PR

I created my PR profile in March 2025, when little Norzang was barely a month old. Life was overwhelming, yet I pushed myself to sit for IELTS, hoping to secure a competitive score. Unfortunately, my marks weren’t enough to strengthen my profile. In September, my wife and Norzang travelled to Bhutan, and with a quiet home and renewed determination, I decided to attempt CELPIP—even without much practice. Three days later, my results came out. They weren’t perfect, but they were good enough to push me forward. Within the very next month, I received my ITA. My wife and I could not have been more thrilled.

Since TNC Consultancy had helped create my PR profile, I contacted them again to continue processing my application—especially because they had assured me of a discount for returning clients. That was when the real journey began. I paid CAD 4,200, received a checklist, and thankfully, because I had been gathering documents for months, I managed to compile and submit nearly everything within two weeks. IRCC gave me the standard two-month submission window.

The one document that worried me from the start was the Indian Police Clearance Certificate, since I had studied there for three years. TNC told me to inform them if any document seemed impossible to obtain. I clearly explained that getting an Indian PCC was beyond my reach—I had no contacts in India anymore. I followed up again after a few days, but there was no response.

Meanwhile, my wife—who was still in Bhutan and preparing to return to Canada—was able to secure our Bhutanese police clearances while she was in Thimphu. Around the same time, due to new IRCC policy changes, PR applicants were required to submit upfront medicals. We got ours done at Imperial Medical Clinic near Walmart in Richmond. I also reached out to my former chief at the Bhutanese Embassy in Brussels and obtained a supporting letter for my home country work experience.

Then, during the final week of our submission period, TNC informed us that my wife needed to return to Thimphu because she was listed as a non-accompanying dependent. This was shocking. Had they advised us earlier, we could have acted accordingly. We had paid for timely, proper guidance, yet crucial advice came at the very last moment. With no other choice left, we prepared a justification letter to avoid receiving a Procedural Fairness Letter from IRCC.

To make matters worse, the consultant suddenly told me that without the Indian PCC, they could not submit my application at all. Desperate, I sought help from my friend Phurpa, who was in India for diplomatic training and had connections through FSI. My hope was that he could expedite the process through the proper authorities. I waited anxiously, but days passed without a response.

Stressed beyond words, I then contacted Lhamo Tashi in Dehradun. Coincidentally, he had just returned to the city and welcomed a newborn daughter—beautiful news that felt like a good omen. Despite being busy, he was willing to help, but he needed a bonafide or proof-of-residence letter from my university. It was a Saturday, but I emailed them anyway, worried. To my relief, they issued the letter within hours.

I forwarded everything to Tashi, who also advised me to apply online so he could follow up locally. I informed him, but again, no response afterwards—understandably, he had family responsibilities.

Running out of time, I decided to take matters into my own hands. On Tuesday, I visited BLS after reading online that they accepted walk-ins. I arrived around 11 a.m., but the security guard told me I was 12th in line and the office closed at 1 p.m. I placed my name anyway. Unfortunately, I wasn’t called in time and had to leave for work.

The next morning, determined not to lose another day, I informed my employer that I would arrive late and planned to queue up early at BLS. That night, before my alarm even rang, I woke up and saw a message from Phurpa—he had somehow managed to obtain a PCC from Dehradun Police Station. My wife and I were overjoyed. I submitted it immediately, contacted the consultancy, and headed to work with newfound relief.

But the relief didn’t last long. Just after boarding the train at Lansdowne, TNC called saying that the document was from the local police station and IRCC required it from the headquarters. My frustration was beyond words. This was advice that should have been given at the very beginning—not at the final hour.

With no other option, my wife and I decided to visit BLS again the next morning, this time aiming to obtain an official receipt showing that the PCC process had been initiated at the Indian consulate. We woke at 4 a.m., reached downtown BLS by 4:45 a.m., and were the first in line. After waiting three hours, the doors finally opened at 8 a.m. Inside, we faced another hurdle: my BC ID listed my previous address, which did not match my current home address. To avoid delays, we decided to pay the service fees—CAD 165 in total—and submitted the application.

We immediately forwarded the receipt to the consultancy, and my wife followed up for the final confirmation. On Friday the 28th, after weeks of stress, frantic coordination, unexpected obstacles, and countless early mornings, my final PR application submission was completed.

A Journey in Patience and Purpose

Moving to a new place is never just a change of address—it’s the beginning of an entirely new life. Everything must be built from the ground up, and in the whirlwind of adjustment, one truth hit me harder than anything else: proper planning makes all the difference.

In the first year and a half, my focus was singular—finish my studies as fast as possible. It wasn’t just about academics; it was about easing the weight on my wife’s shoulders. Watching her work tirelessly to fund my tuition was both inspiring and heartbreaking. Her sacrifices became the silent fuel that pushed me forward.

Once the studies wrapped up, the next hurdle loomed: the work permit. What followed was a long, uncertain wait—weeks stretching into months, heavy with anxiety. But eventually, I crossed that gate too. I had made it through another storm.

Then came the biggest realization of all—planning for Permanent Residency (PR). At first, it was tempting to grab any job, just to start contributing and catch up. But deep down, I knew: this journey wasn't just about short-term survival. It was about building a future, a secure one.

I watched my friends juggle multiple jobs, pulling in good income. I questioned myself constantly—Am I not working hard enough? Just one job didn’t seem sufficient for my family. My wife and I both shared the weight of that feeling, as though we were being too soft on ourselves. The urge to take on more was overwhelming.

