The Life and Awakening of Master Hong Yi

The Poetic Path of a Soul

The slanting wind and fine rain never seem to cease. Flowers bloom under the moonlight, and the birds sing amidst the fragrance. We compose poetry, exchange verses, and drink wine together. With the wine in the cup, literary thoughts flow like a river. Amidst the great mountains and vast waters, shrouded in mist, I write with ease and freedom. From my earliest childhood, my affinity with the Buddha has been deep. When the conditions matured, I shaved my head to become a monk, taking the Precepts and the Dharma as my teachers. Listen carefully as I recount the journey of my life. Namo Amituofo.

An Invitation to Wisdom

Venerable Faxin: (Bows ten times to the Buddha) With palms pressed together in respectful invitation to Master Hong Yi, you were a renowned talent of your time. Yet, you chose to let go of everything, enter the Buddha’s gate, and take the Precepts as your teacher. Could you please compassionately share the process of letting go and your practice to inspire those who come after you? Namo Amituofo.

Master Hong Yi: My father was the youngest son of a prominent and wealthy official family. He was the most cherished child in the household. My grandmother, though she already had two sons and a daughter, felt a special connection with this youngest son. My grandfather was a government official, and my grandmother’s family background was similar, as people in that era placed great importance on families being well-matched in social status. Although my grandmother was not formally educated, her virtue, kindness, and the way she treated the household staff were observed by my grandfather, who held her in great respect. Even when my grandfather later encountered difficulties in his official duties and was compelled to marry the daughter of another official to resolve the situation, it was my grandmother who suggested this simple solution. My grandfather’s gratitude toward her remained deeply hidden in his heart.

A Blessed Beginning

My mother was the second daughter of her family. From a young age, she was clever and nimble. Her eyes were always bright, and one could often hear her sharing wise words about how to get along with her siblings, which is why my maternal grandfather cherished her so deeply. The union of my father and mother came about because both my grandfather and maternal grandfather were officials in the imperial court. They had the opportunity to collaborate on local engineering projects, and they worked together so harmoniously that they felt like old friends. They agreed to arrange a marriage between their most beloved son and daughter to bring their families even closer. After my grandfather completed the projects assigned by the court, he took my father to my mother’s home in Zhejiang so the two young people could become acquainted. Upon seeing my mother’s bright and endearing eyes, my father told my grandfather that he wished to marry her. Both elders were overjoyed, as this was the very purpose of their visit. Not long after, amidst the sound of gongs and drums, my mother was married into the family in Tianjin.

The Longing for a Son

The newlywed couple shared a deep affection, with eyes only for each other. The family agreed that they were a perfect match. Soon after the marriage, my mother gave birth to my elder sister, who inherited my mother’s wit and intelligence, greeting everyone with a smile from the time she was a baby. The family was delighted, but regardless of how lovable my sister was, she was a girl. In the tradition of the time, it was essential to have a son to carry on the family lineage, and this expectation was placed upon my parents. After my sister was born, my mother did not conceive for a long time. She became anxious, but my father was unconcerned, believing that children would come when the time was right. My mother lacked my father’s ease, as the other wives in the family would constantly ask, "When will you give birth to a chubby baby?" Initially, my mother would smile and reply that she was waiting for the Causal Conditions to mature, but as the questions persisted, she felt helpless.

The Grace of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva

Some time later, my maternal grandfather retired and began a small business. While passing through Tianjin, he visited to see how his daughter was faring. He was overjoyed to see his granddaughter, who looked just like his daughter had at that age. However, noticing my mother’s hidden sorrow, he inquired and learned of the pressure she felt to bear a son. He told her that she could pray to Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, for the Bodhisattva is known to respond to every prayer. He assured her that if she were sincere, her wish would be granted. My mother was delighted to have hope, so she invited a white jade statue of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva into our home to worship. From that day on, she often dreamt of the Bodhisattva holding a pure vase and sprinkling water. During the sprinkling, the Bodhisattva would open her sleeves, which were made of thin gauze, and through the fabric, my mother could see a child playing. My mother was overjoyed, believing this to be an auspicious sign. Before long, she became pregnant, and the entire family waited in anticipation for the arrival of this new life. By the time I was born, my sister was already five years old, and the family held a grand celebration to welcome me.

