Top 10 Best Essays on the Vu Lan Festival

The Buddha spoke of the preciousness of human life with a comparison: "A blind turtle submerged at the bottom of the ocean, surfacing once every thousand years. In this vast ocean, a piece of driftwood may float, and the turtle has to rise to the surface and put its head through the hole in the wood. Being born in a human body is as difficult as the turtle finding that piece of wood in the sea."

A scientist, after comparing the amount of water in the ocean to the size of the dry wood, concluded that the probability of the turtle surfacing and finding the wood is one in 700 trillion – essentially, almost impossible. Thanks to our parents, this near-impossibility becomes reality. Without them, we would never have come into existence. We are born into this world, small and insignificant, yet we are here.

I’ve long understood that in all relationships, the respect or love others show us depends entirely on our character, intelligence, and cultural behavior. Only parents give us unconditional love, regardless of whether we are ugly, incompetent, unfortunate, poor, or even cruel or unpleasant. When parents are gone, we are truly alone in a world that operates by the rule: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

My father has been my spiritual support for the first 32 years of my life, the most important years in shaping my personality, character, soul, and nature. Most of the classic works of Vietnamese and world literature that are still remembered today were introduced to me by my father when I was too young to read. Later, as I learned to read and write, it was the books from my father’s library that opened my eyes to a world far richer and more complicated than my mundane everyday life.

One of my fondest childhood memories is accompanying my father to literary clubs, listening to him talk about Nguyen Du and the Tale of Kieu, about Xuan Dieu’s passionate poetry, and about Nguyen Binh’s rustic love poems, along with many interesting stories about the kitchen – stories which, years later, my father compiled in the book “Giai Thoai Nguyen Binh” published by the Labor Publishing House. I remember the pride I felt sitting in the front row of the grand Nam Dinh People’s Theatre, clapping when the audience applauded. My tiny hands clapped so hard they became sore. The most delightful moments, however, were not related to literature. After each talk, my father would give me the fee from the organizers to hand over to my mother, like “stealing the honor” for her.

Another source of joy for me was watching movies for free during the nights when my father gave commentary at the two largest cinemas in the city. I can never forget the sense of loss when the film ended, the lights came on, and the audience stood up, laughing and chatting as the rows of seats were pulled up. The magic of the movie world disappeared, and reality took its place. That night, and on many others, the little girl who wasn’t even old enough to wear a red scarf stayed awake, reflecting on the stark contrast between the beauty of art and the harshness of real life, troubled by the pain and struggles of the characters in the movies, which my father had made come alive with his warm, passionate voice.

But my father was not just a lover of literature, a writer, or a poet; he also worked tirelessly to support the family. He fixed electrical systems, baked cookies, took photographs, and even taught extra classes, balancing his duties as a teacher and the needs of the family during difficult times.

Whenever I was hospitalized, my father was always by my side, caring for me. I remember when I had a tooth removed and my father cried, telling my mother that losing that tooth would make my chewing weak for the rest of my life. When I was too idealistic and reluctant to follow in my parents’ footsteps because I thought teaching was boring, my father grounded me, helping me find the right path in life.

When the manuscript of his book “Giai Thoai Nguyen Binh” was accepted by the Labor Publishing House, my father was overjoyed and wrote me a letter to share his happiness. But by the time the book was finally published, my father had become weary. When I visited and shared the news, his indifferent response – “Oh, really?” – surprised me. At that moment, I realized that although he was still physically here, he was beginning to slip away from us, walking a lonely, cold path, forgetting the passions that once made him vibrant, romantic, and strong. I later learned that in his final days, my father kept looking out the door, waiting for my sister and me to come home, but he passed before we could make it.

Sometimes, I comfort myself thinking that in the 51 years I had my mother, I never once got angry or distant from her. All my personal sorrows were left outside the door before I entered her house. But when I reflect on everything, I realize that I was unfair to her. There was one trivial matter – my mother despised anything related to China. She’d tease me for watching Chinese films, calling them “dragon eggs” films, referring to the Chinese historical dramas full of intrigue around the emperor’s throne. I tried to explain, but I could not help but feel guilty when she laughed and said, “Well, to me, it’s all Chinese!”

