I have always been shy by nature, and from a young age I invariably became tongue-tied when speaking to groups. Consequently, if I had to appear on stage, I would read my speech over and over again beforehand until I knew it by heart. I would also take an active role in receiving guests at the monastery, and would think about how to answer their possible questions beforehand. Late into the night I would always spend some time reflecting upon the successes and failures with my conversations that day, no matter how exhausted I was.

My intelligence, ability, and wisdom are no better than other people’s. When I was studying at the Buddhist college, I took the reprimands from the teachers and the derision of my classmates as right and proper, and I vowed to make up for my deficiencies through physical labor. I would get out of bed early, groping in the dark, so that I could be up to beat the wooden blocks, signaling the other monastics to start their day. While my classmates were studying on their own, I would volunteer to go to the river and fetch water for the monastic community. Before and after our meals I would rush over to the kitchen and living quarters to sweep up. I would spend any free time apart from my studies by heading over to the kitchen to cook, so I was constantly going back and forth amid all the firewood, rice, oil, and salt in the kitchen and its stoves of boiling water.

During the ten years I lived at my training monastery, I worked as a server in the dining hall for six years, spent two years fetching water for the monastery, and another year and a half tending to the main shrine, taking care of the lamps, incense, images, and offerings. During this time I also served as administrator for the monastery library. Working in the dining hall was the hardest: each year when winter came around both my hands would be soaking in cold water as I washed several hundred sets of bowls and chopsticks. The skin on both the palms and the back of my hands were chapped all over, exposing raw, red skin between the cracks.

To train my mind and body and stimulate my potential, I emulated the great monastics of the past by undergoing various kinds of austere practices. I practiced not eating afternoon so that I could directly experience the spiritual joy of transcending the desire to satisfy my appetite. I transcribed the sutras using my own blood to make a flesh-and-blood connection between myself and the Buddha, and forge a mental connection with living beings. When the monastery enforced periods of silence, I would slap myself if I violated the prohibition and, over time, I would no longer engage in idle gossip even within my own mind. When paying homage to the Buddha as an act of penance, I would bow before the Buddha, kneeling for a long time repenting for my past lifetimes of negative karma so that my ignorance could be peeled away layer by layer.

Most people who pray are seeking something for themselves. Before the age of twenty I was the same: I would always pray to the Buddha to bless me, and ask that he ensure I become intelligent and make good progress, and that I be able to break through any difficulty and master the Buddhist path. After the age of twenty, after I had graduated from the Buddhist college, I came to feel that all I had been doing was praying to the Buddhas and bodhisattvas on my own behalf, asking for this and that. Wasn’t that selfish? Afterwards, I prayed instead for my parents and teachers, my relatives and companions, and even for those devotees with whom I felt especially connected, wishing that they would be safe and sound, and that they would grow in happiness and wisdom.

As I entered my forties, I gradually began to reflect upon my life and realized that my prayers still constituted a kind of selfish desire. Thus, between the ages of forty and fifty, I began praying for world peace, for a strong and prosperous nation, for a peaceful and happy society, and for the liberation of living beings.

After I turned fifty I had another insight. I was beseeching the Buddhas and bodhisattvas every single day to bring about peace and happiness for the world, for society, and for living beings, but what was I supposed to be doing about it? Thus, after the age of fifty, I began to pray to the Buddhas and bodhisattvas to let me shoulder the burden of the karmic obstacles and sufferings of all living beings: allow me to take on all the bitter transience of human emotions, allow me to practice the great compassion of the Buddha, and allow me to learn how to demonstrate the benefits and joy of the Dharma like the Buddha.

Prajna is concerned with both realization and attainment. The realization of enlightenment is not the same as the attainment of enlightenment. One who realizes can be in accordance with the truth, but such a realization is still not perfect. What attainment of the highest truth looks like can be seen in the story of the meeting between Emperor Wu of the Liang dynasty and the great Chan patriarch, Bodhidharma. Emperor Wu asked, “All my life, I have built temples, sponsored monastics, practiced generosity, and made food offerings. What virtue have I gained?” Bodhidharma answered, “In truth, there is no virtue”

Bodhidharma’s understanding of merit and virtue was different from Emperor Wu’s. Did Emperor Wu have any merit? Of course he did; he had mundane, worldly merit. There is always some merit or virtue gained, no matter how much or how little is done. But mundane virtue cannot compare to ultimate virtue for those of great ability that is unconditioned and beyond attainment; such virtue pervades heaven and earth. What Bodhidharma was talking about was the virtue of intrinsic nature. That is what we seek so assiduously. In modern terms we would call this “discovering our unlimited potential,” like martial artists who become stronger as their skills reach a higher level, and as in gongfu novels when the heroes open up their qi channels.

Nowadays I sometimes hear people talk about how great Fo Guang Shan is. But I will counter: Great in what way? The number of temples or how large the organization has developed arises naturally in accordance with conditions. While I began learning Buddhism well before the age of seventy, one could say that such learning did not mature until I became seventy. Many of the principles have been with me all this time, it was just that before I saw them only vaguely and just kept going towards what I wanted at that moment. Being carefree is not something we can search for. Finding the intrinsic nature of the true, prajna mind is the process of becoming more carefree, and that happens day by day.

Buddhist sutras always begin with the words”thus I have heard” and conclude with the words “they believed, received, and practiced it.” Being able to believe in, receive, and practice the Dharma is “acting like a Buddha.” To act like a Buddha is much closer to the Buddha’s aim than understanding Dharma knowledge or memorizing the Buddhist texts. Acting like a Buddha means putting the Buddha’s teaching into actual practice. We typically call Buddhists “practitioners,” because they are “practicing” the Dharma, that is, acting as the Buddha said and did. A true practitioner must act like the Buddha, not merely “study Buddhism.” If one wants to attain any success, one has to live in the practice every moment of every day and in every place. We should not learn some skillful teaching only to lay it aside and forget about it.

We read the Diamond Sutra in order to act like a Buddha in daily life and to apply the sutra’s teachings to the real world in a practical way. Whether or not we are successful, whether or not we can find fulfillment, then becomes a question of whether or not we can live a life that is carefree with prajna and a diamond-like mind.

Source: Hsing Yun. Four Insights for Finding Fulfillment: A Practical Guide to the Buddha’s Diamond Sutra. Los Angeles: Buddha’s Light Publishing, 2012.