What does Buddhism Say About Love, Trust, and Partnership?

In Buddhism, love is not an object you stumble upon, clutch tightly, and fear losing. It is not a trophy for the fortunate, nor a prize for the deserving. Love is metta—loving kindness—an essence already present within every living being, though often buried beneath layers of fear, desire, and misunderstanding.

When the Buddha spoke of love, he paired it inseparably with compassion. To love someone is not only to feel warmth toward them, but to wish—truly wish—for their freedom from suffering. It is a discipline as much as a feeling, and a practice as much as a gift.

Love Beyond One Shape

The world likes neat boxes: one partner, one story, one ending. But Buddhism does not insist on one singular shape for love. Monogamy, polyamory, or other forms of committed relationship are not judged by their outlines, but by their substance.

What matters is trust, what matters is respect. These are the ground on which love flourishes. Without them, any form of relationship becomes fragile. With them, love becomes a steady force, capable of holding the complexities of life without collapsing under the weight of them.

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Love, in this sense, is less about possession and more about stewardship: tending to the fragile ground of another’s wellbeing, watching your own steps so as not to trample the roots.

Vows, Choices, and Sacred Rites

For monks and nuns, celibacy is not a casual choice but a vow. During my years as a nun, I understood it not as repression but as discipline—supporting practice by leaving behind the distractions of desire and attachment. It is a path that clears space for awakening.

Now, as a priest, my life is different. Not all lamas conduct weddings, but I have chosen to integrate the Dharma into daily Western life. This is why I hold a marriage license and am authorized to perform weddings and other rites of passage. In these ceremonies, I witness how love can be sanctified not by dogma, but by intention— people standing side by side, promising to meet life’s changes with kindness.

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Marriage, then, is not ownership, but a vow to practice compassion together. It is a spiritual training ground in its own right, whether blessed in a temple, a garden, or a windswept beach. You can read more about the weddings and other ceremonies that I conduct here.

The Heart of Loving-Kindness

If compassion is the body, loving kindness is the heartbeat. Metta is not sentimental, not sugar-coated. It is steady, fierce, sometimes difficult. It is the willingness to extend care even when the easier option is to turn away.

In Buddhist practice, metta meditation is the cultivation of this quality. We begin with ourselves, because a withered heart cannot give. Then we extend it to those we love, those we struggle with, strangers on the street, and even to those we might call enemies. The practice reshapes us, widening the circle of compassion until it encompasses all beings.

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And yet, it also returns us to the most intimate relationships we know. To love one person with metta is to love them not with clinging, but with spaciousness. It is to recognize that they are not ours, but themselves—free, luminous, impermanent.

A Buddhist View of Love

A Buddhist view of love is not about formulas or laws. It is not fragile, though it may feel delicate. It is resilient because it is rooted not in control but in compassion.

The question we return to, again and again, is simple: Does this bring harm, or does it nurture freedom? In every form of relationship—whether in partnership, in marriage, or in the vow of celibacy—that question is the compass.

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To live with love in this way is to walk a path guided by kindness, shaped by compassion, and strengthened by honesty. It is to choose, moment by moment, to make of love not a possession but a practice. And in that practice, we return to what was always there: the quiet, inexhaustible essence of loving kindness itself.

With Metta,

Lama Chimey

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Living the Bardo: Continuity and Presence

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Recently, I was asked to hold space at a great gathering. The theme: transitions. Bardos. The rawness of impermanence.

Hundreds of people came.
Rows of bodies, breathing.
Eyes open, eyes closed.
Hands resting, hands folded.

The room hummed quietly, with the weight of expectation, of curiosity, of searching.

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It was not fear that moved them. Not grief. Not despair.
It was recognition. Continuity.
That even as forms dissolve, presence does not.
That even when life shifts, the thread is unbroken.

I realized, in that room, my mission made tangible:
to weave the sacred into the everyday.
To make the teaching of the bardo close as breath. Immediate. Intimate.
The Karmapas embody this kind of work on a master level in their returns.
Life continues. Awakening continues. Compassion continues.
Death is not the end.

The Gathering

I guided their presence carefully.
From sight to listening.
From the surface of things to the deep stillness beneath.
The lights dimmed.
Dimmer.
Darkness.

Silence grew.
Not heavy. Not oppressive.
A silence that held attention like a lantern in shadow.

I asked them:
“Why. Why are you here? In this body. At this time?”