Every day, when I was teaching, I’d only get to visit my mother after a few days. As soon as I stepped onto the stairs, I’d hear her voice joyfully calling for my niece to open the door, saying, “Bi, go open the door, Tuyet’s here.” My mother would eagerly tell my niece, “Whenever Tuyet comes over, Bi is so happy!” My heart broke when I saw my mother smiling so brightly while I tried to hide my fatigue. Every day, despite her exhaustion, she would prepare tea for me, insisting I drink it to feel better. But she was always disappointed when I couldn’t finish it, and I’d feel guilty for not appreciating her efforts enough. It wasn’t until much later, after my mother was gone, that I understood the hidden sadness behind her smile – the sorrow she kept from us as she waited for me to come home, only to see me too tired to fully appreciate her love.

In the last years of my mother’s life, as she grew weaker and frailer, every time I visited, I felt a growing sense of fear and sadness seeing her decline. Yet, she always managed to greet me with a bright smile, still insisting on preparing food for me, even though she was too weak to eat herself. During our last Lunar New Year, just a month before her passing, she insisted on making traditional dishes, though they were no longer as perfectly prepared as they used to be. While the family worried about her health, I continued to teach and could only spend a few precious minutes with her at the end of each day.

After my mother’s death, I received a letter from a student who admired me. She had taken the time to visit my mother and listen to her stories about me. This student, who wasn’t even in my class, knew more about my mother’s loneliness than I did. She had shared her stories with my mother, easing her last days. I felt immense pain, realizing that I had not been there for her in the way I should have been.

I used to tell my students that love has no rules, no logic, and no right or wrong. But I forgot to teach them one thing: love between partners might not follow the conventional rules of the world, but it still has its reasons, even if those reasons seem illogical or peculiar. It’s the same with parent-child love – it needs no reasons, no promises, no expectations, and it never fades. Even as parents grow old and need love from their children, they never demand it; instead, they let go, not wanting to burden their children with their own needs. Love is unconditional, eternal, and unbreakable, just like the love between parents and their children.

On Vu Lan Day, I reflect on my parents – the two people who gave me life and loved me without limits. They were always ready to forgive my foolishness and overlook my shortcomings. I realize that before becoming a “person,” we were first “children” of our parents, and no matter how strong we are in the world, we are never greater than them. If we make our parents smile and give in to us, we have already lost.

All the accolades and virtues we may take pride in should be left outside the door of our parents’ home. Only when we are with them should we offer a full heart of filial piety, for no matter how we turn out, our parents will always love us, and they will always forgive us, even when we are ungrateful, stubborn, or foolish.

Trinh Thu Tuyet

The Vu Lan season has arrived, a time when we honor and reflect on the love of our parents. The weather of the seventh lunar month is quite unique, with alternating moments of sunshine and rain. It seems that the mix of these elements carries the emotions of children—longing, affection, and gratitude for their parents.

The sunlight of Vu Lan is different from others. It’s gentler than summer heat but not as soft as spring’s rays. This sunlight isn’t as sweet as autumn’s or as crisp as the winter chill. The rain, too, is not as fierce as summer storms; it comes and goes in fleeting moments, almost like the bittersweet tears of Vu Lan.

For some, the seventh month is a time for ghostly rituals, but for many, it is a sacred time for the Vu Lan festival, a celebration of filial piety. The festival has its roots in the story of the great monk Mục Kiền Liên, who, through his immense filial devotion, held a grand offering ceremony for monks at the end of their summer retreat to free his mother from her suffering as a hungry ghost. Because of this, when Vu Lan comes around, many visit temples to offer incense in remembrance of their parents. I have often found myself sitting quietly in the temple during Vu Lan, feeling the calm as the bells toll slowly. As we recite the Vu Lan sutra and listen to the monks speak of the boundless love and sacrifice of our parents, I often find myself choked with emotion, tears flowing as memories of my parents flood my mind.

My mother always gave me her soft, nurturing love. Whatever delicious food was on the table, she would always give it to us children, saying, “I’m not hungry.” I remember her fragile form walking under the sun to buy medicine for me when I was sick. On summer nights, when the electricity would go out, she would sit by the bed, fanning us to sleep. During the years my father was away on business, and storms tore at the roof, she would let us sit in the dry spots while she endured the wet. The next morning, she would be fixing the roof. Sometimes, I would wonder, “Where did my mother find the strength to take care of us through such tough times?”

The love my father gave me was quiet but deeply rooted. I remember as a child sneaking off to play without asking for permission, and my father giving me a sharp smack on the leg, making me cry for hours. One night, I woke up to find him gently rubbing oil on the spot where the mark of the slap had been. Though I pretended to be asleep, tears still flowed from my eyes.

As I grew older, facing the pressures of life, I always found peace when returning home to my parents. Sometimes, I came back just to enjoy my mother’s familiar dishes or to listen to the small conversations of my parents, which would bring comfort to my heart. I have faced hardships and considered giving up, but during those times, my mother would be full of concern for me, while my father would calmly encourage me to stay strong and face life’s challenges.