But I kept reminding myself: this is a season of sacrifice. For now, I have to hold back—just for a while. Let the months pass. Let go of quick wins in favor of long-term security. Once I secure my PR, I can choose the path I truly want. Until then, I must endure, plan, and be patient.

Language proficiency was one of the keys to unlocking this path. Without the right score, I’d have to wait another year to gain points through work experience. That’s when I consulted Jensen Johnson Immigration, and they opened my eyes to a strategy I hadn’t considered—I was eligible for the Federal Skilled Worker stream.

If only I had a stronger language score earlier, I could’ve qualified as early as mid-2024. Still, I moved forward. They advised me to create an Express Entry profile after six months of experience in a TEER 0–3 category. At the time, I wasn’t in a skilled role.

But fate had other plans.

In August 2024, I was hired as a Graphic Designer, falling into TEER 2. The job was far—two hours each way, every day—but I took it in stride. I needed the experience, and that made the daily four-hour commute worth it.

By March 2025, after six months of work, I created my Express Entry profile. The score came in—low. Anxiety crept back in. I tried the language test several times, but my motivation wasn’t what it once was. The questions were manageable, but time management tripped me up. Life, too, was moving fast—our son had just been born. I was balancing work, long commutes, family, and the constant pressure of immigration timelines.

A year passed, and I found another graphic design job, this time closer, in East Hastings Street. One quiet day, I decided to update my language score on the system—and suddenly, my score spiked.

It was like a shot of energy straight to the heart. That glimmer of progress reignited my drive. With renewed determination, I registered for the test again, even as my wife and son traveled back to Bhutan in early September.

This time, I performed better. Still, I knew I had more in me. But when I entered the new score into my Express Entry profile, something incredible happened—my total score leaped beyond even the highest previous IRCC draw.

And then, like a dream crystallizing into reality, it happened.

On October 2, IRCC announced a draw. The cutoff was 534—my score was beyond and above it. I saw the news mid-day but couldn’t access my email until the evening. I called my wife, and we both held our breath. She had been praying for this moment.

And then I saw it: Invitation to Apply (ITA).

I had made it.

The very next day, I reached out to the immigration consultant and started the process. Payments made, documents gathered, forms filled.

Now, I wait—hopeful, prepared, and grateful. Every sacrifice, every delay, every missed hour of sleep had led to this point.

Bless us, Tsawai Lam. Let the path ahead be clear.

Ten thousand miles without a cloud

It was the fantastical charm of The Legend of the Monkey King that first drew me in—whirling spells, mythical creatures, and tales of miracles captured my imagination. But as the story unfolded, I began to realize that beneath the playful magic lay a far deeper truth—one centered not on the Monkey King himself, but on the quiet, determined monk who journeyed alongside him.

Xuanzang—his name etched in both legend and history—was no ordinary pilgrim. Long before his tale was dramatized in folklore, he embarked on a formidable quest from China, across the shifting sands of Central Asia, and into the heart of India. His journey, spanning 18 long years, was not just a physical odyssey but a profound search for the purest essence of Buddhism. He walked through four vast landscapes—historical, cultural, spiritual, and deeply personal—documenting with piercing clarity the world as it existed between 602 and 664 AD. At Nalanda University, the intellectual epicenter of ancient Buddhism, Xuanzang studied deeply and emerged with a nuanced, enlightened understanding of the faith he had sought so tirelessly.

When Xuanzang returned to China, his fame had already preceded him. Emperor Taizong, recognizing the monk’s vast knowledge and the reverence he had earned, wished to appoint him to a position within the imperial court. But this was far from Xuanzang’s own vision—his heart was set on sharing the spiritual treasures he had gathered, not on serving in political circles.

The emperor was reportedly displeased by this refusal. Fortunately, a wise intervention came from one of Xuanzang’s relatives, who diplomatically persuaded the emperor to allow him the freedom to document his experiences instead. And so, with imperial blessing, Xuanzang began to write—giving birth to the monumental work known as Records of the Western Regions, a timeless chronicle of his extraordinary journey through lands, cultures, and the soul of Buddhism.

Ironically, while his writings captured a vibrant Buddhist world, time was not kind to the religion in India. Centuries later, Buddhism waned and withered, nearly vanishing from its birthplace. It wasn’t until the era of British India that many of its sacred sites—including Bodhgaya—were rediscovered, largely thanks to the meticulous chronicles left behind by Xuanzang.

In 1999, another traveler—Sun Shuyun—set out to retrace his footsteps. Following the ancient Silk Road from Handan to India and back, she sought to experience what Xuanzang had seen, but her account is painted with the hues of melancholy. So much had changed—lands, peoples, and even faiths. Her narrative, though lengthy, was deeply moving, revealing not only the erosion of time but also the enduring power of one man's devotion to truth.

And in the end, it was not the Monkey King's magic that lingered in my mind—but the quiet, unwavering courage of the monk who walked across worlds to bring enlightenment home.

2025 Reading List

 1. Ten Thousand Miles without a Cloud

-Sun Shuyun (27/09/2025)

2. 80% mindset, 20% Skills

-Dev Gadhvi (05/10/2025)

3. The 10X Rule

-Grant Carson (14/11/2025: 8:51am)

8th September 2025

On September 6th, I wanted my little Norzang to meet my friends Joemar and Mercy, so we reached out to them. They arrived just past one in the afternoon to pick us up, asking if we had any particular plans for the day. I told them we had none—only the simple wish for my son to see them before his departure.

