An incredible childhood journey from nomadic life to the nature of mind - Khandro Tseringma Rinpoche

Scientists: What is your personal journey to enduring happiness?

In my opinion, when we think about the experience that we have — our inner experience — first we need to talk about it in relationship to the body, our physical sensations and feelings. The experience of peace or happiness inside is connected to our human experience. What our senses are directly experiencing — what we take in through our eyes, our perceptions of hearing, of smelling with the nose, tasting with the tongue, and physical sensations with the body — our coarse sense organs, this is how happiness is first connected to us.

Through the five senses, we can perhaps begin to approach the topic of enduring, lasting, unchangeable happiness. Because that is more connected to the sixth consciousness — the mind consciousness itself. And only when we approach the topic of dependent origination, the underlying nature of reality, can we begin to understand what lasting, stable happiness might be like.

It is through the avenue of mental consciousness that the realization of dependent origination determines the attainment of ultimate and enduring happiness. Dependent origination is the underlying foundation of mental happiness, including compassion, wholesome intention, and all the elevated states of mind. It is through the principle of interdependence that one can transform and attain such qualities.

So when I think about this as a progression, and think back to my early years as a child — when I was very young, I started to analyze and examine my experience. When it comes to this analysis or investigation, how it unfolded step by step, there is a lot I could say. This is a big story, so I will try to keep it brief and give the main points.

I was born and raised among farmers and nomads, in that kind of environment and way of life.

Growing up among farmers and nomads, I observed their daily needs and what their happiness depended on. I found that I could almost say it was the female yaks that gave them a life. They relied heavily on female yaks and other animals for their well-being: their food, their clothes, and even their bedding. This was how they lived.

I would go with the small animals to the grasslands to watch them graze, making many observations. I saw the little lambs eating thorn bushes and wondered: how can they do that? Despite our tongues being similar, the goats could eat those thorns and find them very tasty, but I certainly could not. When I looked into the baby lamb's mouth, I saw a tongue that looked just like mine — soft, with nothing strange about it.

Apart from karma, I had no other way to explain it. There were so many factors involved — many causes and conditions, all related to karma.

Also, when they shit, their dung comes out in this beautiful, rounded shape, which I cannot do. The perfectly rounded shape of the dung came about through karma — I would not know how to create such a thing myself.

When it rained, the animals hardly knew where to seek shelter, while I could easily find a place to hide. They lacked that basic understanding of finding protection.

I also observed that the bond between animal mothers and their young is remarkably human. When the babies cry, the mother calmly provides milk, appearing completely at peace.

As farmers and shepherds, they had to take the milk for themselves. Seeing the babies pulled away while they were nursing, crying pitifully, I felt a deep sense of compassion.

In the summer, we kids went barefoot. I would lie in the grass and contemplate the animals with deep compassion. If those animals had been human, a mother would have done anything to feed her child, and a child would have fought for its mother's milk when deprived of the opportunity. Yet here, neither could do anything. Thinking of their helplessness brought me to tears.

I would take the baby animals back to their mothers to be fed. The nomads would argue with me, as this meant they were unable to collect the milk.

I swore never to live as a nomad again. Reflecting on their way of life, I realized it came entirely at the expense of the animals — it was absolutely horrendous. I had to abandon that lifestyle. I lost all interest in the milk and butter business and chose to live with the farmers instead.

During the harvest, the stems are cut and discarded. Curious about what happened beneath the surface, I began to investigate. I wanted to understand how the seeds actually grew, so I started making detailed observations.

I began to experiment. I planted a seed and covered it with soil. After a week, I found it had turned moist and spongy. A week later, a small white shoot appeared. I carefully replaced the soil and checked again — the white sprout had grown longer. I found myself wondering: how does this happen?

I decided to try an experiment with another seed. I placed it in a broken saddle and covered it with a cloth, leaving it there for a week. When I returned, there was no change at all. Meanwhile, the seed in the soil was growing green. Both were the same type of seed, yet the results were completely different.

Looking at the seed in the saddle where nothing had changed, I realized that the growth of a seed must depend upon the four elements — earth, water, fire, and air. Things clicked at that moment.