Every year, on Vu Lan, temples hold the “Rose Pinning Ceremony” to express gratitude for parents. During the ceremony, young Buddhists bring baskets of roses in different colors for everyone to pin on their clothes.

Those who still have living parents are happy to pin a red rose on their chest. Others, with a tinge of sadness, pin a pink rose, symbolizing the loss of one parent. Some, with tears in their eyes, pin a white rose to honor their parents who have passed. Monks always receive a yellow rose, symbolizing the recognition that all beings are our parents. In that moment, everyone is moved as the soft song “Pinning the Rose” plays: “A rose for you, a rose for me, and a rose for those who still have their mother... to feel the joy in their hearts.”

Another Vu Lan season has come, bringing with it the bittersweet sunshine and the salty taste of rain. My friend, let us express our love to our parents before it is too late.

VY ANH

The rains of July bring a bittersweet autumn afternoon.

Suddenly, I remember, I long for my mother’s frail shoulders in her worn-out dress.

Years of traveling back and forth under vast skies.

Far from my mother, I miss the autumn of July...

Saigon doesn’t experience autumn, with its golden hues coloring the leaves still clinging to the branches. There is no cool, clear autumn sky where poets can let their spirits wander and fall in love with the scenery. Here, we only have the sudden bursts of sun and rain, much like the unpredictable emotions that sweep over people, coming and going in an instant. Despite this, Saigon, with its rich history spanning over three centuries, has always produced something unique... something that blends both collective and individual beauty. It’s a place where the simple and the ordinary can shine, creating a distinctive Saigon that is unlike any other yet feels familiar to all.

I want to brush over the multifaceted nature of this city, known for its vibrant diversity, to talk about the July rains. These rains, though fleeting, bring a southern sadness that touches the heart. The full moon of July reminds me of a special Buddhist holiday—the Vu Lan Festival, often lovingly referred to as ‘Mother’s Day.’ It’s a day universally recognized, regardless of one’s faith, a day that transcends time.

On Vu Lan Day, do you feel a flutter of emotion in your heart? Walking through Saigon during this season of filial piety, you will see people heading to pagodas and temples. You can easily spot them holding long incense sticks or wearing a flower—red or white—pinned to their chests. These flowers, the symbols of Vu Lan and the love of mothers, have become a part of poetry, etched in hearts, and have added beauty to life.

If the red flower represents the enduring, sacred love of a mother still alive, the white flower quietly speaks of the greatest loss one can experience. Yet, whether you are happy or in sorrow, whether you wear a red or white rose, Vu Lan comes as a return—a day to remember the deep gratitude for our parents’ sacrifices.

The July rains have returned. The autumn drops of rain only seem to deepen the sorrow for those far from home. Many mothers wait day and night for their children to return. Countless children, far from their homeland, will feel a profound longing during Vu Lan, reminiscing about a time long past. A time of innocence, like blank pages in a schoolbook. Back then, there were no worries, no burdens. Back then, mother was always there. She was like a fairy when I caught a cold or when something went wrong. Oh, the love of a mother! It’s a journey that never ends. A mother’s silent sacrifice cannot be measured by any river or sea.

The world has entered the third millennium, and mechanical civilization has completely transformed life as we know it. In many ways, you might feel content with the money you bring back to your parents. But, do you know? Money is not everything. In this world, we often lose things that money cannot replace. Yet, many people still think they can repay their parents’ kindness with material wealth. They don’t understand the warmth of simple care. They forget the small, loving gestures that bring joy to the parents who raised them. Is it because life is too busy? Is it because material comfort has consumed all our time and attention? It seems to have made our hearts colder and more indifferent to the deep, familial bonds we share.

I'm thinking about you, those children far from home, far from the comforting arms of a loving mother. After long, exhausting days of work, trading sweat for food, you surely feel nostalgic for the distant land. In that land, your mother waits eagerly. Vu Lan is here, and it's time to turn your heart toward her. Speak to her the words you never said, the words you never had the chance to say. Whether she is far away or no longer on this Earth, she will hear your heart’s voice. These thoughts, through an invisible connection known as ‘telepathy,’ will be heard by her. Trust me, and you will feel this miraculous bond!