They decided to take us to Metrotown Mall, about a twenty-five–minute drive from our home. Once there, we wandered through shops and shared a meal together. Susan and her family soon joined us, and our gathering grew into a cheerful crowd. Mercy, out of her boundless generosity, purchased several clothes for both Norzang and Chador. At first, I felt a wave of hesitation—our intention was only to let them meet Norzang, not to burden them with such kindness. But their gestures were rooted in love, and we could only accept with heartfelt gratitude. Susan too added to the joy, bringing her own gifts of clothes for Norzang.

Through it all, my little boy remained cheerful and cooperative, radiating a quiet happiness that seemed to reach everyone present. Wherever we go, it feels as though he carries with him a light that brightens the hearts around him. That is Norzang—true to his name, a blessing, just as Rinpoche intended when bestowing it upon him.

Now, only one day remains before his departure. An emptiness has begun to creep quietly into my heart, a hollow space that will deepen once his laughter, his coos, even his cries are no longer by my side. I know I will miss him deeply—every sound, every smile—until the day of his return.

Knight Street

Just eight more days to go, and little Norzang continues to be the heart of every room. His smile—innocent yet mischievous—has become his signature, a memory etched into anyone who meets him.

This long weekend, with Labour Day falling on September 1st, we decided to take him farther from Richmond than ever before since his birth. Our destination was Knight Street, where Norbu Zangmo and Tashi live. The trip was a small adventure in itself: first, the 407 bus till Cooney Road, then a transferred to the 430. The ride was calm, the bus half-empty, and the rhythm of the road almost soothing.

Once we arrived, the day unfolded gently. Norbu Zangmo started preparing a wonderful meal, and together we shared a warm lunch that felt like more than just food—it was togetherness. By evening, around five, it was time to head back. They walked us all the way to the bus stop, a small gesture of affection that never goes unnoticed.

The return, however, was a different story. The 430 was crowded, and Norzang, already deprived of sleep all day, grew restless. His mood shifted quickly; my wife and I tried every trick to keep him entertained, but his fatigue weighed heavier. From Bridgeport we changed the bus, yet his fussiness lingered. Just a few stops before home, he cried in frustration, and we had to work harder to soothe him.

At last, we reached home, bathed him, and watched him finally surrender to sleep. A brief rest for him meant a brief rest for us, too. Later that night, Chador and I slipped out for a quick shop at TNT, leaving Norzang with Kam Dem and Shacha. Yet even then, he was unsettled. The moment we returned, his little face lit up with joy—proof that he has already imprinted his parents’ presence deep in his mind.

But because of his evening nap, sleep at night did not come easy. As always, it ended with us whispering lullabies, guiding him into dreams.

Norzang’s growth—his tiny victories, his stubborn moods, his radiant smile—unfolds like a story I never tire of reading. It is a journey, tender and profound, that I am lucky enough to behold.

Written on September 1st, 2025, at 10:12 a.m., while he was being fed by his mother 

27 on 23 July 2025

The clock gently chimes 23rd July, ushering 27th Years of living, marking another year of your graceful bloom. With every passing moment, you grow not just in age, but in strength, in wisdom, and in the quiet elegance that defines you.

You are, without doubt, one of the most cherished souls in my life—your presence brings depth, light, and meaning to my every day.

You’ve given so much—more than words can capture—and you continue to give with a heart so generous that I often wonder how I got so lucky. As my dearest friend, my beloved wife, and the most nurturing mother to our beautiful son, you are the thread that weaves our family together, the strength behind our every stride forward.

Though I may not place a valuable gift in your hands today, what I offer is something far more enduring: a love that belongs only to you, held gently in my heart every single day.

To the one I owe so much—Happy Birthday, my love. May your journey ahead be long, joyful, and full of health and laughter.

Happy Birthday, my dearest! 🎉❤️

Tsawwassen Mills

July 19, 2025, was one of those heartwarming days stitched with simple joys and the comfort of familiar faces. It had been a while since we last saw Joe and Mercy—our dear friends who have stood by us since we first stepped foot in Vancouver. The last time we gathered was shortly after Norzang’s birth, and life had moved so quickly since then.

At around 1:30 in the afternoon, Joe and Mercy arrived to pick us up. We first made our way to their home, where Joemar, ever thoughtful, had brought along pizza and juice so we could share a small meal together. As laughter echoed and Netflix played softly in the background, the warmth of friendship settled in.

After a while, they asked if we’d like to go out somewhere. We agreed, and our little adventure took us to Tsawwassen Mills—a sprawling mall just a short drive from Richmond. It was a first for all three of us—my wife, myself, and little Norzang—and the place was bustling with summer shoppers. Amid the sea of people, we picked out a pair of shoes, while Mercy and Joemar, in their ever-generous spirit, showered Norzang with clothes. We remain endlessly grateful for the way they care for us, like extended family.

Their presence in our lives has been a blessing. From day one, through every big and small moment, they’ve been there—helping, guiding, and quietly lifting us up. I often wonder how we’ll ever return all the kindness they’ve poured into our lives. I hope we can, someday.

As for Norzang, true to his nature, he remained calm and cheerful throughout the day—his little eyes wide with curiosity, his tiny hands reaching out toward the newness of it all. He didn’t cry much, making everything easier and even more enjoyable.

