Sixteen years ago, I was in Plum Village, mindfully breathing as I listened to the morning bell echo through the mist—early in my career as an educator, searching, and just beginning to understand the shape my path might take. I was still learning how to bridge my inner life with the outer world. In many ways, I was only responsible for myself. In those days, I was only responsible for myself, and I had more spaciousness, time and freedom that often comes with that stage of life. At first, the practice felt deceptively simple—but over time revealed itself as the journey of lifetimes.  

Last week, I returned—older, tenderized by life, carrying more than I once could’ve imagined. The path is still the same, but I am not.

I came back as a mother, a wife, a daughter of aging parents who need ongoing care, and a leader of an organization committed to healing and transformation—all at a time when the world feels heavy, dark, and on fire. We are collectively holding so much. And yet, even here, the practice continues. It must.

I was invited to receive the Lamp Transmission, a sacred ceremony in the Plum Village tradition that honors a person’s commitment to a path of mindfulness, service, and transformation. As part of this, I received the title Dharmacharya.

While Dharmacharya is often translated as “Dharma teacher,” the original Sanskrit root tells a richer story. Ācārya comes from ācāra, meaning conduct or practice—so it more accurately points to someone who lives the teachings. Someone who teaches not by words, but by how they move through the world.

This understanding is a deep comfort to me—because I certainly don’t have all the answers. What I do have is a sincere devotion to continue practicing. To return, again and again, to presence and inquiry. And to let that be enough.

During the ceremony, I was offered a short verse—a gatha—to reflect the heart of my path. One line pierced straight through:

“Your everyday life becomes your message.”

It echoed the words of Mahatma Gandhi: “My life is my message.” This felt especially tender because my very first encounter with Thầy (Thich Nhat Hanh) was at Gandhi Darshan in India seventeen years ago. To receive this teaching now felt like a quiet return to where it all began—a thread tying together years of practice, devotion, and recommitment.

It was deeply moving to receive the transmission from Br. Pháp Dung, who radiates Thầy’s wisdom, joy, and gentleness. His presence felt like a living continuation of Thầy’s love, and my heart was full receiving his blessings—especially as we continue our collaboration on the Thich Nhat Hanh School of Interbeing at Deer Park Monastery.

During my Lamp Transmission a radiant beam of light poured through the stained-glass Buddha above us. It caught my breath. A blessing. A presence. A reminder of continuation. 

And in a quiet miracle, the small oil lamp I received burned for over 30 hours. For the first 24 hours, it glowed gently on a lower setting—but even then, its steadiness felt like something sacred. Late that final night, just hours before I left for the airport, the flame quietly dimmed and went out. That moment, too, felt like a teaching—a reminder of the beauty in tending, releasing, and beginning again.

Because this is what the real practice feels like now: Lighting a flame. Tending it. Carrying it forward with care. And knowing, sometimes, we must pause, protect it, or let it rest.

The most meaningful part of this experience wasn’t the ceremony itself—it was the invitation to remember that the real practice is right here, in the complexity of our everyday lives. In yours. In mine.

In how I speak to my child at the end of a long day. In how I stay connected in my relationships when life feels full. In how I tend to my own spirit amidst the swirl of responsibility.

That’s where the light needs ongoing care. And if I’m being real, that’s also where I can drift. Where familiar patterns return. Where the space between my intentions and my actions can quietly widen.

This lamp I received isn’t a reward—it’s a renewal. A reminder that this is the work of lifetimes. And the light it represents isn’t mine to hold alone.

It was lit by many hands.

And maybe that’s true for all of us—the light we carry isn’t something we earn, but something we return to. Again and again.

If you’re reading this, I imagine you too are someone who carries a quiet light—through your care, your presence, your fierce tenderness. Maybe you’re doing that without recognition, without a break, or without knowing if it’s enough.

So let me offer this: it is.

Your everyday life—your compassion, your honesty, your courage to return when you stray—is your message.

You don’t have to shine all the time. You only need to keep tending the flame.

May we walk together in this practice—not perfectly, but wholeheartedly. May your light be tended, even in the quiet moments. Especially then.

With love and deep gratitude, 
   

P.S. for educators:  if your light needs tending, consider joining me in the SEL Every Day Courses. You also have the option to earn 3-6 graduate credits.