The Cultivation of Humility

As I grew, my father began to teach me to read. My intelligence, the speed of my learning, and my sensitivity to literature surprised him. My father loved aesthetic things, such as calligraphy and painting, and he was friends with many renowned scholars of the time. From a young age, I loved to draw with a stick in the sand in our courtyard. My father was very happy, believing I had talent. He would often take me to visit his friends to see their creative works, each of which had its own unique character. I discovered that every work—whether calligraphy, sketching, or oil painting—contained the author’s own preferences and personality. The themes could be drawn from great mountains, rivers, flowers, trees, birds, or beasts. Regardless of the subject, every stroke, every character, and every painting revealed the artist’s intent through the hardness or softness of the brush and the depth of the ink. Whenever we left a friend’s house, my father would ask me what I had seen and learned. I would reply, "The strength and softness are perfectly balanced; the brushwork turns with grace; the lines reveal a living energy. These are truly excellent works!" My father often asked for my critique, but I would only speak of the good, never the bad. If I saw something I did not quite understand, I assumed it was because I did not yet grasp the creator’s intention. I dared not criticize, as I was only a child with much to learn. My father taught me to be humble and ask questions. He said, "My child, you must never become arrogant just because you know a little more than others. That is the most undesirable trait. There is still so much you do not know, and what you do know is merely a small fraction of the truth." I took these words to heart and constantly reminded myself never to be arrogant.

The Quietude of the Dharma

Every time I returned from visiting my father’s friends, I would retreat to the study to ponder the brushwork and techniques I had seen. I wondered about the pressure applied to the brush and the state of mind required to create such beauty. My father observed all of this in silence. He knew that I might pursue the path of art, a path that is not easy to walk. He understood that I would face much criticism and advice, and that I must not let these things enter my heart, or I would be easily hurt and my work would suffer. I understood this and was grateful to my father for preparing me for the challenges I might face. Most of my childhood was spent reading, practising calligraphy, and painting. In my remaining time, I would visit my grandmother, who was a very devout Buddhist. When she was free, she would kneel before the Buddha, tapping a wooden fish and chanting. She had begun her practice when she married my grandfather. It was fortunate that she had the Dharma, for otherwise, the loss of my grandfather might have been a devastating blow. Her heart was now so peaceful—a state of having no desires. I did not expect that such a state could keep the heart so balanced. In her room, I could quickly perceive my own thoughts. I often stayed with her, and my siblings could not understand why I enjoyed it, thinking it must be boring to watch her tap the wooden fish from morning until night. Yet, I loved that sense of peace. Sometimes I would bring a book and spend the entire day in her room, listening to the steady sound of the wooden fish.

A Vision of Harmony

From a young age, I witnessed the deep affection and mutual respect between my grandparents and my parents. Although my father had more than one wife, his respect for women prevented the domestic strife that often arises from emotional entanglements. They treated each other with the courtesy of guests. I observed all of this, and in my heart, I developed a deep respect for women and a longing for a harmonious family life. I had heard of many wealthy families where the wives were constantly fighting, creating a suffocating atmosphere where women could not express their suffering. I did not want that for myself, so I maintained a profound reverence for women throughout my life.

As I gradually matured, I reached the age for marriage. My parents had already selected a virtuous and capable woman named Yu for me. Having always held my parents in high regard, I followed their arrangements, chose an auspicious day, and welcomed her into our home. I treated Yu with the same manner of conduct that my father had shown my mother. Yu was a woman of few words, yet she was highly skilled in needlework, cooking, and preparing delicate pastries. Whenever I was deeply engrossed in my calligraphy, she would quietly bring me a warm snack, then gaze at my work with an expression of profound admiration. She managed every aspect of my daily life with great care and was, of course, exceptionally filial toward my parents. I held a deep sense of gratitude toward her.

No matter how late I practised my calligraphy, Yu would always sit in our room, reading quietly as she waited for me. Once I had finished, she would assist me with my evening wash, and only after everything was in order would we retire for the night. Yu was also a well-read woman of substance; occasionally, we would discuss poetry and literature. However, such exchanges were rare, as she tended to nod in agreement with whatever I said, rarely offering her own opinions. She was a pillar of strength supporting me from within.