I gave it a great deal of thought during that time. For a seed to grow, it requires a multitude of conditions. From the first sprout to the forming of the skin and beyond, the growth depends on various conditions working together. I made many observations and experiments.

Through my observations of the farmers' lifestyle, I began to see the pattern of their lives. They plant the seeds, harvest the crops, and survive on the results — only to repeat the same cycle over and over. I realized there was no deeper essence to this life. Then I began to feel a sense of renunciation towards the farmer's way of life as well.

I would also go with the tree farmers into the woods. When I looked at the trees, I found them so tall and thick — immense. I began to wonder how they became what they were. They have no father, no mother, nor any helpers, yet they grow to such a massive scale.

I would lie on the ground, staring up at their height and contemplating their growth. Then I turned my attention downward. I dug into the earth to trace the roots, watching them start thick and taper thinner and thinner as they stretched far away.

I found myself asking many questions. What is the actual substance that makes a seed grow? Why do some trees become enormous while others remain small? I noticed that even on the tallest trees, some roots were as thin as a hair. It struck me as a curious mystery — I began to feel that it wasn't just the four elements at work, but a kind of energy functioning alongside them that made everything grow.

Then my grandmother passed away when I was still a child. I didn't know how to mourn, but my mother and my family were all crying. So I looked at all this.

People used to handle my grandmother's belongings, but now they were afraid of them. My mother, however, continued to bring her a cup of tea every day. She would bring the flask to her in the morning and take it back in the evening, yet the tea remained untouched. It was a stark realization: where there had once been someone to drink that tea, now there was no one.

After my grandmother passed away, her body was carried to the cemetery. Before she died, I had touched her. Curious about what would happen next, I sneaked to the cemetery — a place that terrified me. I hid under the bushes and peeked out. In my culture, we practiced sky burial, where the body is chopped into pieces and offered to the vultures.

As a child, I was completely overwhelmed by the sight. I wondered: why didn't they shout? Why didn't that person cry out? The chopping was so forceful. I was terrified, yet a stark realization began to form. I asked those around me what was happening. They told me simply: there is no more mind. She has already died.

Then I realized: it is only after death that the body can be chopped like this. This prompted me to make a thorough investigation. Whether it is called the mind or consciousness, I knew I had to find where it goes after death.

The person who passed away was a beloved mother to her children, a friend, and a companion to many. Now she was gone and her body was being chopped away. As this happened, those who loved her showed no sign of their former affection. Instead, they were consumed by fear — anxious to finish the process quickly and leave.

If this were a piece of candy, I could simply put it in your mouth and you would know the taste right away. You asked how I arrived at enduring happiness — well, there was a process. I didn't just arrive here out of the blue. This journey, in itself, is a kind of science.

When it comes to the nature of precious, enduring happiness, I have much more to share. It is simply a matter of recognizing that both temporary and ultimate happiness already exist right within us.

Session 2:

I closely examined the lifestyles of the nomads and farmers I grew up with. I looked into their experiences, their routines, and all the causes and conditions of their lives. In the end, I realized that what I truly sought — the ultimate, enduring happiness — was not to be found there. Apart from a tiny bit of momentary happiness, there was no deeper purpose. What I really wanted, I would not find there.

This led me to wonder about the so-called consciousness or mind — that which departs the physical body at death. Where is it? Where does it usually abide? How does it move around? Where would it go? I really thought hard about it.

Though I searched, I couldn't find a tangible place where consciousness goes or abides — nor could I find the seeker itself. I found nothing at all. This left me deeply discouraged. I remember crying very hard, overwhelmed by the weight of it all.

As I deepened my search for the mind, I began to wonder about the matter of sleep — what is sleep? Why do we sleep?

My grandfather, my mother's father, was a great practitioner — a treasure revealer. He kept a special bell and dorje that he had revealed, locked away in a box. This box was hidden in a high place, far out of reach, so that no one could find it. One day, I became determined to see them. Plotting every possible way to reach it, I even considered the risk of stealing. I had to see what was inside that box.

That curiosity followed me into the night. I began to wonder: what does it mean to fall asleep? What brings about the brightness of day, and what causes the darkness of night? I noticed that the very quality of my experience felt completely different during the day than it did at night.