An old proverb says: ‘You can never step into the same river twice.’ The river of my life and yours can only be shaped by one mother. Buddhism teaches that Vu Lan is a day for showing deep gratitude to our parents, not just in this life but in seven lifetimes. But in this life, you and I have only one mother. So why not repay her now, while she is still here, while we are still living together? Why wait until she is gone to mourn and search for ways to honor her memory with offerings and rituals? Although those gestures are meaningful, honoring our parents while they are alive is the greatest gift we can give them. It’s a treasure that can never be replaced.

I also want to speak to you—the ones who have lost the image of your beloved mother forever. For those who must always wear a simple, lonely white flower on your chest when Vu Lan comes. The impermanence of life has torn apart the bond of motherhood, but a mother’s love is a lingering echo that can never be erased from your heart. A mother’s love is an eternal gift that nothing can replace. If you are in pain from this loss, look to others around you. Honor your mother’s memory by showing love to others, by living a life of kindness and virtue, just as she would have wished. Life will give you faith and strength to survive, to rise above. Even without your mother, you will live, stand tall, love, and create a fulfilling future, full of love and compassion for others. The path forward, full of human kindness, will always be open to you.

Collected

There’s an old saying, 'For one coin, the labor is worth a full measure.' This truth has certainly proven accurate in my own life.

Since birth, I have been nurtured by my grandmother's hands and raised by my mother’s selfless love. I grew up without ever meeting my father or paternal grandparents. My grandmother, despite the hardships, made sure I never lacked for anything. She raised me using a sewing machine, stitching clothes for others, and tirelessly providing for me, from my clothes to my books. Even when I was studying away in Da Nang, it was my grandmother’s hands that took care of everything. I was a stubborn, rebellious child, often punished by my grandmother with stripes across my arms, legs, and even my bottom. I cried, and yet, she kept striking me. But later, she would be the one to apply oil to my bruises and cry along with me, though silently in her heart.

I never understood it then. In those moments of punishment, I hated my grandmother and wanted to leave the house. But as I grew older, I realized that her punishments were out of love, to teach me to become a better person. Throughout my childhood, I always had my grandmother by my side, caring for me. When I went away to study, I saw her tears for the first time as she sent me off. Although I was far from home, I still had her in my life, calling me daily, asking about my well-being, always worrying. The moment she sensed I wasn’t feeling well, her anxiety would be unbearable, and I knew she stayed awake all night, fearful for me.

Now that I’ve grown up and started working, I feel like I haven’t done enough to make my grandmother happy. In fact, I’ve made her cry more. The pressure of work sometimes leads to arguments with her. On one occasion, I even threw my phone at her in anger. I knew she was upset, but she still waited for me to come home for dinner. My grandmother loves me deeply, even though she rarely expresses it, yet I can feel it in her every action, every worry. Now she’s older, her vision fading, partly due to the tears I’ve caused her. I must strive to make her smile more, and as I live away from home, I pray every day for her to remain safe and healthy.

My mother, on the other hand, is different from my grandmother. I only get to see her a few times a year. She never punished me, and whenever I asked for something, she pampered me and gave me everything I wanted. My mother is the one who gave me life and showered me with all her love. When I was younger, I could only visit her once a year during the summer, and those were the happiest days of my life, eating the foods my grandmother forbade and enjoying outings with her. Every time she came home, she brought me gifts—beautiful clothes or stuffed animals that I loved.

Even though I was rebellious, my mother never hit me. While some of my friends had both parents, and many had wealthy families, I sometimes felt envious. Why wasn’t my mother rich enough to buy me all the things I desired? Why wasn’t she a high-ranking official? But now, I am proud to be her child. I don’t care about wealth or status. The love my mother gives me is the greatest gift I could ever wish for. Her love makes me happier than anything money could buy.

For many years, I haven’t been able to visit my mother or grandmother. They are always waiting, longing for me, worried about me being far from home. After a long day of work or school, I never fail to receive a call from them, checking in on me. To them, I will always be their little child, no matter how old I get. This month of Vu Lan is a time to honor and repay them, and I always pray for their peace and happiness. This Vu Lan, I proudly wear a red rose on my chest, symbolizing my love and gratitude for my grandmother and mother.

Nguyễn Yến Linh

"Night by night, I light the lantern / Praying for my parents to live forever with me...". Every time I hear this song, a flood of emotions overwhelms me. Especially during this lunar July, the lyrics seem to remind us all to honor our parents, whose love and sacrifices we often forget amidst the rush of life and our daily burdens.

The persistent rains signal the arrival of another Vu Lan season. Across the streets, in every village and neighborhood, people set aside their worries and struggles to visit temples, praying for the health and longevity of their parents. You may be surprised to see people with a red or white rose pinned to their chest as they head to the Vu Lan ceremonies. This is a way of reminding everyone to remember the boundless love of a father, as high as the mountains, and the vastness of a mother's love, as deep as the oceans.