The Call of Distant Horizons

Three years after our marriage, we were blessed with two sons. By that time, I had reached a stable level in my painting, yet I felt I had encountered a bottleneck in my creative growth. I approached my parents and Yu, explaining that I had heard from several close friends that the art scene in Japan was flourishing. I expressed my desire to travel there to study, hoping to find a new breakthrough in my calligraphy and painting. My parents and Yu were always supportive of any decision I made. Though they were deeply reluctant to see me go, they asked how long I intended to stay. In my heart, I calculated that I would return in three years, but I did not voice this aloud.

I packed a simple bag, boarded a ship bound for Japan, and set foot on that foreign soil with a heart full of dreams. My friends had already arranged for a student to meet me. This student’s mother was Chinese, so he could speak the language. When I first arrived in Japan, my Japanese was quite poor, and I could barely manage simple communication. I rented a modest room. Because my language skills were not yet sufficient to enter university, I spent every day in diligent study. When I went out to buy necessities, I forced myself to speak as much as possible. Although I was hesitant and stuttered at first, the Japanese people were patient enough to listen. Through these long nights of study, I eventually felt my proficiency was enough to sit for the entrance examination. I applied to the Fine Arts Department of the Tokyo University of the Arts and, after seven months in Japan, I was finally accepted.

The Discipline of the Artist

After completing my registration, I purchased a large quantity of art supplies, only to discover that my funds were nearly exhausted. Although I knew the upcoming semester would be demanding and I longed to focus entirely on my studies, I had to provide for my living expenses. During the break before classes began, I looked for work that would allow me to balance my studies with earning a wage. After much consideration, I noticed that the school library was hiring. Perhaps others found the work too tedious, as no one else applied, and I was hired. This was a fortunate beginning, as it provided me with ample time during my shifts to openly study the Japanese language.

Once the semester began, my schedule became even more compact. The school started with the fundamentals of sketching. Compared to my classmates, I possessed a solid foundation, as my previous works had been self-taught—inspired by the creations of my father’s friends and other refined scholars, then infused with my own artistic sensibilities, though my use of colour remained conservative. Now, I began with the basics: sketching fruit, the Japanese landscapes of bridges and flowing water, and studying the curves of statues to master human proportions and basic structures. Only after mastering these could I advance to the study of colour coordination.

I was older than my classmates, but due to my natural artistic talent, my work remained outstanding even though I had started later than the others, a fact that even my teachers praised. Sometimes, I would write poems within my paintings to reflect the scenery and my state of mind. Seeing my versatility, my classmates grew close to me. The female students, in particular, loved to read the calligraphy I inscribed beside my paintings. At that time, Chinese calligraphy was highly regarded in Japan as a refined culture, having been transmitted from the Sui and Tang dynasties and flourishing locally. Those who could write well were deeply respected and considered people of high cultivation. Having been well-versed in poetry and literature since childhood, combined with my artistic talent, I carried the air of a scholar, distinct from the local students. Perhaps due to my upbringing, I treated everyone with equality and sincerity, making many friends in Japan with whom I could exchange artistic insights. This period of study laid the foundation for my deep artistic mastery.

A Heart of Gratitude

As I became more familiar with the environment, I spent increasing amounts of time on learning, creating, and socialising, and my funds were no longer sufficient. I thought of changing jobs and asked a friend for a recommendation. He was very enthusiastic and introduced me to a guesthouse. He spoke to the owner on my behalf, allowing me to stay for free in exchange for helping manage the shop and overseeing daily operations. It was a wonderful opportunity provided by my friend’s kindness, as it not only saved me the cost of housing but the work was also quite light. I was deeply grateful for his help and hoped to repay him one day. With a heart of gratitude, I painted a picture of a Chinese harvest, titled The Abundance of the Harvest, and inscribed it with the words: "When the grain bows low, it is the time of harvest; may this state of abundance be with you throughout your life." I wished him a life of constant prosperity and offered my full blessings for everything he pursued. As he was Japanese, I explained the meaning to him, and he was overjoyed, sharing it with his family as if it were a precious treasure. His family was equally delighted, and thus, they came to know of me.