I was a kid, and I was even afraid to go to my parents' bed at night. Because the adults always told me about the stories of ghosts, so I was terrified in the dark. But I started questioning that fear. I thought: if a ghost exists at night, why shouldn't it appear in the day? Then I closed my eyes. I found it truly strange that simply by shutting them, I could completely switch off my visual field. In that moment, I was no longer afraid of ghosts.

I contemplated the alternation of day and night. At night, there is simply less light — the world is merely enveloped in darkness. Apart from that, there was no real difference. I reasoned that if a being truly existed, why would it only appear at night? It didn't make sense. Once I saw the logic, my fear simply vanished.

When my parents were asleep, I would walk over to observe them. I began an experiment: I would bring something foul-smelling and hold it right to their faces, yet they wouldn't react at all. I even put my fingers close to their nostrils to confirm they were still breathing — and they were. Seeing that they had no reaction despite still breathing, I thought to myself: now, there is something truly interesting.

Sometimes, I would take a sharp needle and bring it inches from their eyes as they slept. They never stirred. I was scared and often trembled, imagining that if they suddenly sat up, I might accidentally stab them — and then I'd get a good smack. I moved in absolute silence, holding my breath and tiptoeing, bringing the sharp point toward their eyes with trembling precision. Yet they had no reaction at all.

Then I thought: why are they not seeing this? Is it just because their eyelid is closed that they're not seeing it, or is there something else?

A few days later, I found another subject. They were sleeping with their eyes open, rolled back and half-exposed. It was a strange sight. I knew I had to test this too, so I brought the needle, my hands trembling. Even with their eyes open, they had no reaction at all.

I thought to myself: wow, there is something else that sees. They had the physical eyes — the eyeballs themselves — but they did not see. Why is that? What is happening here? What is the thing behind the eyes?

This wasn't just an experiment of a few days — it spanned months.

When autumn came — the season when the goats are slaughtered — I asked for a goat's head to be brought to me. I needed to examine it and see what lay behind the eye. As I dissected it, I found many things: layers of tissue, nerves, fluids, fat, and so forth. But I didn't find it — I couldn't find the seer behind the eye.

I realized that for the eye to see, a knowingness is required — a consciousness or cognizance that is essential. We have a nose, but there must be a consciousness to experience the smell. During the day, this awareness is active, operating and experiencing everything. But in sleep, even though the physical senses remain, the experience itself vanishes from the core senses.

Where does this consciousness abide? Is it the heart? I saw the physical heart beating, but it wasn't there. Is it in the brain? I couldn't say for certain. When I examined the goat's brain, I found only nerves, layers of tissue, fat, and various fluids. I saw a vast network of fibres — some coarse and thick, others incredibly subtle and small. It led me to a vital conclusion: there is a profound mystery here.

Then a deeper question arose: what am I doing? Where am I? I knew that I existed, but where was my mind, actually? I couldn't point to its location. This realization brought me to tears — it was deeply distressing that the mind remained so difficult to find.

While the other children were busy playing with sheep and other animals, I was preoccupied with questions: what is this? Where did it come from? How will it end? I was investigating everything, everywhere I went.

Session 3:

As many of you know, I was a young shepherd. There was a lake near our home that would freeze over in the winter, and we couldn't safely herd the sheep there. One day, while I was out on my usual sheep-herding routine, I saw a creature that resembled a sheep but was notably larger. It had the features of a lion — a creature I had never seen before — with powerful paws, a sweeping, scythe-like tail, and manes of swirling spirals. It produced a resonant, vibrating roar: sang, sang, sang. This was likely what we call the snow lion.

Seated upon the lion was a being in the form of an old man. He sat in a half-sitting, easy posture, his grey hair tied into a topknot. He wore a wide, bright smile as I looked at him.

Then he spoke to me: Khandro Kunga Buma, I know your difficulties. Come to me, right here, don't be scared.

I wasn't able to ask who he was or even think about what to do next. I was simply overwhelmed by the discouragement of not being able to find my mind. Tears came easily to me then — I had no one to talk to, no one to help me search for the mind. I found myself weeping again, thinking: what should I do?