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Some whispered inwardly.
Some let the question rest on the surface of their mind.
Some felt it in the body, a pulse, a tremor, a recognition.

They moved together through reflection.
They felt the bardo as reality, not as theory.
The space between breaths became passage.
The pause between words became doorway.

And I watched.
Hundreds of people, each touching continuity.
Not learning it. Living it.

Continuity and Choice

The bardo of death is universal. Everyone moves through it.
Most are carried by the winds of their habits, scattered without direction.
Ordinary beings are tossed, blown, driven.

Awakened masters move differently.
The Karmapas step with clarity.
They return, life after life.
By vow. By compassion. By choice.

In that room, this was reflected.
I spoke of the red thread of mind, unbroken across centuries.
Of teachers returning.
Of vows persisting, like rivers cutting through stone.
In their faces, some people recognized it.
Recognition not of the mind, but of awareness itself.
Immediate. Bodily. Felt.

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Some closed their eyes.
Some looked around.
Some simply breathed, letting continuity settle.
The sacred, woven into the ordinary, became visible.
The teaching was not abstract. It was present, alive.

Embodied Presence

I was reminded as I held the space, how living this teaching is.
The sacred is not distant.
It is the space between breaths.
The pause after a thought dies.
The silence after a word.
The presence of one human being facing another.

Hundreds of people, sitting quietly, felt it.
They did not leave with theory.
They left with a lived experience: presence is continuous.
Life is not ended by change.
The mindstream flows onward, through every passage.

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The Karmapas have done this work for centuries.
Returning again and again.
Showing that awakening continues.
That compassion is unbroken.
That the sacred can be woven into every ordinary moment.

The teaching of the Bardo

The gathering ended.
The room emptied.
Presence lingered.
People now carries this imprint with them — a living reflection of continuity, a mirror of the Bodhisattvas’ vow.

The teaching of the bardo was no longer distant.
It was as close as breath.
As real as the pulse beneath their hands.
As immediate as the awareness that flows through each moment.

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Life continues. Awakening continues. Compassion continues.
The red thread of presence runs unbroken.
Through centuries. Through this gathering. Through every moment we notice.

I give thanks to all of you for trusting me to hold the space.

Lama Chimey

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Leading with Balance:Buddhist Tools Every Modern Leader Needs

Leadership today requires more than strategic thinking; it demands inner stability. In Vajrayāna Buddhism, wellbeing is not separate from leadership — it is the ground that allows wise, compassionate, and transformative action. Rather than being another task to manage, wellbeing arises naturally when leaders embody timeless values: ethical clarity , mindful awareness, and compassion. These qualities help leaders remain steady in uncertainty, responsive rather than reactive, and connected to the humanity of those they serve.

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The Ground of Ethical Conduct

True authority rests on trust. In Buddhism, ethical conduct; śīla, means living with integrity and ethical responsibility. For leaders, this is not only about avoiding harm but about cultivating an environment of respect, fairness, and transparency. When actions are aligned with values, the leader’s mind becomes lighter, free from inner contradiction, and more able to focus on what matters.

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Practice: Before making a decision, pause and ask: “Will this choice support both the vision and the wellbeing of those affected?” This reflection strengthens both clarity and credibility.

The Practice of Mindful Awareness

In Vajrayāna, awareness is seen as the natural radiance of mind itself. Yet in daily leadership, constant distractions can obscure that clarity. Smṛti means remembrance — the capacity to remember the presence moment by moment. A leader who cultivates mindful awareness can step out of reactivity, listen with full attention, and hold the larger perspective even in times of pressure.

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Practice: At the start of a meeting, dim the lights, set aside phones, laptops, and pens, and allow one minute of silence. This small ritual helps everyone arrive fully, lets the mind settle, and creates a shared atmosphere of focus and presence. We did this at a kik-off event for hundreds of people recently, and it was perceived as. one of the most magical moments of the event.

Cultivating Compassion

In Vajrayāna, compassion is not sentimentality but the courageous willingness to meet the suffering of others with wisdom and care. Compassion; Karuṇā, softens the tendency to treat leadership as a purely strategic exercise. It reminds us that every colleague, client, or team member carries hopes and struggles just like our own. A compassionate leader fosters loyalty, creativity, and resilience in those around them.

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Practice: In moments of conflict, silently remind yourself: “Just like me, this person longs for respect, safety, and meaning.” This shifts the inner stance from opposition to connection, even when firmness is needed.