It was a full day in every sense—filled with love, gratitude, new experiences, and quiet contentment. A memory to carry forward.

Written on July 21, 2025, at 5:37 p.m. while returning from Burnaby.

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Audience with JDKR

 In a land where diversity blooms like a vibrant garden — where cultures, faiths, and philosophies converge in harmony — the air feels thick with the yearning for peace. For the Bhutanese diaspora, especially those far from the towering Himalayas and prayer-flagged temples of home, the arrival of revered Rinpoches is more than just a spiritual event. It’s a reconnection — a gentle reawakening of identity and tradition.

On the 13th of July, 2025, the city of Vancouver became sacred ground for many of us, as Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche graced it with his presence. My wife had long held this day close to her heart — she dreamt not only of receiving his blessings but also of offering our son Norzang’s first haircut under his sacred gaze. A symbol, perhaps, of surrender and fresh beginnings.

The organizing team graciously shared the schedule, and we decided to accompany our friends Dorji and Sangay, whose group had a vehicle. That morning felt enchanted. As if sensing the importance of the occasion, Norzang beamed with an unusual delight, giggling, cooing, and waving his tiny hands with joy. We dressed him in his best and together made our way to 8240 Chester Street, nestled off Marine Drive.

We arrived just in time. The room, filled with fellow devotees, pulsed with a serene anticipation. When Rinpoche entered, calm and radiant, all hearts stilled. In reverence, attendees, through the volunteers, offered three heartfelt songs — a humble gesture of devotion. What followed was a cascade of blessings: the transmissions of Guru Rinpoche, Güru Drakpo, and Arya Tara — each syllable weaving threads of light into our spirits.

In his brief yet profound talk, Rinpoche urged us not to forget who we are — our roots, our values, our cultural essence. But he also gently prepared us for the tides of change. The next generation, he said, would not mirror the old ways exactly — and we must meet this evolution not with resistance, but readiness. His words sank deep — a wisdom both comforting and cautionary.

Then, as the gathering neared its end and Rinpoche prepared to leave, my wife, with her unwavering heart, approached the organizers. Through her quiet determination, she was granted the wish dearest to her — Norzang’s first haircut by Rinpoche himself. That moment, simple yet powerful, felt like the closing of a karmic circle — our son was blessed not only with sacred words but also a new path.

We returned home that day with spirits uplifted and hearts full. The experience was not just a blessing — it was a moment stitched into our family’s story forever. And as we continue on our journey in a distant land, we carry with us the hope that Rinpoche may live long and continue guiding countless beings toward light and liberation.

Final Day of my 4th Job

Some days stretch endlessly from dawn till dusk, but today carries a different feeling — a quiet sense of completion and new beginnings. This marks the final chapter of my nearly year-long journey between Richmond and Surrey, a stretch of time filled with lessons, frustrations, small victories, and countless reflections.

I carry deep gratitude for those long days that tested my patience and shaped my determination. I’ve learned, sometimes the hard way, to embrace the journey itself, even while striving for better outcomes. With each layer of experience, I hope I am inching closer to where I truly want to be — to a place where effort and reward finally align.

Starting next week, on June 14th, 2025, my path takes a new turn, from Richmond to Vancouver. A new chapter, a fresh beginning. I step forward with hope, trusting that the road ahead holds fresh opportunities and growth.

-7:51am in the Bus no. 407 

Trelda Tsechu 2025

July 5th, 2025 — the 10th day of the 5th lunar month — unfolded as one of the most sacred occasions in our Buddhist calendar: the Birth Anniversary of Guru Padmasambhava. Like countless devotees worldwide, I hold a deep and unwavering reverence for Guru Rinpoche. This day carries an extra layer of meaning for our family. Around this same time last year, in 2024, my wife had a remarkable dream — a dream we didn’t fully understand then, but looking back, it feels like a gentle sign from the universe, perhaps hinting at Norzang’s arrival into our lives. In that light, this blessed day now carries both spiritual and personal joy for us.

This year, we made our way to Thrangu Monastery once again to offer our heartfelt prayers and supplications to Guru Rinpoche. For Norzang, this was technically his second Trelda Tsechu, though it felt like his first true celebration of the day outside the womb. We brought him to receive blessings, and one thing that always fills me with gratitude is his cheerful cooperation whenever we take him on these little pilgrimages. He was radiant with joy, laughing and soaking in the colors and sounds of the sacred surroundings.

My wife and I caught the midday bus, timing our visit so we would arrive when the monastery reopened at 1:30 PM after the lunch break. We reached around 1:15, and already groups of devoted volunteers had gathered, filling the air with chanting and prayer. Although we couldn’t stay for the evening prayer session, the few hours we spent there felt deeply fulfilling. After offering a butter lamp and guiding Norzang to receive blessings, we did a peaceful round of circumambulation before boarding the bus back.

On our way home, we made a brief stop at Lanesdown Mall to finalize our WiFi subscription contract. While wandering through the mall, Norzang’s curious eyes fell upon a collection of dolls. He may not yet understand what they are, but something about their bright colors captivated him, so I bought him a small doll as a keepsake of this joyful day.

And so, we returned home with full hearts and gentle smiles, grateful for a day beautifully spent. May we be blessed with countless more years to celebrate Guru Rinpoche’s birth. May his compassion continue to light our way and ease the sufferings of the world.