I turned to him for the answer. He told me: you must recite the six-syllable mantra and the mantra of Guru Rinpoche. He was the first person to give me the transmission of these two mantras. He then explained the meaning of Guru Rinpoche's mantra, and it was absolutely amazing. He connected the meaning to the Lama, the Yidam, and the protectors — it felt incredibly profound, though at the time, I didn't yet know what any of those words meant.

He gave me teachings on bodhicitta — the altruistic mind of enlightenment — and emptiness. I wondered: what are these words? What do they mean? They sounded so beautiful, but I had no knowledge of the Dharma then. I didn't even realize that bodhicitta and emptiness were Dharma itself. The words on cultivating devotion sounded so incredible — I just thought to myself: how wonderful these words are.

I really loved the Guru Rinpoche mantra and memorized it immediately. In the meantime, I was supposed to be watching the sheep by the icy lake. While this was happening, the sheep fell into the lake. People were screaming and yelling as they rushed to pull them out of the frozen water. I was in deep trouble, and all of us kids received a heavy scolding.

I felt an unusual joy deep within, even in the middle of the chaos. I wanted to tell someone that I had just met an old man. But when I looked back, the snow lion and the rider had vanished. They simply disappeared.

However, the Guru Rinpoche mantra did not disappear. The words stayed with me. Deep within, there was a sense of great bliss and happiness — an overwhelming joy that remained.

I told them how I had met a being who taught me the Guru Rinpoche mantra and explained its meaning. It was so profound and full of purpose, and it made me so happy. I told them: listen to the mantra, everyone should know it. It will make us all happy.

I tried to tell them: the Guru Rinpoche mantra is so wonderful, and it will bring you happiness. But they were not receptive. As soon as they heard me, they mocked me, saying: oh, look, here comes a tantric practitioner from a past life, reciting this Guru Rinpoche mantra. Whether it was past life or tantric practitioner, I had no idea what those terms meant. All I knew was that I was full of happiness whenever I recited the mantra. Even though none of them believed me, I didn't mind — I was too busy dancing and singing, absorbed in the joy of the mantra.

This was the vision I experienced. Afterward, I remembered the bell and the dorje — I felt a need to see them. I pleaded with my parents: please, I need them, show them to me. Finally, they brought them out. I took the bell in my hand and shook it, and the sound rang out clearly.

So I asked the people: you talk about the Three Jewels — where are they? Where do the Three Jewels live? Where do they come from? How can we see them? And they would just say: they exist, they're there. They're kind of up there somewhere. But we don't know where they are.

Then I thought: I need to get an education. I will try to find a school. But there were no schools there. People would tell me about the Three Jewels, but they didn't know how to explain them. Then I began to have huge doubts.

I said: send me away to a school far from here. Since there were no schools in our hometown, I knew I had to look elsewhere. But I was told: it's useless for girls to go to school — we don't even know if a school for girls exists. Girls shouldn't get an education. My parents added: you are like our own hearts — we cannot be apart from you. This simply won't work.

And so, when night fell, I rang the bell and cried.

I thought: I need to make these Three Jewels happen for myself — they will be the place for my mind. In those days, people would wear turquoise stones on top of their heads, tucked into their hair. I decided that as soon as my hair grew long enough, I would wrap three turquoise stones in my hair and make the Three Jewels happen on my head. It felt like forever for my hair to grow long, but in the meantime, I spent my days playing with the bell and the dorje. They truly made me happy.

How do we fall asleep? I thought about consciousness constantly. Back then, I was still very afraid of the night. In our village, we had no electricity, and I couldn't understand the purpose of the dark. Half the day was bright — time I could use to explore and examine the world — but the other half was total darkness. My investigations would come to a halt. I felt it was a terrible waste of time. I resented sleep because I couldn't observe anything while I was unconscious. I didn't know then that sleep restores the body — I simply thought I was losing half of my life to the dark.

So at night, I began ringing my bell. As I rang it, I experienced a vision: I saw the Three Jewels in the form of three spheres of light. Though I didn't see them with my physical eyes, they were as vivid in my mind as if I were perceiving them with my naked eyes. They weren't ordinary lights — the light was empty, yet within that emptiness, there was a striking clarity. I watched as this light radiated, manifesting a second light that dissolved into the bell and the dorje. It made me so happy — there was happiness in every breath. Everything I saw felt beautiful, filled with a joy that was almost inexpressible.