Sustainable Inner Leadership

Leadership that integrates śīla, smṛti, and karuṇā is sustainable leadership. These Vajrayāna values are not abstract ideals but practical tools for navigating complexity with steadiness and care. As wellbeing deepens, leaders find themselves more capable of acting decisively without losing empathy, and more able to inspire without burning out. True leadership strength is not control, but the union of clarity, compassion, and integrity.

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👉 I am now opening up one new spot for my 3-month 1:1 process program, designed for leaders who want to cultivate inner leadership — grounding in Buddhist wisdom while developing clarity, resilience, and presence. If this speaks to you, you can explore the program here .

Yours on the Path,

Lama Chimey

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Devotion to the Buddhist Path: Reflections from an X-Nun’s Life

To become a Buddhist nun—or monk—is to step into a life that unravels everything familiar.

It is not a change of clothes but a vow that shapes every detail of existence. Before I was ordained, I sought the guidance of several masters. Two questions followed me everywhere: Where are you going to live? and How are you going to support yourself? These were not small, practical details; they carried the weight of survival itself. To enter monastic life in the West, or even as a Westerner in the East, is to step forward without the nets that have held others for centuries.

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In the Himalayan valleys, monasteries rise like timeless guardians of the Dharma, and tradition still stands strong. Yet as Westerners, we are seldom held inside those institutions. We may be welcomed, but not cared for in the same way as those born into the monastic culture. Even there, in the very heart of Buddhist life, I—like many other Western nuns and monks—had to find my own way. It was a continual patching together of circumstance and creating a fragile but living container for the vows I had taken.

The Western Nun’s Challenges

The masters knew. They saw us Western monastics struggling to carve out a path where no structures had been prepared for us. They understood our difficulties, and yet there was no easy solution. We lived among the ordained, yes, but without the same safety net. The patriarchal hierarchy was heavy, and it shaped how doors opened—or stayed closed. Even within supportive communities, the weight of that hierarchy pressed down, making it clear where we stood.

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Resources came and went. Sometimes a donation arrived, sometimes a little support was given, but it was rarely steady, rarely enough to lean on. A bag of rice, an envelope with a few bills, a place to sleep for a while—these small kindnesses were lifelines, but seldom reliable or structured. And so we learned to live inside uncertainty, carrying our vows without practical shelter of tradition. Devotion had to stand in for stability.

Walking the Path No Matter What

I was able, by blessings and persistence, to remain on this path for nearly a decade and a half. Step by step, year by year, the path unfolded. There were times of luminous clarity, when the Dharma felt as close as my own breath, and the teachings seemed to flow through me as naturally as water. There were also times of raw struggle, when even the question of how to eat or where to stay became part of my practice. In those moments, survival itself was the teaching.

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Still, devotion was the thread that carried me through. It was never about comfort or ease, never about waiting for circumstances to align. It was about saying yes to the path, again and again, even when every outer sign might have suggested giving up. To keep walking, robe wrapped around me, was to live that yes in body and spirit. The difficulties were real, but so was the unshakable sense that this was the life I was meant to live.

One of the Lessons That Remains

Hardship, in the end, is not something to be avoided—it becomes part of the path itself. That is one of the lessons my years in robes gave me. We do not get to choose the shape of the obstacles, only how we meet them. In the Himalayas, it might be the weight of hierarchy and cold nights; in the West, it might be the loneliness of practicing without structures to hold you. Obstacles will come, no matter where you are.

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Some days bring beauty, others bring struggle. Devotion is not about escaping this, but about staying with it. It is about holding steady in the midst of uncertainty and letting those very conditions shape you into something truer than you were before. What once felt like unbearable hardship can, over time, become the ground of deeper resilience. That is not a romantic idea, but a lived truth.

Tending the Flame of Devotion

If there is something I want to leave with you, it is this: the path may not give back what you thought you would receive. The fantasies and ideals we carry at the beginning will not all be met. But the path does give something. Sometimes it gives only a small flame in the darkness, but that flame is real. And if you tend it, protect it, breathe with it, it can carry you further than you ever imagined you could go.

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That flame may not be bright enough to banish all darkness, but it is enough to see the next step, and then the next. It is enough to remind you that the practice, and the devotion are alive within you, no matter the outer circumstances.

