Студент из Вьетнама находит утешение в буддизме Оксфорда, преодолевая сомнения и сравнение с другими

Take the number 35 bus from the Radcliffe Camera, sit for six stops while watching sunlight spill through the windows, then walk for a few minutes more, and you will find a small sign bearing the image of a man seated in the lotus position. It is the Buddha. A few steps further, Oxford Buddha Vihara comes into view, a small temple where people gather to talk about Buddhism and practise mindfulness. I first came to Oxford Buddha Vihara to visit a Vietnamese monk who is pursuing a PhD at our university. Those were months when my eyes rarely left my computer screen as I worked through assignment after assignment. During times like those, I often find myself thinking about life, wondering whether the things I do, I study and my dream of becoming a writer (that’s why I became a creative writing student) truly mean anything, or whether they are simply illusions I have created for myself. Whether I only believe that my work helps others because I want to believe it does. Whether I call something beautiful because I need it to be beautiful, but perhaps it’s not. Back in Vietnam, whenever I felt lost, I would go to a temple. Sometimes, when I found myself overwhelmed by confusion, I could even travel to Plum Village in nearby Thailand to practise mindful breathing in the tradition of Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh. Practices such as sitting meditation, walking mindfully, or even lighting a stick of incense and watching it burn would often help me feel much more at peace. But during those months of studying, and of course, watching my friends win writing competitions, produce remarkable work, and seeing people only a few years older than me already receiving Booker Prizes, I could not help but feel discouraged. Studying while other people’s achievements unfolded before my eyes was difficult, because I was still on the journey while someone else always seemed to have already reached the finish line. It made the thousands of words I was writing feel even heavier. I think I am growing up in an era where everything has to be fast, including success. I need to see results immediately. My efforts must lead to good outcomes right away. If I complete an assignment, it should earn a Distinction. There were many times when studying felt deeply discouraging because I was exhausted from trying to make every piece of work perfect. Some students might say that this is simply part of the experience and that they are used to the pressure, but the exhaustion is real. Studying while other people’s achievements unfolded before my eyes was difficult, because I was still on the journey while someone else always seemed to have already reached the finish line So while sitting with the monk, I told him that I had no idea what I was supposed to do with my life. Alongside that uncertainty came the fear that I would never be able to apply for higher degrees or win the scholarships I dreamed of. “Just plant the seeds and keep watering them. The rest is up to causes and conditions.” Those words reminded me of a scene in Past Lives, when the two main characters are talking to each other. “There is a word in Korean: In-Yun. It means “providence” or “fate”. But it’s specifically about relationships between people. I think it comes from Buddhism and reincarnation. It’s an In-Yun if two strangers even walk by each other in the street and their clothes accidentally brush. If two people get married, they say it’s because there have been 8,000 layers of In-Yun over 8,000 lifetimes.” In the film, the female protagonist does not end up marrying the male protagonist. They tell themselves that perhaps they simply did not have enough layers of In-Yun, not the full 8,000 layers needed to bring them together. In life, it is difficult to accept that we may not have 8,000 layers of In-Yun with certain things. Sometimes, I still feel a quiet bitterness over the scholarships I did not receive. And that bitterness makes me stop watering the seed of my own faith. Yet just because I do not have enough layers of In-Yun does not mean I should stop doing the things I am meant to do. Everything in the age of social media feels effortless. Achievements that take decades to build are retold in hour-long podcasts and reels that last less than three minutes. Perhaps a part of me wants that too. To skip past the assignments that stretch across pages, the drafts return with comments asking for another rewrite, and arrive directly at the moment when I get to tell people about my accomplishments. A brilliant life condensed into an hour. Everything in the age of social media feels effortless. But my life is longer than an hour. And no two lives are ever the same, no matter how ordinary they may sometimes seem. My seeds are different from those of my friends, and so are the conditions in which they grow. Some of my friends come from the UK, others from Germany. As for me, I come from Vietnam. The stories of our countries alone have already given us very different conditions from which to begin. For example, English is not my first language. The practices I had learned came rushing back to me. When I light incense, I should simply follow the trail of smoke. When I walk, I should breathe and know that I am walking. The same is true when I sit in meditation, and when I study. I just simply water my seeds.