I had my own place to sleep, and I loved having the bell and the dorje with me. Every night as I went to bed, I would hold them close.

Because of that light — this first, protective light — I felt safe. I became dependent on it as a sort of protector. But seeing the light in this special way still didn't answer my question: where is my mind? I was still searching for it. I realized the mind is not a light, and this light is not the mind. Then I had a sudden intuition: there is something special in our feelings. I realized that feelings have tremendous power.

Then I went on to observe the process of falling asleep. I started by asking people: how do you fall asleep? How does it actually happen? Everyone gave the same kind of answer: eat good food, wear warm clothes, relax, and then you'll sleep. I said: no, I meant the actual procedure of sleeping — how it happens step by step. I asked myself the same question, but I couldn't find the answer.

When we sleep, our eyes cannot see. All five coarse senses cease to function. For a long time, I tried to observe the mechanics of sleep.

In my experience, falling asleep isn't an immediate plunge into blackness. There is a gradual diminishing of the senses — a process like the four types of emptiness. For instance, my hearing fades out slowly, as it is the sense that takes the longest to dissolve. Even as it begins to fade, it takes its time to fully vanish. I was watching exactly what each consciousness was doing during the transition into sleep — observing all of them.

The way each sense operates in the external world is entirely different. For instance, you cannot taste sweetness before the sugar actually touches your tongue, so taste has the shortest distance. Beyond that is the nose, then the ears, and finally the eyes, which have the furthest reach. The distance the eyes can reach cannot be reached by the nose — what the nose experiences cannot be reached by the ear. This is how the five senses operate. As I observed them all dissolving, I realized: in the end, every one of them dissolves into the mental consciousness.

The moment when the senses dissolve into the mental consciousness is the most difficult for me. Although I tried to stay awake to observe this transition, I would still suddenly plunge into the darkness of unconsciousness — the state of sleep — simply due to a lack of practice. It was incredibly hard to pin down the borderline, that exact meeting point between being awake and being asleep.

I tried and tried, but to no avail. Then I cried and cried, in distress from no success. Then a voice came to me: Noble daughter, Khandro Kunga Buma! This junction, where all the senses dissolve, is the Bardo — the intermediate state through which all beings pass into their next life. That junction is the threshold that opens into the subtlest mind: the luminosity itself. So please, keep trying.

It was incredibly difficult to find that junction. Usually, sleep would simply take over, and everything would fade into an unconscious black. In order to capture that junction, I needed to carefully maintain a firm hold on the consciousness.

Sometimes, it felt as though I were entering a vast, overwhelming darkness. My very perception of it was filled with fear. Normally, there is the solid earth beneath my feet — something to depend on — but here, no such ground existed. Not only was the physical world gone, but my sense of self had vanished as well. Usually, there is a clear sense of I, yet I couldn't find it. In those moments of total darkness, I would reach out and search for where the mind might be, but there was nothing there. I especially couldn't find me. I couldn't find clarity — nothing could be found. Everything felt like a void. In that state, there is no destination to reach. I felt utterly terrified in that moment, so I woke up.

Then I tried again and again. Once more, I heard the voice: Noble daughter, Khandro Kunga Buma! It brought a message about the Bardo — the state where the dissolution of the five elements occurs — and the sensations that arise during that process.

The voice instructed me: do not look at the darkness. Do not become attached to the fear of it. The moment I became scared, I became attached to the darkness. Do not worry, it said. Do not be afraid. It told me that just as things dissolve in sequence, clarity will emerge in sequence. As the mind reaches its subtlest level, the luminosity will arrive.

Then I felt a surge of happiness. It was truly amazing, and that joyful feeling woke me up again. From that moment on, I was inspired to dedicate all my efforts to the practice of sleep and dream yoga.

Around the age of seven, I started out as a child occupied with all kinds of observations and investigations. This curiosity eventually led me to experience both the terror of the darkness and the luminosity of the subtle mind. Sensing that there was something special about these experiences, I wanted to examine exactly what they were. During the day, I would reflect on what had happened at night, scrutinizing the experience while I was wide awake.