With warmth & strength on the path,
Lama Chimey

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Remembering Now — The Hidden Depth of Mindfulness

Mindfulness — the word rolls off the tongue like a diet soda: light, mildly flavored, unassuming. Behind it, however, lies something far richer, subtle, and enduring. In Buddha Shakyamuni’s original instruction, the Pāli term Sati doesn’t nudge you to “stop and smell the roses.” It means to remember now — to hold this living moment in your heart. Translated into English in the 19th century by T. W. Rhys Davids and the Pāli Text Society, Sati became “mindfulness,” a term that stuck — but not without losing some of its ancient resonance.

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In Triyana Meditation, Sati has always been part of the greater tapestry of the Eightfold Path — and it is still so today. It’s deeply embedded in the route to liberation, not a freestanding technique, but part of an integrated journey that has guided practitioners for over 2,600 years.

The Veil and Our True Default

Far from being our default, the state of mental wandering is a habit — but our actual default state is something much more luminous: clear, spacious knowing. This innate clarity is dimmed by a veil of ignorance, a habitual forgetting of the present. Sati isn’t nudging us to “be”; it is the act of staying awake, of remembering to stay truly present rather than spacing out.

As one practitioner reflected:

“Sati means to remember, to recollect, the state of non-forgetting.”

Another observed:

“Mindfulness… means to hold a mental hold on a cognitive object… not be lost.”

These reflections remind us that Sati is not just idle presence or passive awareness — it is care, memory, vigilance, and ethical attention rolled into one. It is the steady thread that keeps the mind from slipping away into distraction or unconsciousness.

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Sati in Context: Not Alone, But Interwoven

In the Eightfold Path, Sati — Right Mindfulness — is one of eight spokes, each essential for the wheel to turn. These spokes are: Right View (seeing reality clearly), Right Intention (commitment to kindness and non-harming), Right Speech (truthful, beneficial words), Right Action (ethical conduct), Right Livelihood (earning in ways that support life), Right Effort (nourishing wholesome states and letting go of harmful ones), Right Mindfulness (Sati — remembering now), and Right Concentration (steady meditation, unified attention).

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A single spoke can’t carry the wheel; it needs the tension and balance of the others. Sati shines most brightly when held by the strength of Right View and Right Intention, when supported by the steadiness of Right Effort and Right Concentration, and when rooted in the ethical ground of Right Speech, Action, and Livelihood. In Triyana Meditation, this weaving remains seamless. Sati isn’t a stand-alone trick or a technique plucked from its roots. It’s a living thread, stitched through the whole pattern of awakening, binding wisdom, ethics, and meditative stability into one fabric.

Interdependence, Not Hierarchy

When the path is whole, each element moves with the others like breath in the body — quiet, constant, necessary. Ethics steadies the mind; concentration deepens insight; insight guides effort; and mindfulness holds it all in the palm of the present. Pull one away, and the weave slackens. Keep them together, and the fabric can bear the weight of joy, loss, confusion, and clarity alike.

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Then something subtle happens: the mind begins to turn toward itself. The outlines of past and future grow pale, and in their place — a clean, unadorned moment. The mind, a room lit only by the window-outline of now. Without Sati, the room fills with the muffled furniture of memory and anticipation. With it, the light persists — not blinding, not grand, but steady enough to see by.

What We Are Is Clear Knowing

We are not born into confusion. Confusion is acquired, layered, repeated until it feels like the ground we walk on. Beneath it lies what we are: a clear, spacious knowing. Sati — remembering now — is not the act of finding something new, but of returning to the open clarity that has never left. It isn’t mere being; it’s the vigilance of being fully awake inside this moment.

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If you want to explore Sati in its full, embodied context — not as a stripped-down self-help technique, but as a thread in the living tapestry of awakening — join me for meditation classes, retreats, and events. Together, we can remember now, deeply, vividly, awake to the richness of life.

Yours in the Dharma,

Lama Chimey

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What Life as a Buddhist Nun Taught Me About Living with Bare Minimum

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I once owned only two sets of clothes. One set was on my body. The other was dripping on a line. I washed them in cold water, in a plastic bucket. No sun to help them dry. Just wind, time, and the bite of Himalayan air.

I wore my outer robes for weeks at a time, only changing what was closest to the body. There was no wardrobe, no fresh set waiting. Just a rhythm of wear, wash, and wait.

