A Pilgrimage to the Blue Mountain (1)

“There are mountains made of stone, and there are mountains made of silence.
There are paths that lead you upward, and there are paths that lead you inward.
My Blue Mountain was both.

I did not know it at the time.
I thought I was just a child, watching a distant mountain from behind my mother’s shop.
But the silence of that mountain entered me before I even knew what meditation was.
Its stillness was my first teacher.
Its green slopes were my first temple.
Its presence — constant, vast, and unmoving — shaped me in ways no human ever could.

To others, it was just a mountain.
To me, it was the Buddha in green.
The first voice that said nothing, but taught me everything.”

On top of Blue Mountain, there was No-Snow (Phi Tuyết = Snowlessness)

Born from the mountains and then returning to the mountains, I am the daughter of the mountains…

Fragile mist of dawn — the mountain is covered by it.
Chaos world of mind — the silent one sees it all.

original: “Sương mong manh, sương phủ mờ ngọn núi. Người thinh lặng, người thấu tỏ thế gian!”

“Sương (mist) mong manh (fragile), sương (mist) phủ mờ (viel / cover) ngọn núi (the mountain)

Người (man) thinh lặng (silent), người (man) thấu tỏ (un-veil / un-cover) thế gian (the world+mind)”

There was Snow (Tuyết) on the Blue Mountain?

Living a beautiful life filled with the fragrance of blooming Zen flowers and ripe Zen fruits, people often curiously ask me when I started meditating, who taught me Zen, or whether I followed a teacher.

You may be surprised to know that I actually started meditating when I was a little kid, and my first Zen teacher was not a human, but a mountain — the Xanh Mountain. It wouldn’t be easy to find another mountain with a more simple and honest name… (Xanh = Blue = Green).

Yes, it was the mountain — or, as I preferred to call it, a Green-Buddha — who was the first teacher to reveal to me another dimension of life, where vast silence served as the bridge between the depth of man and the whole of existence.

When I was a child, I lived with my parents. Our house was located at the crossroads of a very beautiful valley, where a green stream meandered through green hills.

In the distance, behind the hills scattered with rooftops, stood the silent but majestic Green Mountain, with three “lumps” on top that I often imagined as hearts. From my mother’s grocery store, I could look straight out at that peaceful mountain. And the truth is, I spent many hours of my childhood just quietly watching the mountain’s silence, as well as accidentally witnessing the changes people made to it.

That mountain was not just a mountain — it was a source of nourishment for my silence, a source of nourishment for my soul, even though I was very young at that time.

Not many children have the privilege or capacity to sit quietly alone for hours. If I had had a choice, I probably wouldn’t have sat quietly like that — I would have run off to play with my friends. But children in the countryside, every child has to help their family with something. Among my friends, some helped tend the fire to cook rice, cut vegetables to feed pigs, others washed dishes and cleaned the house. I was the only one who didn’t have to do any of those things — what a blessing! I was also not forced to look after my mother’s shop, but I chose to do so because I was a sensitive child from a young age. I wanted to be able to help, even just by looking after the shop at noon when there were few customers, so that my mother could have a nap after a very busy morning.

I have one brother and two sisters, but they went to school in the city. My younger sister was still little. My grandmother cooked and cleaned the house. My mother was in charge of the grocery store, and my father worked in the garden — everyone had their own job. I often preferred helping my mother at the shop rather than cooking or picking vegetables.

Since I was little, I’ve been outgoing — I liked to communicate, to calculate, and to do sales work so I could talk with people. When there was no one to talk to, I also deeply enjoyed the moments when the mountain and I were silently together.

The silence of the mountain is something anyone can see from a distance, but if one wants to see its movement and its soul, they must be deeply observant and aware.

I have observed the mountain in the mornings, covered in mist. I have also observed it during sunny noons and rainy afternoons. My eyes — somehow — always granted the mountain a special favor, so I have seen many things that perhaps no other child would notice.

I have seen flocks of birds flying toward the mountain. I have seen how the green forests were gradually eroded from the foot of the mountain to the top as people cleared the land to grow coffee. I have also seen boulders as big as houses gradually disappear from the mountain, broken down by people for reasons I never understood.

Observing the mountain from afar no longer satisfied me… Then one day, something happened: while clearing land, people discovered a very old, ancient statue of the Virgin Mary that someone had placed on the top of the mountain long ago.

Like a miracle, the news spread everywhere, and the mountain became a pilgrimage site for Catholics from all over. Every day, hundreds of motobikes passed by — or stopped at — my house to ask for directions to the mountain. This stirred up a curiosity in my heart, though I never asked my parents why we didn’t go like everyone else.

Until one blessed day, my brother had a weekend off from school, and he allowed me to go up the mountain with he and his friends. That was the first and only time I set foot on the mountain I had spent years silently admiring.

I came, and was blessed to witness the Green Mountain in its most glorious and abundant youth, when mountain and forest were still one word — not two.

I was on the mountain, seeing with my own eyes the tall, green forest trees with lush foliage, the vines clinging to their trunks, blooming with clusters of flowers and even strange-looking fruits. Monkeys swung on the treetops, sometimes picking ripe wild bananas and eating them unbothered by the curious eyes of tourists.