On the full moon night of July, no matter how busy they are, my mother and sister always prepare offerings and go to the temple to pray for peace. After the ceremony, my mother pins a white rose on her shirt, while my sister wears a bright red one. I asked my mother why the difference. With a gentle smile, she explained: "The rose symbolizes love. Pinning a rose on the chest during Vu Lan signifies expressing our deepest affection and gratitude to our parents. If you still have your parents, you wear a red rose, but if you've lost a mother, you wear a white rose." After hearing this, I proudly pinned a red rose on my chest, grateful that I still have parents to love and protect me.

You'll feel the same happiness and pride as I did when wearing a red rose on your chest. But have you ever thought about your actions, how, even unknowingly, you may have caused your grandparents or parents worry or sorrow? When I went to the temple, I witnessed many sobs and tears from people wearing white roses. Perhaps they were reflecting on past moments when they made their parents upset. Now, it's too late for regrets. For those who still have grandparents and parents, cherish them, love them, and care for them attentively. So that one day, when you are forced to wear a white rose, you won't feel regret or sorrow.

We should show filial piety to our parents and grandparents every day, not just on Vu Lan. Live slowly, love deeply, and share your life with others who are less fortunate than you. This is the message, the humanistic value we learn from each Vu Lan season.

Essays: Lê Văn Xuân

Outside, the rain falls steadily, a constant reminder of the "softly falling rain" signaling the arrival of Vu Lan, the season of filial piety. As we leave behind the hustle and bustle of life, this lunar July invites us to pause and reflect on the emotions tied to this sacred time.

In this rainy July, as the rain dampens our eyes, this Vu Lan, I am far from home, Mother. Every time we think of Vu Lan, memories of our parents—both those who are no longer with us and those still by our side—flood our hearts.

In everyone’s heart, the image of mother is the most sacred. She is the homeland, the shade on a sunny day, the sacrifice, the protector. A mother is everything, living solely for her child. Through endless pain and hardship, she never complains. A mother—the strongest woman in my life—no storm can make her falter. She would do anything just to ensure her child lives a life of comfort and happiness.

"A mother's love is spoken, a father's love is shown through action." Father, too, faces scorching heat, heavy rains, and difficult paths, all for the sake of their child's smile. Countless sleepless nights, braving the rough seas, and fearing only that their child may not have the same happiness as their peers.

As a child, wrapped in the care of my parents, I never knew how to appreciate it, thinking it was just their duty. Only after growing up did I realize how selfish I had been, running after external pleasures and forgetting my aging parents. In those moments when I was stubborn, when I was difficult, they would simply smile, but behind that smile was the pain of their tears. My mother walked me through the joys and sorrows of life, and my father guided me through its challenges. Mother felt sorrow when I stumbled, while father felt joy when I stood strong in life’s turbulent journey.

To my mother and father, I will always be the innocent child from my younger days, no matter how old I get. No matter how far I go in life, in their eyes, I will always need their protection and care. People often say, "A mother's heart is an abyss where, at the bottom, you’ll find boundless love and forgiveness," and that’s true. Throughout their lives, parents only live for their children. We must cherish them while they are still here because once they are gone, no wealth can buy their love.

"Time flies so fast,

Mother has grown older, a little bit more each day,

I wish I could forever be a child,

So that Mother would remain forever young."

In this July season of filial piety, seeing the white flower pinned on my mother’s dress, I realize she cannot always be by my side. Today, as others cry for their mothers, I wonder when it will be my turn. Vu Lan—when the clouds are light and the sun sets—reminds me to remember the grace of those who gave me life. I reflect on how much I still fall short, always letting my mother worry, even though I’ve grown up. The merit of birth and nurturing is beyond words. My mother gave me life and strong legs to walk through life’s storms.

How blessed are those who still have their parents, those who still have a red rose pinned to their chest. Let us fulfill our filial duties, so that one day, when we must wear a white rose, we won’t regret the time we didn’t show enough love.

Collected by: Sưu tầm

"A father's love is as vast as Mount Tai, a mother's love as boundless as the flowing river. To honor them with all our hearts is the true path of a child." The fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month, Vu Lan, is a Buddhist tradition reminding us of the importance of filial piety, a lesson many of us learned as children through simple yet profound folk rhymes.