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It wasn’t a lifestyle choice. It was commitment and devotion. And in that devotion, something precious began to emerge—space, clarity, and the quiet depth of contentment.

The Stillness of Waiting

In winter, wet clothes stiffened overnight. On the rooftop, wind tugged at the fabric with the steady indifference of mountain weather—neither cruel nor kind, simply present. Drying took days. So I waited.

And in that waiting, I learned something. Not from books, not from ideas, but from the slow movement of time itself. Everything ripens when it’s ready. Your robes. Your thoughts. Your practice.

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It was in those simple acts. These included scrubbing robes, waiting for them to dry, and breathing into discomfort. That is how the six Pāramitās began to take root.

Generosity, discipline, patience, joyful effort, meditation, and wisdom are not abstract concepts. They are living qualities. These qualities are cultivated one ordinary moment at a time.

Mold and the Quiet Kingdom

I spent three months on a solo retreat. During that time, I lived in a secluded old stone house. This house had once belonged to the village Maharaja. It was monsoon season. I didn’t go outside at all. The rain fell endlessly. I chanted, played instruments, meditated, studied, and let the world recede into mist and memory.

One day, I walked out into the hallway and noticed my only pair of rubber sandals—completely overtaken by mold. Softened and spotted green. Three months of silence from me, and the world had gone on with its quiet transformations.

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I hadn’t worn the shoes, so I hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t needed them.

Retreat was a return to the essentials. To rhythm. To depth. And to the subtle joy that comes when nothing worldly is distracting.

The Invisible Wealth

That retreat didn’t leave me with more things. It left me with a foundation. What I practiced there—day by day, rain by rain—wasn’t austerity. It was the slow cultivation of inner wealth.

Generosity in offering full attention to each act.
Patience in letting the robe dry on its own terms.
Discipline in getting up before dawn, even when no one else would know.
Joyful effort in showing up again and again.
Meditation as a thread through every breath.
Wisdom in remembering that none of this is separate.

The Path Opens Today

Today, I open the doors to Introduction to Triyana Meditation—a course grounded in Buddhist teachings but shaped for modern lives.

This isn’t just a course in technique. It’s an invitation to a meaningful way of being. This approach supports the gradual cultivation of clarity, stability, and compassion through steady practice.

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You don’t need to retreat to the mountains or strip down your life to bare essentials. You can start cultivating these timeless qualities where you are. These qualities are generosity, patience, stillness, compassion and joy. You can do this with the life you already have.

I created this course based on direct experience. I spent years in retreat and engaged in daily practice and philosophical studies. I have lived the teachings for decades in both seclusion and society. What I offer here is a pathway that’s simple, grounded, and possible to integrate in your every day life.

Doors are now open.
👉 Join the course here →

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Leadership as Sacred Space: Buddhist Teachings for Conscious Impact

“You do not have to live in the world you are given.”
— Margaret Atwood

In a culture obsessed with doing, measuring, and maximizing, leadership is often reduced to performance. Metrics replace meaning. Urgency outshouts wisdom. But what if leadership is something else entirely — not a role, but a sacred space?

In Buddhist philosophy, particularly within the Vajrayana tradition, space (ākāśa) is not empty in a nihilistic sense. It is full of potential — a living field of awareness in which all things arise, unfold, and dissolve. A true leader is not someone who fills this space with noise and control. Instead, a true leader honors the space. They cultivate it and invite others into it.

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This leadership doesn’t shout. It listens. It doesn’t force. It allows. It doesn’t simply direct — it serves. From this view, leadership becomes an ethical and spiritual practice: the art of making space for transformation.

Space as a Leadership Principle

To lead from sacred space means leading from presence. It means offering your team, your clients, your community — even your own mind — the room to breathe. To not react from fear, but respond from clarity.

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This doesn’t mean being passive. It means becoming deeply attuned. Spacious leadership asks:

  • What is really needed right now?
  • What is arising naturally, and what am I trying to force?
  • Who would I be as a leader if I trusted the unfolding?

When we drop our agendas and rest in awareness, we begin to feel the textures of space. From that space, the right action can emerge. Action that isn’t rushed. That isn’t ego-driven. But that lands with precision and kindness.

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As the great master Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche puts it:

“In the ordinary world, people seek power in order to control others.
In the sacred view, the greatest power is to control oneself.”

This inner discipline requires staying connected to openness. It avoids contracting into reactivity. This approach is one of the highest forms of leadership. And it’s rare. Because it takes courage to lead from space, when the world demands speed.