Not letting me lose to the monkeys, my brother let me try all kinds of wild fruits — from tiny wild-raspberries that melted on the tongue before you could even taste them, to clusters of purple dung dúc that were both sweet and astringent, in contrast to the wild chopstick-fruits that were even more sour than lemons, and wild bananas that were fragrant but full of seeds…

Besides the sweet wild sim-fruit, the one I loved most was the re-fruit — a strange fruit that grew in tight clusters right at the roots of trees. It was hard to find, but incredibly delicious and more fragrant than any other fruit I had ever tasted in my life. Even now, it remains the fruit that has impressed me most — that unique, wild, and unforgettable forest flavor.

My brother also helped me climb rocks as big as houses, lie down on their warm surfaces, and gaze far into the distance to see the tiny villages hidden among the coffee plantations — villages I could not even tell apart, unsure which one was mine. But perhaps this was how the mountain looked at me every day: only I could see the mountain, but the mountain could not see me — just like a one-sided love!

Perhaps going up the mountain with my brother, instead of my father or mother, was another hidden blessing I didn’t realize at the time. Because only with my brother did I get the chance to taste the pure flavors of the forest and mountain — something I would never have had if I had gone with the adults. Adults always forget how to enjoy the flavors of the wild!

Not only that, I also touched the icy cold forest stream flowing from the crevices of rocks, passing through tiny sandbanks that seemed to come from nowhere. I was truly surprised to learn that there was sand on the mountain. Until then, at nine years old, I had thought sand existed only at the beach.

I also heard the sounds of wild birds singing across the vast space — so different from the sounds of the birds my brother kept in cages. I used to hate the birds at home, because my brother always made me find food for them. When it rained, I had to catch termites; when it was sunny, I had to find locusts, grasshoppers; or when the birds were young, I had to mix water with rice bran from my mother’s shop. I hated that I had to help take care of the birds simply because I never wanted to.

So that time, being in the forest and bathing freely in the birds’ songs, I realized for the first time that I did like birds — but only wild birds. Not because they were free to find food, but because I was free from that very silly responsibility…

“When the birds are in the forest, they are free — and I am free.”

It’s strange and beautiful to think about — how everything in this life works and affects one another. My brother loved wild birds. He trapped them and brought them home to raise, and that made me hate them. Then he brought me into the forest, and accidentally made me fall in love with the sound of birds singing for the first time.

Since then, I no longer hated the birds at home every time my brother made me go find food for them. Instead, I began to feel sorry for them. I felt sorry for them — just as I felt sorry for myself.

Back to the mountain — the rumor of a Virgin Mary “appearing” on the mountaintop spread further and further, soon attracting thousands of pilgrims. It eventually forced the government and religious leaders to sit down together and discuss the matter, only to reach a rather ridiculous conclusion: they decided to move the statue to a large church in the area.

I was too young to have any opinion, but strangely, none of the adults around me at that time had any opinion either on this absurd decision. That wasn’t surprising — they were just villagers: pure, innocent, farmers all their lives, not merchants or administrators with the ability to calculate and see far ahead.

And just like that, the village missed a precious opportunity to put its name on the pilgrimage tourism map of the region, or even the country — like the statue of Virgin Mary of Ba Sa, or even Mary of La Vang – Hue. Not to mention, it might have become even more famous than both of those places. After all, this was not just a statue on a hill — it was an entire mountain. People would have had to make real effort to reach the Mother, not just climb a few hundred stone steps up a small hill lit with artificial lights everywhere.

The inner pilgrimage

There is a certain attraction to difficult pilgrimage sites. In fact, the more difficult the pilgrimage site, the more spiritual and “blessed” it appears in the minds of believers.

Why is this so? It is because when something is easy, people do not need to put in much effort, they do not need much determination, and they do not need to bring much “heart”.

And it is this very “heart” that creates the sacredness of a pilgrimage site or a religious statue.

When believers carry a greater heart — filled with love, trust, surrender, humility, and sincerity — this pure energy of worship is multiplied and spread. It permeates and transforms that space, from the rocks to the water source, from the tree branches to the blades of grass.

The sincerity of believers is the greatest ingredient that creates the sacredness of any pilgrimage site.

That is also why, after enough external pilgrimages, a person becomes sincere enough to begin an internal pilgrimage. And his sincerity turns his very being into a sacred place — a temple, a pilgrimage site so important that no external temple or shrine can compare.

This is also the meaning of the saying: “Worship in the heart.”

A person who truly worships in the heart knows that sincerity lies within. His pilgrimage path is inward. He no longer clings to external temples.

Those who do not understand this will think of it as merely an excuse for laziness in going to temples and churches. But these are two very different types of worship. Only those who have experienced both — the inner pilgrimage and the outer one — will know where they are, what they are doing, and what they truly need.

Most people who frequently go to temples and churches are those who have only made outer pilgrimages, not inner ones. So they cannot understand why some people keep using the phrase “worshiping in the heart” as a justification. They simply don’t understand.