At a recent cultural event, a friend working in the arts shared with me that, despite his busy schedule, he couldn’t visit his hometown this weekend, but he made sure to call his mother. He smiled as he said, “I just called her for a bit, but she was so happy, she was waiting for the call.” This simple story spoke volumes about filial duty—it’s not about circumstances or excuses, but about the love and respect we carry for our parents in our hearts.

In today’s world, filled with distractions and busyness, if a child truly cares for their parents, they can always find a moment to visit, to call, or to check in. We can buy gifts for friends, but why can’t we do the same for our parents or grandparents? Gifts don’t always have to be materialistic; even small, thoughtful items can show our affection. And if our parents or grandparents have passed, we can honor their memory with sincere offerings. This is the essence of filial piety. A person who lacks respect for their parents cannot be considered virtuous, no matter their level of education or social status. Filial duty comes in many forms, but the most important thing is that it comes from the heart of the child.” - Venerable Thich Tri Tho, Deputy Head and Chief Secretary of the Vietnam Buddhist Sangha in the province, shared this wisdom.

Filial piety today extends beyond family to encompass a love for one’s homeland. As Venerable Thich Tri Tho explained: “Loving your homeland, being loyal to your motherland, and living for the greater good of society is also a form of filial piety that every person must embody.”

Our ancestors fought for a peaceful, free country, and it’s our duty to honor them. This doesn’t mean grand gestures, but rather contributing to society in meaningful ways. It’s about being a responsible citizen, upholding the laws, and working toward the common good. And when possible, engaging in community activities—volunteering to improve the environment, supporting the needy, helping veterans, or donating blood—are all ways we can show our respect for the past and commitment to the future.

There are many role models who embody this sense of filial duty toward their homeland. For instance, Mr. Trinh Van Y has built thousands of rural bridges, Mr. Huynh Van Cam (Le Huynh) has helped over a thousand children undergo heart surgery, and Mr. Tran Quoc Viet has built hundreds of “Comrade” houses for veterans. Many young people also participate in volunteer activities like environmental protection, caring for families of fallen soldiers, and blood donation campaigns—all actions that reflect a sense of filial duty toward society.

“We are born and raised in our homeland, and we must cherish and be grateful to it. More importantly, we must take action to show that gratitude. Acting correctly means doing nothing to harm our country but working together to preserve and nurture it, so that it can continue to thrive and prosper.” - Venerable Thich Tri Tho.

Filial piety is both a responsibility and a privilege. It is the repayment of the immense love and care our parents and grandparents have given us, and the deep connection we have to our homeland. Before striving for personal success, we must first fulfill this fundamental duty.

By: Anh Nguyet

This is a tribute to mothers, and a gift for those fortunate enough to still have their mother. Medford, USA, August 1962, Thich Nhat Hanh

The idea of 'mother' is inseparable from love. Love is a sweet, gentle force, and it is naturally nourishing. A child cannot grow without love, and an adult cannot 'mature' without it either. Without love, life is barren, withering away.

The day my mother passed, I wrote in my journal: 'The greatest disaster has occurred for me!' No matter how old we become, losing our mother feels like being lost in the world, as if we were still a child orphaned too soon. Songs and poems about mothers are simple yet deeply moving. Anyone who has ever had a mother, or anyone who has ever longed for one, is touched by them.

There are countless songs celebrating motherhood, across time and cultures. The poem I loved most as a child, even though my mother was still alive, speaks of the fear and sorrow of losing her one day. I feared that which was far off but inevitable:

When I was young
My mother passed away!
Tears flowed freely,
It was as if the pain was eased...

The evening falls over her grave
The temple bells softly chime
I see myself without my mother
As if I had lost the entire world.

The world of gentle, unconditional love that I swam in without noticing, until one day I awoke to realize it was gone. The people of rural Vietnam prefer simplicity over grandeur when describing a mother’s love. To say a mother is a treasure trove of love or happiness is already high praise. But the simplicity of these words is profound: 'A mother is like a fragrant banana, sticky rice, or sweet sugarcane.'

How sweet! In moments when the body is weak, after feverish sickness, there is no food that can satisfy. But when mother arrives, pulling the blanket up to my chest and placing her hand on my forehead, I feel warmth and comfort, as if the sweetness of life is embodied in her touch. Like a banana's fragrance, sticky rice, or sugarcane, her love is eternal, undying, like the flow of water from a spring.

Father's love is like the great mountains, and mother's love is like water from a flowing stream. The stream’s flow never ends. A mother's love is the root of all human affection. A mother teaches us how to love—this is the most important lesson in the university of life. Without a mother, I would not know how to love. Thanks to my mother, I learned to care for others, and I learned compassion.