One day, while I was simply resting during the day, my mind grew increasingly subtle. As I gazed at the world before me, every object became shimmering particles — nothing remained solid. It was as if everything were composed of atoms, a boiling, vibrant shimmer of energy.

I then turned my gaze inward toward my own mind, the nadis, and the chakras, looking into their subtlest levels. There, I found only a single unit of atomic energy. But then the realization arose that even these particles were devoid of the slightest solid existence. At that moment, even that atomic energy disappeared. A strange feeling emerged — a state I couldn't quite call mind, nor could I call it non-mind. From that state, everything seemed to appear within that single unit. It wasn't a tangible, physical atom, but rather an all-pervading energy that encompassed the entire universe.

Session 4:

So I am just one individual — one human being, just one sentient being. But since I was small, this experience unfolded in me: how things appear and how they truly are.

At that time, as I was looking into what is the true nature of reality — if you ask me how did I know whether my experience was leading in an authentic direction or an inauthentic direction — there's no clear substance that allowed me to make that distinction. Really, it came down to my own experience of suffering and of happiness. If I felt joy, if I felt positive inner experience, then I kind of took that as a sign that this is an unmistakable direction. If I was suffering, if it was uncomfortable, dissatisfying or painful, then that was a sign that it was maybe a wrong direction. But these choices were really just based on that very simple level of experience. There wasn't some kind of philosophy or texts or knowledge behind that distinction, because I had none of that knowledge at that time.

So when it comes to these questions about consciousness, the brain, direct experience — I could only explore from the experiential point of view at that time. And so what was apparent to me, what was available to me? I worked from coarse levels, I worked with the dreams, I worked with what came from the dreams. Sometimes it led to confusion, sometimes it led in other directions. And in the end, where it ended up — the final place — when we talk about the nature itself of the mind, I did not have the words to describe that at that time. I didn't know the term nature of mind, rigpa, these kinds of Dharma terminologies or even worldly terminologies. At that time, I didn't have those. I could only use basic language, and that's what I had.

And so in terms of the mind, when we talk about the subtle, subtle inner experience of the mind — when we see that everything, from the sky all the way down to the earth, the solidity of the earth, the spaciousness of the sky, when we can see that its nature, its essence is completely pure, and somehow within that complete purity, anything can arise, anything is able to arise and appear — this is really extraordinary and bizarre. This is an amazing experience. And the joy, the happiness that's possible — what we normally think of as joy and happiness — this kind of experience cannot occur in the normal way.

And then when it all comes back together in experience, a direct felt experience, this is not something that can be easily put into words. The kind of joy that's experienceable cannot even be expressed.

And then the joy that comes, and then the tears that come, and the sense of: can all sentient beings experience that? What if all sentient beings could experience that kind of experience also?

So then also extending that perspective to all the six classes of sentient beings — and animals of course, we don't know the other realms directly, but the animal realm is something we can directly see. Having a lot of experience seeing the animal realm, feeling intense love and affection for the animal realm, and seeing their experience, and thinking about these sentient beings — thinking: oh, they just don't understand the distinction between how things appear and how they truly are in their nature. And if they could know that, if they could see that, their suffering would be completely eliminated, and they would only experience joy.

Just reflecting at that time that all sentient beings are actually the same as me — they have the same experience of the way things are, they have the same capacity to realize how things truly are and how things appear, and they can think just like me. But until they actually realize this: may I be a carpet for them, may I even go to hell to help them. And the compassion that comes from this, the compassion that can come from seeing the essence of the mind — that kind of compassion is not just towards those who have active problems or who are in a particularly problematic situation, but love and compassion that is totally unbiased, totally unprejudiced, equal love and compassion in every direction.

 

(This transcript brings together all of Khandro Rinpoche's talks from Day 1 of the two-day science conference held at Rinpoche's monastery, Dagnang Yangsang Ghyachhen Rigzin Drubde, in Kathmandu, Nepal, on 14th March 2026. The day comprised multiple sessions of questions and answers, running from morning to evening with breaks in between. From these sessions, Rinpoche's words have been collected, translated into English, and presented here in full.)