30th-Last day of June 2025

Just woke to our second morning in the new place, greeted by golden sunbeams boldly cutting through the blind ray—a bright start to a fresh chapter. Norzang was already wide awake, full of joy, his cheerful shouts echoing through the quiet morning. As usual, I set out along Richmond–Surrey Road, though the heat of summer is making its presence known more and more each day.

My brother remains behind for one final task—clearing out the last of his belongings from our old room. Within a few hours, he too will bid farewell to that familiar space. That home wasn’t just a roof over our heads; it was a place where my family shared beautiful memories, and I was gifted the time to truly bond with them.

Though he’s chosen to live closer to his workplace and we’ll now be in neighboring cities, I hold hope that this new independence will shape him, teach him lessons that help him grow into the man he’s meant to become. I wish him strength to face whatever challenges lie ahead and the wisdom to walk his path with courage.

As we all move forward in our separate directions, may our journeys be guided by light, and may each of us—and everyone seeking hope—find a brighter, smoother road ahead.

Written on the morning of June 30, 2025, at 8:19 a.m., while crossing the bridge from Richmond to Surrey.

༦༥༡༡ Gilbert Road

It’s hard to believe it’s been almost two years since we made Elmbridge Court on Gilbert Road our home. Room 321 wasn’t just a space—it became a vessel of memories, carrying with it waves of joy, frustration, laughter, and quiet reflection. Our time here has been nothing short of meaningful.

This third-floor room gave us the most precious gift of all—Norzang. He was conceived here, and for the first four months of his little life, this was his world. It’s where he first heard sounds, discovered light, and began exploring life. One day, he’ll read this and know that this place was his first haven.

On Saturday, June 28, 2025, we woke up early—so did Norzang, as if sensing the change. With the help of my brother Sangay and a kind Bhutanese driver named Tobden, we made two trips to move our belongings. We’re deeply thankful to the managers—Anna, Ladh, and Jey—who were always so kind and supportive. This building also carries memories of my wife working tirelessly as a cleaner here for nearly a year, until she stepped into her new role as Norzang’s mother.

There are countless moments etched into this space—walks around the football field, afternoons at Minoru Park right across the street, quiet evenings watching the seasons change. We’ll surely miss it all, but we’re not going far. And one day, I know Norzang will return here to reconnect with his very first home.

As I write this, we are just minutes away from leaving—Norzang sleeps soundly on my lap, unaware of the new chapter beginning. We’re moving just a few kilometers away, but the memories we’ve built here will travel with us.

With love in my heart and hope for the days ahead, may the next journey be even more beautiful. 

Friday, June 27

Life has been moving at a whirlwind pace lately, and amidst all the chaos, our family made the big decision to relocate to a new place. It often feels like trying to balance everything is a puzzle with missing pieces. I’ve come to realize that a truly comfortable life isn’t just about convenience—it’s about finding comfort even in discomfort.

Right now, our focus is firmly on building something more stable for the long run, and that pursuit has demanded more sacrifices than we anticipated. Through it all, it’s my wife who has carried the heaviest load—juggling the responsibilities of our home while pouring her heart into raising Norzang. It breaks my heart that she doesn’t get to fully savor the joy of motherhood the way she truly deserves.

She’s the heartbeat of our home, the quiet force that keeps everything running. There’s truly no reason we shouldn’t get along, especially when she embodies such remarkable qualities. And though we occasionally differ in opinion, beneath it all, I hold her in the deepest respect—not only as my life partner but as the exceptional mother of our son. She deserves nothing less than the very best in life.

I often find myself silently giving thanks for her presence in my life. Her health may seem delicate, and her body may sometimes appear weary, but to me, she’s the strongest person I know. Her values, her grace, and her quiet strength inspire me more than I can express.

Every day, I pray for her well-being, for the strength to match the kindness she pours into our world. Fate could not have been kinder to me than when it brought her into my life. Even when things seem uncertain, I find comfort in knowing that I have the best companions on this journey—my extraordinary wife and our beautiful son. With them, everything will eventually fall into place.

On my way to work (8:41am)

A Note from the Morning Bus

Yesterday marked four full moons since you entered our world, Norzang. June 12th—a day quietly sacred in our little calendar of life. You're now four months old, and already, you're showing the quiet strength of someone learning how to be here.

You can lift your head with steady purpose, and your neck now proudly supports that curious gaze of yours. You play with pure joy, laugh like the world itself is telling you jokes only you can understand. Your grip is strong—you reach out with your tiny fingers, determined to hold on to things, as if you already know the world is made to be touched, explored, and loved.

Your eyes follow the light—every flicker, every passing shadow. Sometimes, you're completely lost in the dance of the world outside, your gaze fixed on movement and mystery. Perhaps this is how wonder begins: distraction becoming discovery.

I often find myself wondering what you see—what must all this look like to you? To be brand new in a world already spinning with colors, shapes, and sounds. Whatever it is, I know one thing for certain—you find it endlessly entertaining, and that alone fills my heart.

A week before your fourth-month milestone, the doctor noted your healthy weight at 6.4 kilograms, and your height continues to grow like a little sprout after spring rain. You are blooming.

Your mother is tired—beautifully, lovingly tired. And as I watch both of you, I feel an ache of gratitude. You, her, and my parents—you are the compass points of my life, the meaning behind my every day. You give my living its purpose.

May you continue to grow strong, healthy, and kind.
May you become a good human being.
And may you always know how deeply you are loved.

