting meals that would nourish our bodies and spirits. Meanwhile, my task was to sweep the floors, cleansing our humble abode and offering water as a symbol of reverence to the Triple Gem in Buddhism.

My younger brother, Tshering, undertook the duty of maintaining the cleanliness of our surroundings. These responsibilities might seem trifling, but in the eyes of our parents, they were the building blocks of character, the foundations upon which a virtuous life would be constructed.

Yet, in the quiet moments before dawn, when the bed still cradled the allure of sleep, I yearned for those fleeting moments of slumber. Rising from the warmth of our blankets to confront the cold reality of chores was a daily battle. At times, it took more than a gentle nudge from my mother to jolt us from our dreams. Her reminders echoed like a gentle whisper at first, but when they went unheard, she wielded the tools of discipline – sticks, and kicks, in equal measure, to rouse us from our lingering drowsiness.

And so, we embarked on our daily chores, acknowledging them as the rhythm of our lives, as ordinary as the sun's ascent. Beyond the boundaries of our home lay the jungle, where we ventured to gather firewood, connecting with nature's gifts and the essence of self-sufficiency.

During the daylight hours, our daily routines were scripted according to our capabilities. Playtime was a luxury we couldn't often afford. We were bound by the responsibilities that were assigned to us, the strict regimen imposed by the needs of our family. Childhood's freedom, as many know it today, remained a distant dream on many occasions.

As the sun dipped behind Bumpalog Valley, a signal for the day's work to come to an end, we turned our attention once more to our familial duties. In the evenings, my sister would stoke the hearth, the glowing heart of our home, and prepare dinner should my mother be delayed returning from her laborious work. My role was to stack firewood neatly beside the hearth and ensure that every bottle in the house brimmed with water, a testament to our readiness for the night.

However, the evening held its own allure, an enchanting time when our neighboring friends returned from their own endeavors. The farmland became a meeting ground, and the air resonated with laughter, songs, and the camaraderie of childhood. The dried corn stems left in the fields would serve as the foundation for our evening entertainment, igniting fires that mirrored the flames of our youthful exuberance.

In the midst of these jovial moments, I often strayed from my evening duties, swayed by the temptations of play, music, and the company of friends. These lapses in responsibility, while inconsequential to my youthful mind, held greater significance for my parents. They carried the weight of their expectations for our future, and when my mother's stern admonitions failed to set me back on the path of duty, her chastisement, though painful, was just.

Reflecting on those days from the vantage point of adulthood, I now understand the profound love and sacrifice my parents made. In the innocence of youth, I may not have comprehended the full extent of their toil and sacrifice, but as a grown-up person myself, I carry a profound debt of gratitude for the lessons they imparted, the values they instilled, and the foundation they laid for the person I would become. Those humble chores, the discipline, and even the admonishments were gifts of love, woven into the tapestry of our family's story, a legacy that continues to shape my life to this day.

Biography (Birth and Young age) (1.0)

Born on the auspicious 30th day of the 9th Month of the Male Wood Dog Year in 1994, destiny wove its intricate tapestry, ushering me into this world. I was the cherished child of Tenzin Chophel, my father, and Langa Tshomo, my mother. In the cosmic ballet of life, I was the second eldest, blessed with one elder sister and two younger brothers, the stars of our family constellation.

From the very start, my life was steered by two steadfast mentors – my father and my late grandfather. Under their benevolent guidance, my nascent spirit embarked on a profound journey, one that would shape the course of my life in ways I could scarcely comprehend as a child. In the embrace of Tibetan traditions, I was initiated into the sacred realm of Buddhism at an age when most children were just discovering the world's wonders.

My days resonated with the mellifluous chants of Tibetan alphabets and vowels, a symphony of spiritual awakening. Basic Buddhist liturgies became the verses of my heart, etching a spiritual tapestry upon my soul. I had the extraordinary privilege of accompanying my father and my late grandfather on pilgrimages to sacred places, where we conducted Rimdro ceremonies and recited sutras that echoed through the ages.

While with my mother at home, I embraced the earthly realm, weaving chores, and farming into my youthful existence. Yet, I must confess, I was a reluctant laborer, a dreamer navigating the realm of the mundane. My parents, in their unwavering love, scolded and sometimes even chastised me for my lethargy. Their lessons were both stern and nurturing, molding me into a resilient soul.

At the time of my birth, my parents were consumed by a noble endeavor, contributing their sweat and toil to the construction of a primary school at the edge of our village. A symbol of hope for our community, the school beckoned a brighter future. And when the hands of time deemed me ripe, at the age of six, I was granted the privilege to enter its hallowed halls.

It was a dream deferred, for my parents had endeavored to enroll me at the tender age of five. However, the school's principal, in their wisdom, deemed me not quite ready. That extra year, it turned out, would be the thread that wove together my readiness for the world of knowledge.

And so, my journey through the realms of academia began a journey that would take me far beyond the confines of my village, yet never far from the lessons of my father and the spiritual echoes of my late grandfather. The pages of my biography turned with each step I took, with each lesson I learned, painting a portrait of a life deeply intertwined with tradition, love, and the boundless potential of a young soul eager to explore the world. 

Memories Under the Dogwood Tree

In the heart of Joenkhar Pry School, there stood a majestic Dogwood tree that was everyone's favorite. This venerable tree held court at the center of our little world, its branches reaching out in every direction like the welcoming arms of a loving guardian. It was a tree that had witnessed countless seasons, and its enduring presence had become an integral part of our school's history.

Throughout the year, the Dogwood tree displayed its unique charms. In the spring, it burst into a riot of colorful flowers, a breathtaking sight that could rival any natural wonder. But it was during the scorching summer months that the tree truly became a source of delight for both birds and students alike. Its branches bore succulent fruits that tasted like the essence of sunshine itself, and we couldn't resist their allure.