Time: Not a Scarcity, but a Teacher

In Buddhism, time isn’t a linear march toward productivity. It’s the unfolding of karma — a dynamic play of causes and conditions. When we lead with an awareness of time as interdependence, we stop trying to dominate the clock. We become stewards of rhythm.

This reframing is radical. Suddenly, the pauses matter as much as the plans. Stillness becomes part of the strategy. Reflection is no longer a luxury, but a necessity.

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A conscious leader learns to move in rhythm with life — not ahead of it, and not behind. And from that rhythm, they create trust, clarity, and authentic impact.

Triyana Leadership: A 3-Month Journey into Sacred Space

This is the leadership we practice in the Triyana Leadership Program. It is a 3-month journey for those who want to lead from something deeper than ambition.

It’s for leaders, teachers, creatives, coaches, and change-makers who are ready to:

  • Explore the spacious ground of their own awareness
  • Act with more clarity and compassion under pressure
  • Build a leadership presence that is resilient, intuitive, and wise
  • Align strategy with sacred view

I don’t teach tips and tricks. I offer transformation. This program is rooted in Buddhist teachings. It provides real-world tools for integration. The program helps you hold space for yourself and others. This is not just a technique but a way of being.

Ready to redefine leadership — not as a hustle, but as a path?
👉 Learn more and apply here

“When there is no more grasping, space appears. When space appears, wisdom dances.”
— Vajrayana teaching

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Leadership is not about taking up more space.
It’s about making space sacred.
And in that space, something extraordinary can arise.

Warm Greetings,

Lama Chimey

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Three Gentle Shifts Toward a Buddhist-Inspired Lifestyle

I didn’t stumble into Buddhism after a crisis or dramatic life event.
There was no breaking point, no overnight awakening.

I was a teenager—already drawn to the philosophical and contemplative—and Buddhism felt like a language I somehow already understood. Not in its rituals or cultural expressions at first, but in its view of mind, of suffering, of possibility.

Over time, that quiet recognition deepened into study, practice, and eventually full ordination. I lived as a Buddhist nun for twelve years. And although I’ve since returned to lay life, the path continues—inner, steady, often invisible.

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To speak of a “Buddhist lifestyle” is delicate. In the Vajrayana tradition, we tread lightly around titles. We don’t declare ourselves practitioners as if it were a badge. Instead, we return again and again to the ground of practice—not to prove something, but because we’ve seen what it opens.

This isn’t a prescription. It’s a reflection.
Here are a few threads from the fabric of this path.

1. The Choice Not to Burn

There’s a story I return to, again and again—not as a myth, but as a mirror.

Akshobhya, the blue Buddha of the eastern direction, made a vow:

Never to act from anger.

Not to suppress it. Not to pretend it wasn’t there. But to meet it so fully, so honestly, that it would have nowhere to root. In Vajrayana, he embodies the transmutation of aggression—not into passivity, but into clarity, mirror-like awareness. Still water. Unshaken.

Most of us aren’t there. But we can begin.

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Someone offends you. Something feels unfair. And the body tenses, ready to react. In that very moment, before words form—there is breath.

Take one.
Then another.
Place a hand gently on your belly or chest, and ask:

“What part of me needs presence right now?”

This is not delay. It is discipline.
It is stepping into the luminous field before the mind collapses into habit.

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To live this way doesn’t mean you’ll never feel anger.
It means you may not be owned by it.

And in a world addicted to outrage, your choice to pause is an act of fierce compassion.

2. Letting the Excess Fall Away

In the West, we tend to confuse fullness with meaning. But a Buddhist lay life often begins by making space—not out of asceticism, but to hear what’s already speaking beneath the noise.

Letting go isn’t only about possessions. It’s about the identities we polish, the stories we carry, the opinions we hold so dear, the arguments we rehearse silently for years.

You might begin with:

  • Saying no to a conversation that drains.
  • Ending a task before it’s perfect.
  • Placing your phone down without checking it one more time.

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Simplicity in Vajrayana isn’t just functional—it’s symbolic. Every gesture, every object, every word can become a mudra, a mantra, a gateway. But only if it’s chosen. Only if you are present to it.

When we let the excess fall away, even the most ordinary moment can become an offering.