With all my heart,
– Dad

Written on June 13th, 8:05 a.m., on my way to work

The Heat of June and a Test of Grace

June arrived with its golden sun and the first true taste of summer heat, casting warmth over everything—even the chaos that quietly bloomed in the corners of our life. My calendar was dotted with interviews—some completed, others hanging in limbo after the initial screenings. Amidst this professional whirlwind, another storm was silently brewing closer to home.

My wife began feeling an odd discomfort—an ache under her left ribs, a lingering pain near her shoulder. We brushed it off at first, hoping it was nothing more than the toll of caring for our young baby. Still, to rule out anything serious, she went to the hospital. That simple visit turned into a five-hour wait, just to give blood and urine samples. I joined her later, expecting answers, but the results never came. With baby Norzang waiting at home with Shacha, we had no choice but to return without seeing the doctor.

The next day, she went back. This time, the news wasn’t as kind. The nurse revealed her UTI hadn’t fully healed—and worse, it was creeping towards her kidneys. She was added to the CT scan queue, where time moved slowly, measured not in minutes but in sighs and uncertainty. I joined her again the following day and before my arrival her scheduled CT scan was completed. After hours of waiting, a female doctor finally approached with results, yet the clarity we hoped for remained elusive. The kidneys, once our main concern, were thankfully fine. But a slight inflammation in her appendix raised a new red flag. There wasn’t any link between her appendicitis issue and the pain on her left ribs. 

A surgeon was summoned. He arrived briskly, pressing into her right abdomen, reading each wince like lines from a book. His diagnosis was calm but firm—appendicitis. He presented two paths: treat it with antibiotics, a route with a 70% success rate, or proceed with surgery, the surest solution. We hesitated. The idea of removing part of her body, no matter how small, felt so drastic. We leaned toward the antibiotics, clinging to the hope of healing without the blade. But the doctor gently steered us back—his voice steady, persuasive. “It’s a very minor surgery,” he assured us. “Thirty minutes. Two days recovery.”

But how could anything be truly minor when a three-month-old baby needed his mother? I wrestled with the weight of responsibility—caring for her, for Norzang, and holding everything together. It felt like too much. But then came the doctor’s reminder: a mother’s health is the pillar of a child’s well-being. And so, with a mix of trust, doubt, and a prayer on our lips, we agreed.

The surgery went well, by the grace of something greater than us. But reality wasn’t as painless as promised. The ache lingered long after the anesthesia faded. My wife, ever strong, bore the pain silently—painkillers helping only so much. Her hands, which once rocked our baby with ease, now trembled as they tried to hold him again.

I took time off to care for her, while Shacha stepped in, her hands and heart always ready. Even friends joined in—helping with Chador when we couldn’t juggle everything ourselves. On June 7th, my wife, still healing, couldn’t make it to Norzang’s doctor visit. My brother and I took him instead, a small but symbolic journey of fatherhood in action.

We were worried about a new concern—Norzang’s fontanelle seemed sunken when we lifted him. Our nurse took it seriously, promising to consult the pediatrician. We’re still waiting, hopeful.

Looking back, doubt still flickers in the quiet hours—did we rush into surgery? But then again, maybe that decision was guided. Maybe, just maybe, we dodged something far worse. Sometimes strength doesn’t look like certainty—it looks like showing up, choosing the harder path, and trusting that healing, like summer, comes in waves.

First visit to Monastery

It was a week before Norzang would complete his first season on earth—three months young on the 3rd of May, 2025. The morning air held a whisper of spring, though clouds still lingered like hesitant thoughts. It was a Saturday, a brief pause from the week’s rhythm, and the perfect moment we had long awaited.

My wife, with hands that know the language of devotion, prepared Puri for lunch—golden circles of warmth that spoke of care. As we took turns dressing Norzang and sharing our meal, there was a quiet rush in the air, a sense of something sacred unfolding. By 2:30 p.m., an Uber became our chariot, carrying the three of us to the serene grounds of Thrangu Monastery in Richmond.

Upon arrival, we were greeted by the hush of reverence—volunteers and monks preparing for the evening chants, their crimson robes moving like calm waves in the tide of time. We bowed in prostration, placing our foreheads on the earth with Norzang cradled in our arms, offering him to the blessings of awakened minds.

I approached a monk to ask about offering a butter lamp, and he advised me gently to visit the reception to make a payment after explaining different options of butter lamps offering they have. There, I placed $30—an offering not in value, but in intention—for a flame that would burn for three days, each flicker a silent prayer. I was given a slip of paper, and with a humble hand, I wrote blessings for our son: a wish for his long life, protection from any afflictions, and a heart anchored in wisdom.

As chants began to echo through the hall—low and timeless—we sat quietly, letting the sound wrap around us. Norzang, wide-eyed and bright, babbled as if trying to join the chant. Joy bloomed on his face like the first light of dawn. But as fatigue crept in, he grew fussy, and we knew it was time to leave.

Just before exiting, at the monastery's entrance, we stopped by a mural of Thuenpa Puenzhi—the Four Harmonious Friends—painted in still joy on the wall. There, we captured the moment. My wife and I took turns holding Norzang, each photo a frame of memory. Then, with kind permission, a smiling Chinese volunteer helped freeze us all in a single click—father, mother, and child, woven into one sacred image.