After changing jobs and moving into the guesthouse, I had more resources at my disposal and more time for self-improvement. The owner, knowing I was an artist of deep feeling, placed a long table in my room for my use, a gesture I deeply appreciated. The owner had a daughter named Fuji, who was much younger than I. She was lively and simple-hearted. As she was an only child, she often helped her parents greet guests and manage the affairs of the guesthouse. In her spare time, she would sit by my side, watching as I sketched. She felt the subjects in my paintings were so full of life, and she would always insist that I teach her after I finished. She would often take me to beautiful outdoor locations to serve as subjects for my sketches, waiting patiently until I had finished the fine details before returning to fill in the rich colours. In this way, Fuji accompanied me through most of my days in that foreign land. Even though there was an age gap of nearly twenty years, she held a special affection for me. Her parents observed every detail of our interactions; they were aware that I had a wife of similar age back home, yet all three of us seemed to deliberately avoid the topic. Since arriving in Japan, I had only sent one letter home to say that I was safe. I worried about my parents' health, but knowing that the virtuous Yu was by their side gave me peace of mind. From then on, I focused entirely on my artistic studies. Even with my natural talent, I knew that success could only come through constant practice; no achievement is ever reached in a single step.

After graduating from art school, I had become somewhat well-known in the Japanese art circles. Occasionally, I would hold small art exhibitions with close classmates within the school. My style was a blend of Chinese and Western influences, presenting traditional themes through the medium of oil painting—one piece depicting the lively atmosphere of the Chinese New Year was particularly unique. This school was a prestigious institution for nurturing artistic talent, and many collectors knew that its students were likely to become great artists. They would purchase works before the artists became famous, knowing the value would multiply in the future. During my exhibition, several people appreciated my work and purchased it, which greatly improved my living conditions. To celebrate, I went to a teahouse with the friends who had exhibited with me. We sat on the tatami mats, sipping hot tea to warm ourselves, followed by several carafes of sake. When the screens were opened, several geishas performed; their graceful figures and the charm of their dance were captivating. This was my sensitivity to the feminine form, a skill I had cultivated while drawing sketches. I watched their every move, observing the beauty of the human form. Beautiful things were my greatest love; anything of beauty could become an inspiration for my creations. The geishas had heard of my background and knew I was a man of talent rather than a common patron seeking pleasure. They vied to pour my wine and hoped I would paint their portraits. Although I loved beauty, I did not wish to invite trouble, so I politely declined.

Namo Amituofo

The Return to the Homeland

As the time to complete his studies in Japan drew near, Hong Yi felt the pull of his homeland. He had been away for a long time, and news of rising tensions between China and Japan made him anxious. He feared that war was imminent. He felt it was time to return and see his family, as he had rarely sent letters home during his time abroad. After bidding farewell to his friends in Japan, Hong Yi prepared his simple belongings for the journey back to his native land.

Just before his departure, Fuki, his Japanese companion, wept as she asked to follow him to China. Her heart was entirely devoted to him, and Hong Yi, feeling a deep sense of emotion for her, agreed to her request. Thus, Fuki became his secondary wife. After a long and turbulent journey across the sea, they finally arrived in Shanghai. Hong Yi gently held Fuki’s hand, aware of her anxiety in a foreign land and the potential difficulties she might face upon entering his household. After disembarking, they took a rickshaw and arrived at his family home in the afternoon.

His children, having not seen their father for many years, rushed out in excitement. Hearing their joyful cries, the rest of the family gathered in the hall. They were filled with delight to see Hong Yi finally returned, yet their joy was tempered by the sight of the unfamiliar woman standing beside him. As the family looked on with confusion, Hong Yi spoke, "This is my wife, Fuki." Fuki bowed deeply, not daring to speak, as she did not yet know the Chinese language. Having just arrived, she relied on body language to interpret the family’s reactions. According to the customs of the household, a new wife was expected to kneel and pay respects to the grandparents and parents. After some preparations, a formal ceremony was held for Fuki to enter the family. She knelt before the grandparents and parents, and then politely bowed to Hong Yi’s first wife, Yu Shi. Yu Shi reached out to help Fuki up, signaling that such formalities were unnecessary. So many years had passed, and Yu Shi had waited faithfully for Hong Yi’s return. Yet, the reward for her patience was the sight of another woman kneeling before her, a woman who had now irrevocably claimed a portion of her husband’s heart. Although Yu Shi understood that Hong Yi had always treated her with basic respect rather than deep affection, the reality of the situation was still a source of profound pain.