In Buddhism, there is the figure of Avalokiteshvara, revered as a mother. When a baby cries, the mother runs to the cradle, acting as a gentle angel who alleviates suffering. In Christianity, there is the Virgin Mary, and in Vietnamese folk beliefs, there is the Mother Liễu Hạnh—each represented as a mother figure. Just hearing the word 'mother' fills the heart with love. And this love is the foundation of both faith and action.

Though the West does not observe Vu Lan, they have Mother's Day on the second Sunday of May. I, from the countryside, didn’t understand this custom until one day, I went to a bookstore in Ginza, Tokyo, with Master Thiên Ân. We met some Japanese students, and one of the women secretly asked Master Thiên Ân a question, then placed a white carnation on my robe. I was surprised and didn’t understand, but I didn’t ask and tried to appear natural. Afterward, Master explained to me that on Mother’s Day, if you still have your mother, you wear a pink flower, signifying pride in still having her. If your mother has passed, you wear a white flower.

Looking at the white flower on my robe, I felt a deep sense of loss. I was like any other orphan. Those who wear a pink flower feel happy, remembering their mother and striving to bring her joy. Those with a white flower mourn, forever remembering her, whether alive or gone. I found this custom beautiful and thought it could be adopted for Vu Lan, a day of filial piety.

A mother is an endless spring, an inexhaustible treasure, but often we fail to realize it until it’s too late. A mother is the greatest gift life gives us. Those of us who still have our mothers should cherish this gift while we can. Don’t wait until it’s too late to say, 'I’ve spent all these years with my mother but never really looked at her face.' We often only glance at her, exchange a few words, ask for money, demand things, sleep beside her for warmth, argue, and create troubles, worrying her, keeping her awake at night. She may die young because of us. We take for granted that she is always there, cooking, cleaning, and caring for us, while we chase after fleeting ambitions. And when she’s gone, we regret not appreciating her sooner.

So, this evening, after work or school, go to your mother’s room with a quiet, warm smile. Sit beside her. Ask her to pause whatever she’s doing, and just look at her. Gaze at her for a long time, as if you’ve never really seen her before. Hold her hand and ask, 'Mother, do you know?' She’ll be surprised and smile, asking, 'Know what?' Still looking into her eyes, keep smiling and say, 'Do you know that I love you?' There’s no need for an answer. Even as an adult, you can ask this question, because you are still her child. Mother and child will live in eternal love. And when she’s gone, you’ll never have regrets, never feel sorrowful for not appreciating her while she was alive.

This is the message I want to share with you today. Let’s sing this song, so that life does not fall into forgetfulness. I have pinned a pink flower on your chest—be happy, that’s all.

Thich Nhat Hanh (1962)

In July, the Cowherd and Weaver Girl wait eagerly to meet after a year of longing, their hearts aching with every passing day. They wait—for a year, for a lifetime, for countless lifetimes. Could this longing be the cause of the annual rains? The rain falls gently, incessantly, intertwining like hands trying to hold on forever, unwilling to let go. The constant drizzle is like the endless yearning of two lovers torn apart by fate, enduring the harsh punishment of separation.

July is the month of Vu Lan, a time to honor the living and remember the deceased. It is a time when emotions run deep, and the mind becomes restless. The rain falls, and with it, our tears of sorrow. Who can stop these tears? Who can sever the bond of blood and love? Who can remain indifferent to the overwhelming love and tireless sacrifices of mothers?

I have two extraordinary mothers in my life: one who gave me life, and one who gave life to my husband. They come from different parts of the country, with different dialects, temperaments, and physical traits. So many contrasts that at first glance, they seem like parallel lines, racing toward their own destinies. But life’s crossroads are vast, and I’ve found that their paths meet more often than I could have imagined. Their shared love, their silent sacrifices, leave me speechless.

In the early morning, before the sun has fully risen and while the mist still lingers, the rooster crows, then pauses in pretend weariness. At this hour, both mothers are already awake. What do they do at this hour? A moment of peace for self-care? No, it is time for them to begin their lifelong journey of care and sacrifice. Their feet, once swift and light in youth, may now be slower, but they still carry the weight of family on their shoulders, step by step. How many miles have they walked in their lives? How many long days, under both sun and rain, have their feet endured? Have their husbands ever massaged their tired feet with tenderness? Their lives stretch out with every step, yet the burden of family remains heavy. These mothers keep walking, unrelenting, always caring for their husbands and children.

