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.

Thank you-2024

The year has been a flow of lessons, a reservoir of memories etched in laughter, tears, and the quiet triumph of happiness. Each emotion woven its way into the tapestry of 2024, a testament to the highs and lows that shaped us. As the year bows out, a moment of silence is owed—a reverent pause to honor the good health and the fruition of dreams, the seeds of plans now bearing fruit.  

Before me lies a horizon casting a colorful clouds or varying shapes. The incessant rain that drummed on Vancouver's rooftops over the past few days made way for a glorious sunshine on this final day of the year, a poetic farewell to a chapter well-lived.  

Two years in Vancouver—a years of growth, self-discovery, and the quiet transition into adulthood. This city has been more than just a backdrop; it has been a mentor, a witness to a phase of life that feels like a bridge between who I was and who I am becoming.  

With gratitude, I lift my thoughts to the Triple Gem, a humble supplication for the blessings that colored this year. To my family and parents, your prayers have been my anchor, my light on the darkest of days. And to the child within me—thank you for never losing faith, for holding onto dreams, for daring to believe in the beauty of becoming.  

Here’s to 2024, a year that was, and to the countless tomorrows waiting to be written.

Snowfall Dream

I found myself in the company of Pema Chophel, my childhood friend and neighbor, and Pema Khandu, the son of Mem Lam Norbu. My youngest brother, Sangay, was with us as well. The scene unfolded near Genden's old house, as we passed under its old house, attached to what once served as the main altar room.  

Together, we descended the village path, our steps taking us above my aunt’s house. There, Sangay paused to climb a small tree that stood just below the terrace of my upper farmland. A few more steps down the path, I suddenly felt a surge of excitement and began shouting, “Snowfall! Snowfall!”  

In an instant, the entire village was blanketed by a delicate sheet of snow, transforming the familiar landscape. Looking up, I saw the majestic Yomzangmo mountain cloaked in white, its peaks glistening under the snowfall.  

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, I awoke. It was 6:46 a.m. on the 24th of December, 2024. 

2024 - reading List

 1. Psychology of Money 

-Morgan Housel - 3rd November 2024

2. Grit ~ How to keep going when you want to give up

- Martin Meadows- 10/11/2024

3. I was never broken 

-Moonsoulchild- 11/11/2024 10:48 am

4. One Man’s view of the world

-Lee Kaun Yew- 28/11/2024

5. Can Asians Think?

-Kishore Mahbubani-12/12/2024

6. Article by Lopen Karma Phuntsholing

On Strengths and Weaknesses of the Four Traditions of Tibetan Buddhism (19/12/2024)

7. Change Leader

-Michael Fullan -29/12/2024

5RESEARCH