The Old Days – Where Happiness Once Was

Life today is far more abundant than it used to be.  Our homes are solid, food is plentiful, and conveniences surround even the smallest daily routines.  Yet in the midst of such comfort, people often lose touch with something very delicate.  Why is it that the more we have, the harder it seems to reach happiness?

Perhaps it is because true happiness visited my life very early on — during its poorest days.  That feeling of being fully alive in each moment still returns from time to time, not to make me sad, but to remind me that happiness once existed — quietly, gently, yet very real.  Real enough for me to understand why abundance does not always lead us closer to happiness, and why we must learn to cherish the present moment more deeply.

My life story is long, but today I want to share a chapter from the time I lived in Vi Thủy, Vietnam with my mother and siblings.  Every day, my mother worked as a hired laborer, while I — still very young — had already grown accustomed to caring for my younger brothers and sisters in her place.  We lived crowded together under one roof — though calling it a “house” hardly felt accurate.  It was more like a small hut, but it held all the warmth our family had at that time.

The most innocent joy of my younger brother — who was only five years old then — was following me to the makeshift latrines built over the river.  People raised fish using human waste, and those fish seemed remarkably “clever.”   At the sound of footsteps or the sight of a shadow crossing the bridge, they would gather below, as if knowing a small offering was coming.  My brother laughed out loud, teasing the fish.  That clear, carefree laughter lit up a childhood filled with shortages.  In that moment, perhaps poverty was no longer poverty — only life responding to life.

Around three o’clock every morning, I was often startled awake by the sounds of butchers slaughtering pigs for the early market.  The heart-rending cries of those innocent animals planted a deep unease in me from a young age.  That sound followed me throughout my childhood, and as I grew older, I found that I could no longer eat meat without conscience.  Not out of aversion, but because I had once heard so clearly the pain of life being taken away.

The days of heavy rain remain unforgettable memories. Rainwater fell directly into the pan of morning glory greens I stir-fried over a stove fueled by dry straw my mother had gathered.  Our meal consisted of that single dish — garlic-fried vegetables — seasoned only with salt instead of the rare drops of fish sauce.  Yet we ate slowly, peacefully.  I did not feel deprived.  I only knew that I had food to eat and was sitting beside my mother and siblings.  That was enough to turn a simple meal into a warm memory that has stayed with me ever since.

My second younger brother worked as a babysitter for a well-off family in the area to earn a little extra money to help our mother.  Those days passed quietly — simple, exhausting, without major events or complaints.  We were simply living, one day at a time.  Looking back now, I do not see suffering.  I only see that I walked a certain path earlier than others — a path of responsibility and wordless love.

Now that my mother has passed away, my heart is filled with gratitude for her — for allowing me to walk with her through those distant places, for letting me grow up in responsibility and love, and for teaching me how to care for others from such a young age.

Life shifted quickly when my mother reconnected with my father, who had emigrated to the United States in 1975. Our family returned to Saigon, living on my father’s financial support.  My mother’s burdens were eased then.  She often went to the temple, praying quietly — not for wealth, but simply for the day our family could be together again.

As for me, without a Saigon household registration, life remained difficult and uncertain.  As a young girl, there were times I lowered my head in shame because I did not own a single proper outfit.  My only close friend would lend me her clothes whenever there was a neighborhood gathering.  I worked all kinds of jobs to support myself and never touched the small allowance my father sent — knowing my mother needed it more to care for my siblings.

Eventually, my mother’s prayers came true.  In July 1984, we were reunited with my father in the United States.  I left Saigon without regret — perhaps because years of living in fear, treated as an enemy simply due to our Southern family background, had exhausted me deeply.

At that time, I had someone I loved.  I hesitated, wondering whether I should stay behind and leave later, as my older siblings had done after marrying and securing their own passports.  But I was too young to decide my own fate.  We parted with a promise to wait.  And then, as impermanence would have it, two years later he married — as the eldest son, bound by responsibility. I understood.  I let go quietly, offering silent wishes for his happiness.   I saw that our connection had fulfilled its role in my life.  All plans closed gently, without drama.

Looking back at the footprints along the stream of impermanence, I clearly see the Buddha’s teaching: all things arise from conditions; when conditions are sufficient, they come together; when conditions fade, they separate. Nothing is wrong, nothing is lost — each person simply continues along their own path.

Life in America opened a new chapter — extremely difficult in the early days as I had to relearn English just to find work, filled with challenges and many lonely months.  Yet it was also where I came to understand Buddhism more deeply — the meaning of letting go, and how to walk without resisting the flow of life.

But those are stories for another time.  If conditions allow, I will share them later — not to complain, but to look back and smile at all that has passed through my life.

Thiên Lan

Inspired by reading a passage written by an older sister, which brought back memories of my childhood years in Huế, Vietnam.