The ride home was soft and quiet. Norzang, carried by the lull of movement, slept peacefully in the Greco car seat. We were filled with gratitude—a calm, golden kind—the kind you carry not in your hands, but in your soul.

It had been a long-time wish: to bring our son to a place of blessings, to bathe him in prayers older than mountains. And at last, it came to pass. May Norzang walk this world in peace, live a life of light and length, and grow into a gentle follower of the Buddha’s path.

Norzang’s 3 Months Birthday

May 12th, 2025, 7:05 AM
Each month, when the 15th moon rises along the Buddhist path and the Western calendar marks the 12th, something quiet and sacred returns to our lives—the day our son, Norzang, was born. A light wrapped in soft skin and steady breath.

As auspicious as the full moon day itself, this marks the completion of Norzang’s monthly birthday cycle—a beautiful, lunar journey coming full circle. What a joyful coincidence it is to celebrate two blessings in one: the sacred glow of the full moon and the closing of his each monthly cycle.

Since his arrival, he has drawn people to him like petals to sunlight. Both near and far, friends have come bearing whispered prayers and gifts steeped in love. Their laughter echoed through our walls, celebrating his presence with grace. Yet, my wife and I chose to wait, to mark his official family celebration on his third-month birthday—just us, in the quiet warmth of our home.

We picked May 11th, 2025—a Sunday that worked for our hearts and schedules, though his lunar birthday fell the next day. For a week leading up, I poured love into every detail—designing banners, gathering the essentials, and making sure everything felt right. By the evening of May 10th, all was ready.

And then, the day came. Our little boy—our sweet Norzang—joined the celebration with joy, not tears, easing my anxious heart. He smiled, played, and gave us his presence in the purest form.

With love and tenderness, his uncle captured him in a photograph—a moment framed in time that will outlive even memory. Shacha came bearing currency as prayer, wishing him a life as long and unfaltering as the river that never questions its flow.

As tradition called, I offered him a white scarf and bowed my head. My silent wishes poured forth: May his days be bright with health, his steps grounded in happiness. May his voice remain pure and his mind forever free.

Yet even as joy filled our home, truth lingered quietly in the corners. Norzang came to us not with the wealth the world counts but in the quiet, challenging days. We were not yet fully settled then. And for that, I ask his forgiveness—for not giving him more of what the world deems valuable.

But what he gave, and what we received, was something richer. His presence has brought a kind of wealth no coin could mimic. He is our true treasure. He made us whole, not through stability, but through the soul.

So may he grow strong in body, kind in speech, and wise in mind. We love him beyond the reach of words. He is, and always will be, our Joy of Pure Wealth.

And now, while the world outside begins to stir, I sit here, watching over the dawn that is my son.

Written with love on May 12, 2025, at 7:05 a.m., beside my sleeping son

Early Morning Dream

It was the quiet stillness of dawn, a little past 4:00 a.m., when I rose to feed Norzang. Once he drifted back into peaceful sleep, I slipped into my thoughts and composed a response to a job interview questionnaire. The clock neared 6:00. With another hour to spare before the rhythm of the day returned, I let myself sink back into bed, unaware that I was about to wander into a dream stitched with memory, regret, and longing.

In this dream, the world wore a dim hue, like a painting left in the rain. I found myself reliving the time after I had resigned from the civil service—three years ago now. I’m the scene, I was working at a private company, eyes always glancing toward another job I had applied for, hoping for something more stable. But as I teetered between opportunities, our family finances grew thin, and so did my confidence.

I carried a quiet weight—one that whispered I may have stepped off a more secure path. Norzang was older in the dream, and the faces and places I once knew had shifted with time. My new workplace was close to RIM, and with each passing day, I was haunted by the fear of being recognized—of old friends seeing me and wondering what went wrong. A sense of shame gnawed at me gently but persistently. I began hatching silent plans to migrate abroad, chasing the idea of a better income, but the road was misty, the destination unclear.

Amid these swirling thoughts, my wife’s voice echoed—reminders of choices I had made, words laced with love but firm with truth.

Then, the dream carried me to Pachirong—a serene stream flowing between Bumpa Log and Joenkhar. I was there with Pema Khandu, his brother Sonam, and Pem Drakpa. We crossed the stream together and approached a strange structure—like a house with its gate closed, compelling us to climb through the attic to enter.

As Sonam attempted to jump down, I handed him a rope to guide his descent. But before he touched the ground, he lost consciousness. In a rush, I called out for Pema Khandu to help, but then suddenly he collapsed—his body limp, blood at his mouth. A chill swept through us. Panic painted every face. And just before I could understand what had happened, I awoke—heart pounding, dawn light seeping in. 

With that, I rose from bed and began preparing to head to work.
This was written shortly after the dream, at 7:05 a.m. on April 30, 2025.

First appointment with my Family doctor

The morning of April 26th, 2025, began with a quiet urgency. I woke early to prepare Norzang for his post-UTI checkup at Terra Nova Clinic — a small but important milestone after days of worry. His appointment was at 8:30 AM, and we moved quickly, feeding him and catching an Uber under the soft light of dawn.

At the clinic, the receptionist greeted us with a smile that offered a brief moment of calm. Not long after, our nurse — warm and attentive — called us in. She examined Norzang thoroughly, her hands gentle yet precise. When she finally looked up and assured us that he was cleared of any post-infection concerns and was in good health, I felt a wave of relief wash over me.