These mothers have hands, hands that are rough, weathered, and worn by time. These hands, calloused by years of sacrifice, are soft only when they touch their children. If only we could make them gentler, but when these hands knead dough, prepare meals, or stitch the fabric of family life, they become perfect in their imperfection. Nothing compares to the comfort of a mother's touch. These hands are what we want to cherish and honor for the rest of our lives.

Even mothers have moments of introspection. Their eyes gaze into the vastness of the world, and we, their children, cannot fully understand. Are they thinking of their parents? Are they reminiscing about their hometowns? Are they worrying about their grown children who are still not complete? Perhaps they are reflecting on the life they’ve lived, wondering what lies beyond the horizon. We may never know for sure. But we feel the ache in our hearts as we witness these moments. Yet, there’s a quiet voice inside telling us, 'Give her space, let her have this private moment, and soon she will return to the mother we know.' We must be patient.

Mothers are happiest when their children and grandchildren come together under one roof. The house feels crowded, but the laughter fills the air. They hold a grandchild close and offer gentle advice to another. They urge their children to eat and laugh. Their faces, lined with age, brighten as the joy of family reunites them. We count the silver strands in their hair, but soon we stop counting as the salt of time has overtaken the pepper. All that remains is their fragile form, a gentle reminder of the vibrant woman they once were. The years have passed, and their moments of joy are few, but when family gathers, all the pain and sacrifice disappear, and only happiness remains.

The Cowherd and Weaver Girl, separated by the heavens, endure a lifetime of longing, while mothers, too, bear the burden of their sacrifices, waiting for the love and recognition they deserve. A lifetime of waiting, of selfless giving, but their children are often slow to express gratitude. Do they still have the strength to endure? Or do they willingly bear their burdens with love? The rain falls outside, a reminder of the eternal wait. The Cowherd and Weaver Girl anxiously await their reunion, while our mothers, too, grow older with each passing day. We bow in reverence, holding their memory close in our hearts, never to forget them. Oh, how we love you, our mothers!

VŨ HÀ (BUÔN HỒ- ĐẮC LẮC)

July arrives, and the harsh sun of the summer begins to soften under the shade of trees and grasses. A light autumn breeze and a touch of morning dew make everything feel more delicate, as if nature itself is taking a deep breath. The last of the purple blossoms on the Lagerstroemia trees bloom hastily before they retreat into winter's slumber.

In July, the sudden downpours push people into a rush, seeking shelter from the torrential rain that falls like a waterfall. The raindrops blur the street, and our thoughts drift with the rain, contemplating what we've gained and lost on this journey of life.

The July rain often comes in soft, constant drizzles, making the gloomy day feel even heavier, and the night stretching endlessly. July is the month where summer slips into autumn in an instant. People don't long for the hot rays of July as they might the pale sun of winter's December, nor do they yearn for rain like the storms of June that cool the summer heat. July is a month that feels like an in-between, balanced and uncertain.

July also brings a bittersweet feeling, with Vu Lan arriving. The cool, crisp nights of July seem to deepen the sorrow for those who have lost their parents. These children, who wear a white rose on their chest during the Vu Lan festival each year, are filled with memories, nostalgia, and deep longing...

I recall the days of my childhood, when my mother would carry a heavy basket, balancing it across her shoulders as she hurried to the morning market. One side was filled with fresh vegetables stacked high, while I sat curled up in the basket, chatting away. Sometimes, I would jump up with excitement, causing her to stumble, her shoulders bearing the weight of my entire childhood so I could grow up.

I suddenly remember my father, carefully crafting bamboo sticks and making spinning tops, shaping crickets from young coconut leaves, or weaving grasshoppers out of fresh straw. My father patiently followed me when I was learning to ride a bicycle, running behind me as my feet couldn't quite reach the pedals yet, but I was determined to catch up with the rhythm.

On the full moon of July, people often set aside their daily struggles to focus on the things they cherish most. They visit temples, praying for peace. Orphans pray for the peace of their departed parents, while those of us with living parents, wearing a red rose on our chest, wish for our mothers and fathers to remain healthy and at peace.

In this busy world, the human heart often feels cramped and narrow, yet only our parents love us unconditionally. In the rush of life, have we ever stopped to wonder, does our mother wait for a simple family meal, finding joy just by watching us eat? Her rough hands don't need expensive jewelry; the warmth of her touch is enough to make her hands feel more beautiful than anything else.

The Vu Lan festival is not about luxury or offering gold and treasures to our parents. To them, we are always their children. Our happiness and peace are the best gifts we can give to our parents. Love them while we can. Let the rose on our chest remain forever red, a symbol of our love.

Hạnh Nguyễn