Nurturing Talent in Nanjing

Yu Shi did not say much; she simply accepted the situation in silence. She understood that her husband’s heart was no longer with her, so she turned her focus entirely toward their children, choosing to no longer concern herself with Hong Yi’s personal affairs. Upon returning to China, Hong Yi was immediately invited to serve as a professor at Nanjing Normal University. He dedicated himself to sharing the profound knowledge he had acquired during his time abroad, particularly in helping his students establish a solid foundation in sketching.

Hong Yi’s teaching style was relaxed and did not impose unnecessary pressure on his students. He opened basic sketching classes to those who had no prior artistic background, allowing everyone the opportunity to learn. Because of this inclusive approach, Hong Yi’s reputation at Nanjing Normal University grew significantly. He often encountered other famous artists and intellectuals at the school, as many of China’s most renowned artists were graduates of that very institution.

The Weight of Patriotism

During that period, the political situation in the country became increasingly unstable. A strong sense of patriotism began to stir within Hong Yi’s heart. After settling his family and work arrangements, he began to observe the shifting political landscape. He reconnected with friends, all of whom shared a deep concern for the future of the nation. At that time, relations with Japan were extremely tense, and war seemed ready to break out at any moment. As intellectuals, the only contribution Hong Yi and his friends could make to society was to publish patriotic articles and compose songs to inspire the people. They hoped to bolster the nation’s confidence and help everyone find a way to endure the pain and uncertainty of living in such a turbulent era.

All the expenses for these articles and newspaper campaigns were covered by their own modest salaries. They travelled from town to town to distribute their materials, driven solely by the desire to ignite the patriotic spirit of the people. The government at the time did not look favourably upon such organized activities. They were wary of any group that might grow out of control, fearing it would mirror the rise of the Communist Party, a problem that had yet to be resolved. Consequently, the government kept a close watch on any form of assembly. They frequently arrested people at gathering spots without offering any explanation. Despite this, driven by our good intentions, we persisted in doing what we believed was right.

However, as our funds were limited, we became increasingly impoverished. We had exhausted almost all of our personal savings to keep the publications running, issue after issue. We struggled through these hardships, sometimes even going hungry just to scrape together enough money for the next print run. Then, one day, I do not know how the authorities tracked us down, but they arrested our editor-in-chief and several core members of our group. We were all terrified, not knowing where they had been taken or if they were suffering. After that incident, the patriotic journal ceased publication, and the disappearance of our friends became a deep, lingering wound in Hong Yi’s heart. We never saw them again. At that time, Hong Yi felt utterly defeated, never having anticipated that events would take such a tragic turn.

Awakening to the Dharma

Through a stroke of good fortune, Hong Yi came across a book exploring the Buddha’s teachings, which sparked his curiosity. The text was remarkably clear and profound: "The practice of Precepts is a boundless, liberated path; untainted by the dust of the world, free from empty delusions, one manifests within the lotus land." The trials of the war had left Hong Yi exhausted. He no longer wished to compete with anyone. It seemed that only by entering the Buddha’s gate could he avoid a life of causing harm to others. Are we not all the same? What is it that we are truly trying to prove by fighting and struggling? This world is not a place where one can easily find peace.

With this realization about the nature of life and the vastness of the Buddha’s teachings, Hong Yi began to study the sutras. Initially, he approached them with a self-taught mindset, hoping to gain an understanding on his own. However, upon reading, he discovered that the meanings were infinite and could not be fully grasped through solitary study alone. Through the introduction of a friend, he visited a temple and, with the utmost sincerity and respect, asked the abbot if he might listen to a few lectures to understand the true meaning of the Buddha’s teachings. Seeing his genuine heart, the abbot agreed.

The first lesson he learned was on the fundamental significance of the precepts for practitioners. Throughout history, both in the East and the West, there has been no virtue without the foundation of the precepts. The precepts are the discipline of the heart and the discipline of action. If applied correctly, they serve as a protective umbrella for the practitioner. If applied incorrectly, they become like a heavy stone of attachment. Thus, learning the precepts is a profound field of study. One must uphold the precepts and then chant the name of Namo Amituofo. The ultimate purpose of chanting is to seek rebirth in the Western Land of Ultimate Bliss. This Western Land is, in truth, the final destination for all who live in this world.