Still, there was a lingering thread of uncertainty: some of the blood tests taken earlier at the Richmond Hospital had not produced results. Whether it was a simple oversight or something else, no one could say for sure. To be cautious, we were asked to return and redo the blood samples — tests crucial to rule out the faint possibility of genetic jaundice.

Later that afternoon, I returned to the clinic once more — this time for myself. It was my first appointment with the same nurse, having officially registered under her care along with my wife. Sitting across from her, recounting my medical history, felt oddly vulnerable yet necessary. After listening carefully, she offered thoughtful advice on my struggles with constipation and persistent headaches. She suspected migraines but urged me to undergo blood work to search for deeper causes — tests that I would take alongside my son on Monday morning.

Understanding the inevitable delay this would cause, I informed my boss, preparing for a late start. It felt fitting somehow — this shared moment between father and son, both stepping into the quiet, sterile halls of Richmond Hospital, each in search of answers, each carrying a better hope for healthily life.

Art, Love, and the Story of Us

Since childhood, art has been my quiet companion—a place where I could dream freely and express emotions words could never quite capture. Doodling, sketching, painting—it’s always been more than a hobby. It’s been a part of who I am.

I’ve long dreamed of learning the sacred principles of traditional painting, especially the kind rooted in culture and symbolism. Though formal training never came my way, that didn’t stop me. I’ve kept learning, one brushstroke at a time, this time digitally, inspired by the diverse forms of art I’ve encountered over the years.

When our son was born, I felt a deep urge to immortalize this new chapter of life—something meaningful for both me and my wife. So, I picked up my pen and iPad with a purpose. Slowly, through late nights and quiet thoughts, an idea bloomed into form. And now, the digital painting is complete.

Though far from perfect, it holds everything that matters—my emotions, my gratitude, my love.

At the heart of the piece stands the Vajra, a symbol of masculinity in Buddhism—indestructible, powerful, unshakable. It represents our son, Kunga Norzang, whose presence already echoes a quiet strength. He is rare, radiant, and resilient—just like the Vajra.

Wrapping around the Vajra are delicate flowers, representing my wife—my partner, my muse. Their soft curves and graceful bloom speak of her love, beauty, and the effortless grace with which she embraces motherhood. Each flower reaching out in different directions symbolizes the many roles she plays in shaping our son’s world.

This painting is a tribute to them both—a mother and son duo, forever etched in my heart.
May the flower forever bloom with beauty,
And may the Vajra rise with strength to carve his path in this vast, unfolding world.

With love,
Written at 12:32 a.m. on April 21st, 2025, while lying beside the two souls who inspired it all.

 

Snowfall 2025

It was that time of year when winter tightened its grip, bringing the temperature down to a biting -4°C. After days of heavy, brooding clouds, nature finally decided to let go, draping the world in a fresh layer of snow. It’s often said that snow doesn’t fall in the harshest cold but when the air begins to soften—and this time, Vancouver proved it true. From February 2nd to 3rd, 2025, the city witnessed two days of continuous snowfall, turning the streets into a afresh winter wonderland.  

3rd February 2025, Brighouse School ground.

While the flurry was a sight to behold and a refreshing change, it also brought life to a standstill. Work was postponed, routines disrupted, and for those who rely on daily wages or outdoor labor, the snowfall was more burden than beauty. My own office was closed on February 2nd, giving me an unexpected pause in my week. But by the next morning, as I set out for work, the sun began to break through, hinting at clearer days ahead. According to the forecast, better weather was on the horizon—good news for everyone.  

This week also marked a special milestone—Kuenga Norzang reached 37 weeks, and with perfect timing, he experienced his very first snowfall. A beautiful omen, I thought, a sign of good fortune and well-being for both him and my wife. As I sat on the right-side seat of the 364 bus to Langley, waiting at Scottsdale Exchange at 9:07 AM, I took a quiet moment to reflect on this new chapter, letting the wintry landscape outside mirror my emotions—cold yet full of warmth, still yet moving forward. 

Happy NEW Year 2025

As the calendar turned to 2025, my wife and I honored our tradition of visiting Thrangu Monastery in Richmond. Every year, we prioritize this plan to offer prayers for good fortune and to ward off any potential obstacles that may lie ahead in the unfolding months. On the first day of January, we followed our usual routine, boarding the bus with excitement and anticipation. We arrived at the temple at precisely 12:30 pm, and as luck would have it, the caretaker had just locked the door for her lunch break. However, upon seeing us, she kindly reopened it, granting us entry.

We spent a few peaceful moments inside, prostrating ourselves and offering heartfelt prayers for the well-being of our family. In my hands, I held a bouquet of flowers, which I handed to the caretaker, who then placed them on the altar with reverence. Time was tight, though, as the bus back was soon due, so we made a quiet circuit of the monastery before heading back home.

It was already later than usual for lunch by the time we arrived, but we quickly prepared a meal and ate before diving into the next plan of our day. In the evening, we paid a visit to Joemar, eager to share the gifts we had not been able to exchange over Christmas. After a lunch, we notified Joe of us being ready to come over, and he graciously picked us up. It felt wonderful to reconnect after months of being apart, exchanging greetings and gifts in a joyful reunion. 

By evening, we returned home, settling into the familiar rhythm of preparing for the busy days ahead. As the days of 2025 unfold, we hold on to the hope that each moment brings peace, strength, and happiness to all. May fortune smile upon us all, as we continue to embrace the journey ahead.