3. Walking in Compassion, Not Concept

It’s easy to talk about compassion. Harder to live it when you’re exhausted, or annoyed, or wounded in places you’ve learned to hide even from yourself.

But this path asks us to meet it all—without turning away.

Not to indulge. Not to collapse. But to remain.

In Vajrayana, we are invited to see beings not as they appear, but as expressions of awakened nature, however obscured. This isn’t idealism. It’s a practice of perception. A kind of disciplined tenderness.

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Try beginning the day with a quiet wish:

“May I meet this moment with warmth, openness, and a steady heart.”

Then extend that same aspiration to someone who unsettles you.
Not to excuse behavior. But to stay awake to the truth of interbeing.

Compassion isn’t sweet. Not always.
Sometimes it’s quiet endurance.
Sometimes it’s fierce boundary.
But always, it’s a refusal to exile parts of reality—even the uncomfortable ones.

To live that way is not perfection. It is participation.

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If you’d like to deepen into this practice of compassion and loving-kindness, I’ve made one chapter from my eBook Triyana – Keys to Sustainable Transformation available as a free gift.
It’s called Loving-Kindness: Fierce and Tender, and it’s an invitation to work with the heart—not to soften it, but to strengthen it with presence.

📥 Click here to receive your free chapter »

Where the Path Continues

A Buddhist lifestyle isn’t something you adopt. It’s something you return to—in the middle of a sentence, in the turning of a spoon, in the way you say goodnight.

It’s not about self-improvement. It’s about remembering the nature of mind, again and again, until that remembering starts to shape your gestures, your choices, your gaze.

Sometimes it looks like a shrine and a bell.
Sometimes it looks like washing your face slowly in the dark.

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But underneath it all is the same invitation:
To wake up.
To be kind.
To live as though every moment is worthy of full attention—because it is.

And maybe, if we’re lucky, to meet the world with just enough stillness
to see it clearly.

With you,
Lama Chimey

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Sacred Sound in a Shifting World: A Buddhist Minister Reflects

It was one of those rare Swedish summer days when the sun actually stays and the sky feels like it might never let go of the light. I took the boat out to one of the islands in the Stockholm archipelago. The sea was full of movement—waves catching light, wind skimming the surface.

Later that evening, I found myself sitting in a small, candlelit wooden church listening to Lise & Gertrud perform. The space was simple, old, loved and full of presence.

They performed a carefully selected mix of songs, arranged in their own unmistakable tone—both dynamic and humorous, yet deeply grounded. What struck me was how relevant this particular setlist was: the lyrics spoke directly to the world we live in now —songs that resonated with what matters most.

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I sat there and cried together with others. It touched something real and it reminded me of what I work with every day: the power of sound, and especially of mantra.

Mantra Explained: Mind, Sound, and Transmission

The word mantra comes from Sanskrit: man means “mind,” and tra means “tool” or “vehicle.” But mantras aren’t tools in the ordinary sense. There’s a reason we don’t translate mantras the way we do other texts. Their power lies in the sound itself—in the breath, the vibration, the repetition. When chanted with sincerity, they shape the mind without requiring the intellect. They are sound that carries power through repetition, breath, and lineage. Mantras protect the mind.

In the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, mantras are considered living syllables. They’re not recited to produce a feeling, or to decorate silence. They’re practiced to align body, breath and awareness with qualities that go far beyond personal emotion.

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Some mantras are gentle. Others are fierce. All are transformative. Mantras move through you like sound shaped into lightning—sometimes soft, sometimes blazing, always alive. They don’t require belief. But they do ask for presence in the here and now. And while anyone can technically repeat a mantra, it’s good to receive transmission from an authentic teacher if you feel drawn to one. Transmission doesn’t make it “more real”—but it connects you to the source, the lineage, the intention. Whether or not you use a mala, it helps the practice settle more deeply. The mala can support rhythm and focus, but the mantra itself does the work—chanted with intention, it carries its effect regardless of props.

One of the mantras I’ve practiced is:

OM AH HUNG BENZA GURU PEMA SIDDHI HUNG

It’s the mantra of Padmasambhava, who is regarded as the Second Buddha in Tibet. He brought the tantric teachings to Tibet in the 8th century, and his presence is invoked in this mantra for protection, insight and unwavering clarity.