Remember: All your judgments and opinions only carry value when you have experienced both sides — and drawn your own conclusions.

If you have only experienced one side and rushed to a conclusion, then your conclusion is almost worthless.

Only those who have loved, who have suffered because of love, and who have been happy because of love — only they know what love truly is.

Those who have never loved will not know.
And even those who have only known happiness in love, or only known suffering in love, do not yet have enough data to speak of love.

If that person speaks, his conclusion is only valid for himself, not for others.

And in the same way, a person who has been happy, who has suffered, who has tasted the flavor of love — even so, his declaration of love is only valid for him, not for others.

That is why, gradually, the more a person understands life, the less he has an opinion about anything. Because he knows that his opinion has no value and no meaning. Sometimes, what is meaningful to him does not mean it is valuable to others.
So why make a fuss about concluding this or that — especially never insisting that others must listen to him?

The more a person is insistent in concluding, in persuading, in arguing, the more it proves that he has not yet gone into the depth of life — of his being.
That only proves that, up to now, his pilgrimage has been purely external.

No one who has gone deep inside still insists on anything.

The deeper one goes within, the more one encounters silence — a beautiful silence within oneself.
It is like a priceless treasure — the deeper one digs, the richer, more valuable, and more immense it becomes.

Going deep enough inside, one will find that treasure — and then carry that treasure outside, bring the peace and bliss that one finds inside oneself, bring it into life and disperse it, share it. That is the meaning of the whole inner pilgrimage, of meditation, of the core of all religions.

That pilgrimage has two journeys:
One is when one goes inside, searching for the treasure and silence within.
Two is when one finds it — one needs to bring that inner treasure out into real life and share it, live it in every moment of life.

The first journey is difficult, but actually, it is not that difficult. Its difficulty is the same as keeping silent. Silence is an easy thing that everyone can do, but not everyone can do it — and not everyone chooses to do it. Silence is the easiest thing, but at the same time, it is also the most difficult thing.

This is a living example of non-duality.

When one enters meditation, the duality of “right and wrong” disappears — and only oneness remains.
Something can be both easy and difficult at the same time.
Something that requires all your energy — and yet, at its heart, is doing nothing.

This first journey may seem difficult at first, but when you have reached it — when you have found it within — then you realize it is easy. You realize that the real difficulty is not in finding the treasure, but in bringing the treasure out and sharing it, distributing it. That is the real difficulty.

It is like you and a companion wandering in the desert. You get lost and find a cool, sweet stream — now how do you bring water back to the other person who is also parched with thirst, when you have no water jar or anything in your hand? You will feel sad. You are happy that you have found the source of life, but sad that bringing it out and sharing it is so difficult.

Only the person who has reached this inner treasure — this inner source — will discover that bringing it out into life and sharing it is a thousand times more difficult than finding it. As for those who are still struggling to find that treasure, of course, their struggles have a different flavor.

There are connections in life, instructions and hints guiding you toward the treasure within. As the saying goes, “When the student is ready, the teacher (the lessons and signs) will appear everywhere.” Life gives you countless hints about the treasure within — but if you are not smart enough, not sensitive enough, you will never see them.

The pains in life that come from disillusionment, from expectations, from disappointments — they are all signs for you to realize the impermanence of life, to realize its disillusioning nature, so that you may soon stop dreaming. But you do not like that lesson. You want more dreams. You want to build even more dreams, to ensure that if one dream fails, at least another will succeed. You immerse yourself in more dreams and see those who try to awaken you as enemies.

That is another difficulty for those who have found the treasure within and want to share it. The problem is that what they find and know to be treasure — silence, peace, tranquility, and bliss — in the eyes of others (those who are still full of energy to conquer life) appears worthless.

Peace, to them, is like a stone when placed next to the things they love: success, fame, material wealth. Silence, to them, seems meaningless and useless when compared to the power of words to conquer people’s hearts.

Many people who find the treasure within try to share it, but when they realize that no one wants to receive these treasures, they accept reality and stop trying. That, too, is good. It does not affect them. Everyone has their own journey, their own pilgrimage, with its own difficulties and challenges.

Not interfering in anyone’s life is also a Zen way of living, a sage’s way of life — these people choose not to interfere in life or the world in any way. But if anyone comes to them and asks for advice or guidance, they are more than willing to share and help.

Silence is valuable to those who are tired of words.
Peace is valuable to those who are tired of the bitterness of life.
Bliss is valuable to those who have had enough of the endless cycle of pain and happiness, joy and sadness. He wants to go beyond everything — beyond the dualistic world, beyond even what people consider the ultimate goal: happiness.

Those who go to great lengths to seek advice from sages who live deep in the mountains are still pilgrims on the outside.
Searching for anything outside yourself is a peripheral pilgrimage. It may be interesting and fascinating, but in the end, it will take you nowhere.

Sages and mystics are people whose answers — somehow — always have only one purpose: to throw you back to yourself, to show you where you have gone wrong, and to direct you to the right path of the most important pilgrimage — that is, to turn back, to go deep into yourself.

… (1/2)

Phi Tuyết

book “philosopher, poet and mystic”