Under the guise of innocent play, we devised all sorts of schemes to bring those fruits within our grasp. Sticks were thrown, balls were kicked, and sometimes we even resorted to elaborate strategies to make the ripest fruits fall. We giggled and plotted, using every trick in the book to outwit both our fellow students and the vigilant teachers who patrolled the school grounds.

It wasn't uncommon for us to receive stern reprimands for our fruit-snatching escapades. Our teachers, wise to our antics, knew that the fruits were off-limits until they were fully ripened. But the rush of excitement, the sweet taste of triumph, and the sense of unity to exist alongside the tree made it all worthwhile.

The peak of our joy, however, came when our principal chose to share the bounty of the Dogwood tree with us. We'd eagerly gather beneath its sprawling branches, our eyes fixed on the tantalizing fruits hanging just out of reach. With a commanding voice, our principal would call upon the elder boys, who would then ascend the tree and shake its branches with vigor.

The fruits rained down upon us like nature's blessings, pelting our heads, shoulders, and outstretched hands. In our traditional Bhutanese Gho attire, with its large pouch-like space to store treasures, we showcased our skills in fruit collecting. It was a competition in which we eagerly participated, our laughter filling the air as we scrambled to gather as many fruits as we could.

The Dogwood tree bore witness to countless scenes of both rivalry and camaraderie. Sometimes, our quest for the fruits led to playful skirmishes and wrestling matches under its leafy canopy. Other times, it was a place of refuge, where we sought solace from the rigors of school life, sharing stories and dreams.

There came a time when it seemed that the beloved Dogwood tree might meet its demise. A construction project to extend the football ground encroached upon its base and the tree was left battered and wounded. We feared its life, but it proved its resilience, rallying against the odds to thrive once more.

Before the arrival of the World Food Programme (WFP), our cherished Dogwood tree had a role that extended far beyond the provision of fruits and shade. It was not merely a guardian of our childish fruit-stealing escapades; it was a silent sentinel that watched over our lives in a myriad of ways.

During lunchtime, it took on the responsibility of safeguarding our pack-lunch bags from prying hands and curious eyes. The branches of the tree formed a natural canopy, protecting us from the scorching sun's relentless rays and the unpredictability of heavy showers that often graced our school days.

Under that benevolent tree, we shared our deepest secrets, whispered our prayers, and confided our hopes and dreams. Its rustling leaves seemed to listen, offering solace and a sense of security in our youthful confessions.

The tree was a silent observer of the ebb and flow of our fortunes. It witnessed the highs and lows of students' lives, from academic achievements to the occasional misadventures. It stood steadfast as a witness to the changing tides of our existence, a silent companion to every student who sought its shelter.

Life's profound moments unfolded under the watchful eyes of the Dogwood tree. It bore witness to the circle of life, from the laughter of children playing beneath its branches to the somber moments of mourning for beloved teachers and fellow students who passed away. It felt the weight of our collective grief and the strength of our shared memories.

Through the passage of time, our beloved Dogwood tree endured it all—the joys, sorrows, secrets, and prayers of generations of students. Its weathered branches and steadfast roots became a testament to the resilience of nature and the enduring spirit of our school community.

As we grew and moved on to new chapters in our lives, the Dogwood tree remained a silent guardian, a faithful friend, and a timeless symbol of the enduring bonds that connected us to our past. In its presence, we found comfort, solace, and a reminder that some things, like the memories we created under its branches, were meant to last a lifetime.

Today, that Dogwood tree stands as a living testament to the memories and experiences of generations of students who have passed through Pry School. It continues to grace the school courtyard with its vibrant flowers and bountiful fruits, a symbol of enduring strength and the cherished moments we shared beneath its branches. The legacy of the Dogwood tree lives on, an indelible part of our school's history, and a reminder of the happiness, friendship, and occasional mischief it brought into our lives. 

Final day of 3rd Semester- September 13, 2023

Today marks nearly a year since I made the pivotal decision to change the course of my life, stepping away from the foreign service cadre. It's surreal to think that my last day at the Ministry was in September 2022. Time has raced by since I arrived in Canada, and now, as I sit here in the UCW library on the fifth floor, it's the final day of my third semester at university.

As I gaze out of the window, I see the towering buildings that make up the Vancouver skyline. They stand resolute, providing shelter to thousands of individuals, each with their own set of financial, social, and economic challenges. People bustle along the streets, and workers toil away, digging the ground beneath the bridge. It's a stark reminder that everyone has their own battles to face, bills to clear, and a stomach to fill.

The future still hangs over me like a thick cloud in the sky, uncertain and uncharted. I can't help but wonder where I'll be a year from now. Will I have a clearer vision of my dreams? Will I be able to leverage the potential I've been nurturing and developing thus far?

This journey of self-discovery and reinvention hasn't been easy. Leaving behind a career path I had long envisioned was a daunting step, but I knew I needed a change. Canada has offered me new experiences, perspectives, and challenges. It's a place where diversity thrives, and opportunities abound.

As I reflect on this past year, I realize that it's been a period of transformation and growth. I've learned to adapt, face uncertainty, and embrace change. The academic rigors of my university life have expanded my horizons, and I've met people from all walks of life who have enriched my understanding of the world.

At this moment, though my future may seem uncertain, I am filled with hope. I believe that in the coming year, I will gain more clarity about my aspirations and find a path that aligns with my true self. I am determined to work diligently, learn continuously, and make the most of the opportunities that come my way.

So, here's to the next chapter, with the hope that a year from now, I will be in a better position to define my dreams and make my mark on the world, all while cherishing the experiences and lessons of this incredible journey.