I chant this mantra in many different ways—softly, melodiously, with full voice, or quietly under my breath. My recorded version is arranged as a bolero, with a full rock’n’roll drumset. This was never about making music in the traditional sense—it was about entering into relationship with sacred sound. Offering something real. You can listen to it here:
👉 Listen to my recording of the song Padmasambhava on Amazon

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It’s not a traditional version. But it’s true to my practice and blessed by the masters. Mantra doesn’t need to be performed. It needs to be practiced, embodied, and offered.

Belonging Through Sound
Mantras are not concepts. They are not there to be explained or understood in the usual way. They are patterns of sound, passed on through living traditions, and practiced for their direct effect. Mantras are highways to the divine—cutting through layers of thinking and touching our essence.

Over time, mantra becomes less about doing something and more about resting in the moment. Not because it’s always peaceful, but because it’s real. As with all true practices, it’s not about forcing anything. It’s about showing up—again and again—until something shifts.

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And sometimes, in a small church, far out in the archipelago, that shift begins with tears and ends with a strong sense of belonging.

With waves still in the body, lyrics still in the chest, moonlight spilling over the trees—what rises in me is a deep sense of grounding into the essence of being.

Not to a category.
Not to a belief.
But to sound itself.


Lama Chimey
Buddhist Minister | Founder of Triyana Meditation

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Interdependence Day — A Jataka Tale for the 4th of July

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While fireworks crackle across the summer sky and families gather to celebrate independence across the United States, there’s an ancient story from the Buddha’s past lives that offers a gentle nudge toward a deeper kind of freedom — one rooted not in separation, but in connection. Here in Europe, we may not be celebrating the 4th of July ourselves, but it’s a perfect moment to reflect on the universal values of compassion and interdependence. This year, let’s borrow a page from the Jataka tales and reimagine this American holiday as Interdependence Day — a celebration of the beautiful web of life we’re all part of.

The Selfless Monkey King
Once, in a distant forest, the Bodhisattva was born as a wise and noble monkey king. He ruled over thousands of monkeys who lived in peace near a river where a delicious mango tree grew. These mangoes were so sweet that the monkey king always made sure none of them fell into the river — for he knew that if humans discovered the fruit, danger would follow.

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But one day, a ripe mango did fall, floating downstream until it reached the king of a nearby kingdom. Tasting its rare sweetness, the human king sent his men upriver to find more. When they stumbled upon the tree, they prepared to kill all the monkeys to claim it.

Seeing the danger, the monkey king acted swiftly. He climbed to the highest tree, spotted a cliff across the river, and with his strong body, formed a living bridge from one tree to another, allowing his monkey subjects to cross to safety. In the end, exhausted and injured, he was found by the human king, who was so moved by the monkey king’s compassion that he ordered his own people to care for him with the utmost respect.

This tale reminds us that leadership, true freedom, and even survival are not about dominating others — they arise through sacrifice, cooperation, and love.

What the Monkey King Knew: We Are Not Alone
The Jataka tales are full of kings, animals, and ordinary people who wake up to a great truth: no being exists alone. The monkey king didn’t just save his people out of duty. He understood that his life was tied to theirs — that in saving them, he too was upheld.

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This echoes the Buddhist concept of pratītyasamutpāda, or dependent origination — the idea that everything arises in dependence upon multiple causes and conditions. Your breath, your lunch, your laughter today — none of it exists independently. We are co-created by everything: the trees, the sun, the kindness of strangers, and even the insects we try not to step on.

Interdependence Day: A Lighthearted Reframe
So, what if we all take a moment to mark 4th. of July as Interdependence Day? You’d still get to eat pie and light sparklers — but with a slightly softer heart.

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You might thank the earthworms for your garden salad, the people who fixed the roads so you could get to the party, or the trees for the shade at your picnic. You might notice that the joy you feel is amplified not when you’re standing alone, but when you’re laughing with someone else, or quietly sharing a watermelon slice.

Freedom doesn’t mean cutting ties — it means seeing clearly that our well-being is woven into everyone else’s. That we rise, like the monkeys crossing that living bridge, together.

Lighting the Fireworks of Compassion
This July 4th, as friends in the U.S. celebrate national freedom, may we all — wherever we are — celebrate not just the independence of nations, but the interdependence of all beings. May we become like the monkey king — courageous and wise, willing to extend ourselves for others because we recognize we were never separate to begin with.

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Go ahead and light your fireworks — just maybe say thank you to the stars while you’re at it. They’re part of your story too.

Lots of love,

Lama Chimey

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