The Fleeting Nature of Worldly Success

In this life, Hong Yi could be considered exceptionally talented; he had mastered calligraphy, painting, music, and seal carving. Yet, he realized after studying the Buddha’s teachings that no matter how proficient one becomes in these worldly arts, one cannot take them along at the moment of death. What truly awakened Hong Yi was the passing of a close friend. They had both studied in Japan and returned to China together, supporting one another. During Hong Yi’s most difficult times in Japan, his friend’s timely financial assistance had left him deeply grateful. Hong Yi also greatly admired his friend’s talent.

Upon returning to China, his friend immediately found those who appreciated his work and opened an art gallery for him in Shanghai. He even invited Hong Yi to attend the opening ceremony. At that time, his friend was thirty-eight years old, surrounded by four wives—some managing the household, others handling the accounts, and some by his side. They all appeared vibrant and successful. Hong Yi felt both happy for him and envious of his life. At that time, Hong Yi was full of drive, eager to achieve the greatest possible success in his life and art, hoping to leave behind a lasting legacy. However, not long after, he received news of his friend’s passing. This occurred at the height of his friend’s fame in the art world. I was in Zhejiang at the time, so I flew to Shanghai to bid my friend a final farewell.

The funeral was arranged in the simple style that my friend had loved, with his own creative works displayed around the hall. Although I had attended several funerals before, this one left the deepest impression on me. At the time, I was also striving for success in my creative work, hoping to make a name for myself in the art world. Yet, seeing the reality of life, I realized it was like a play—much like the role I had once performed in The Lady of the Camellias. In the end, all that remains is the sorrow of the white-haired person sending off the black-haired person. Namo Amituofo

From that moment on, I began to question the meaning of life once again. I found myself lost, wondering what I was truly striving for. If I were to continue my creative work, what would it matter? Once a person passes away, even if their works sell for a fortune, it has nothing to do with them anymore. Life is defined by impermanence, and human beings are so fragile. If I were to continue chasing after worldly gains, my entire life would simply vanish without leaving any contribution to society. To focus solely on myself, pursuing things that are untouchable and useless after death—this is what the Buddha’s teachings describe as ignorance.

The Weight of Attachment

For a long time, one attachment lingered in my heart that I could not let go of: my wife, Fuji. She had travelled across the ocean alone to be with me, yet because of my work and my involvement in the patriotic movements against the war, we were often apart. I spent so little time with her. When I think of it now, I truly wronged her. Reflecting on this, I began to seriously contemplate the nature of emotion. I had lived a free-spirited life and encountered many women, but I had to ask: what is the purpose of romantic love? Is it merely mutual companionship? Is it just a way to find someone to lean on when one feels empty and helpless? It is, at its core, nothing more than a sense of Body-Mind-Spirit satisfaction. Yet, to attain this satisfaction, one must pay a heavy price—a lifetime of worry and the inevitable cycle of birth, aging, sickness, and death. Was this the life I, Hong Yi, truly wanted to lead? If not, could I let go of this deep, decade-long bond?

A thought inadvertently surfaced in my mind: "Lack of emotion is the greatest compassion." This statement holds infinite meaning. To put it bluntly, emotion is a part of selfish desire. Once you cling to it, it becomes extremely difficult to achieve success in the Buddha’s teachings, to help beings, or to liberate yourself. In fact, it is practically impossible. Because you possess an obvious weakness—a stain that prevents you from having a pure body. After deep reflection, I decided to let go of the woman I loved most in this life, enter the Buddha’s gate, and shave my head to become a monastic. My Dharma name is Hong Yi, and my life’s work is to propagate the Dharma. In my spiritual achievements, I chose to take the Precepts as my teacher, urging myself to let go of all worldly dust and personal preferences.

The Lingering Echoes of the Past

At the time of my ordination, I believed I had seen through the vanity of the world. However, whether I had truly let go in my heart was not something that could be seen on the surface. Deep within, a sense of guilt remained. In the dead of night, I would dream of Fuji holding our son, coming to find me—the very scene from our final separation. Large tears would fall silently in my dreams. The morning sunlight streaming into my room was so full of hope, yet it felt completely out of place with the weeping version of myself in my dreams. Upon waking, I would feel a profound sense of loss, but I would look up at the sun and encourage myself to carry out my practice faithfully throughout the day. These midnight dreams occurred many times, teaching me that true letting go is not an easy task. In the vast, clear sky, all things in heaven and earth may appear similar, yet they are also different; life is truly that mysterious. To cling to anything is a tragedy born of ignorance. By upholding the precepts and picking up the Buddha-name, I prevented myself from being swept away by the subtle fluctuations of this body. I poured my energy into the study of the precepts, gradually forgetting myself, and began to write commentaries on them, hoping to leave behind something that would be of help to the world. Once my heart was invested in this, my worldly desires seemed to fade away.

The Path of Pure Devotion

After becoming a monastic, I continued my past interest in calligraphy. However, in the past, I wrote poetry and songs—sentimental words that I once called artistic, but which I now see as containers for the Five Desires. Now, I use my calligraphy to record my insights from practice, using them to sharpen and examine my daily progress. I was not young when I became a monastic, so my remaining time was short. I had to seize every day to be diligent and fulfilling, and I had to leave something behind for those who would come after me, otherwise, my ordination would have been in vain. I gradually realised how precious this human body is. The literary talent I possessed in this life must have been gained from practice in the past, and it should be well-utilised within the Buddha’s gate to help beings.

Since I began my practice, I have spoken very little. After understanding the importance of the Buddha-name, I let my heart empty itself, immersing it completely in the Buddha-name. After I became a monastic, many people came to visit me out of admiration. Although I wished to maintain a state of clarity, my purpose in becoming a monastic was to help beings. After meeting them and understanding their situations, I would always hope that they, too, would chant the Buddha's name. Having been friends in the past, I hoped that their spirits would eventually find a true home. Every day after I began my practice, my heart became more grounded, perhaps because I had established the ultimate goal of life—the Western Land of Ultimate Bliss. With a simple heart, I simply believed that in this life, I would return to the Western Land. Learning the precepts and chanting the Buddha's name at every moment might seem like a dull routine, but it holds the joy of stillness. Someone once asked me, "With such complex precepts, do you not feel like you are tying yourself up with a rope?" My answer was: "The freedom gained by following the precepts is the Great Freedom."

The Final Return

I used the method I was best at to spread the Dharma: writing down my insights from practice in calligraphy and sharing them with those who were connected by karmic affinity. This caused quite a stir at the time, and many people came to visit me because of it. Even with so many followers wanting to see me, I remained patient and spoke to everyone about rebirth in the Western Pure Land. I hoped that everyone would know that the ultimate goal of life is to seek rebirth in the Western Pure Land. Looking back on my life, I was a talented young man, an accomplished musician, playwright, and calligrapher, a husband, a father, a monastic, a teacher of the Dharma, and a person of the Western Land. In truth, there is nothing to look back upon; we come empty-handed and we leave empty-handed. Everything is illusory. My life of practice ultimately led to a state of wanting nothing. All that accompanied me in the end was the Buddha-name, clear in my heart. Even though my body suffered from illness in the end, I did not care about any physical sensations. Instead, I felt heartfelt gratitude—gratitude for having obtained this human body in this life, allowing me to walk the path of monastic practice. I am also grateful for the literary talent I possessed and the sincere practice I undertook, which allowed me to be of some help to beings. With a faint smile, lying in my room, I chanted the Buddha's name and achieved rebirth in the Western Pure Land. My practice in the Vinaya school had some minor success, but that is not the point. The point is to follow Amitabha Buddha. Namo Amituofo.

Venerable Fa Xin: May I ask, Great Master, was the final suffering of your body caused by the manifestation of past karmic creditors? Please, Great Master, grant us your teachings with compassion. Namo Amituofo.

Great Master Hong Yi: Yes! Looking back now, that is indeed the case. In the past, I plotted to frame a man and steal his wife, drugging her and taking her by force. The wife, unable to face her husband, hung herself with a white silk scarf from a tree, becoming a vengeful spirit that followed me. She appeared in my dreams, showing me the scene of her tragic death. I was terrified when I woke up. I dedicated all the merit I had accumulated to her, but I still fell into a severe illness, unable to leave my bed for half a month. Knowing it was the result of my past harm, I felt deep shame. I redoubled my efforts to chant the Buddha's name and dedicated the merit to all. I am grateful for Amitabha Buddha’s ultimate compassion in coming to lead me.

This interview was recorded by the Buddha’s disciple, Shi Fa Xin.