Refine this college application personal statement: My relationship with my father had always been marked by a rift I never quite understood. As a devout Buddhist, he had practices that seemed odd to my younger self. Every evening, the scent of the incense would slowly diffuse as he held the prayer beads. He instructed me not to kill insects, not even cockroaches that terrified me. What baffled me the most was his insistence that I recite the mantras of Guanyin and Manjushri.

I can still hear him, urging me in his gentle yet firm tone, “Recite with me.” So I did. I memorized the mantras but remained skeptical. Why did he insist on making me do this? 

In my junior high years, I began to study the scriptures of Buddhism but could not be convinced. I immersed myself in more texts of philosophy and questioned religion critically. As the complexities of the world exhibited before my eyes, the belief in a higher power looked self-conceited. I distanced myself further from my father.

Time went by. At 16, I had a big argument with my best friend and became furious. I rushed to complain to everyone. After my father found out, he asked me to sit on the carpet with him. He quietly recited those mantras with me and guided me to focus on my breathing. As I calmed down, I found the rhythms of “oṃ-ma-ṇi-pad-me-hong” and “om-a-ra-pa-ca-na-dhih” comforting. My father’s hands enveloped mine. His warm voice slowly soothed my agitated heart.

As my eyes met my father’s loving gaze, I realized that it was his blessing behind the mantras that mattered. There were ups and downs in life that we couldn’t control, but my father fills his love in those mantras and hopes that they could bring me solace when needed. 

This realization filled in some gap between us. I began asking him questions about the beliefs that shaped his world and the stories that sculpted his faith. My father, noticing the shift, responded with open arms. 

That Saturday morning, he took me to the Fengmen Market, where he usually got groceries and incense sticks. As we meandered through the narrow aisles, my father introduced me to various stalls. Qinxiao, who sells altar supplies, migrated to Shenzhen in the 1990s. He tried his hand at entrepreneurship, but quickly went bankrupt. After his wife passed away due to illness, he returned to this place that raised and nurtured him, taking over his father’s stall. As my father chatted warmly with Qinxiao, he showed his deep-seated respect and compassion. When we parted, he pressed his hands together and said goodbye. 

“I’ve known him for a long time,” my father said to me. Whenever he came, he would chat with the stall owners and get to know their joys, hardships, and dreams. From the perspective of Buddhism, all life is interconnected, and one should hold compassion for every individual human being. 

What my father shared through this trip was profound. Buddhism wasn’t just about rituals. It was a philosophy, an attitude of life that he hoped to pass on to me, not as a religion but as a way to cultivate understanding and compassion. 

Looking back, I realized that questioning and trying to understand are two very different things. One keeps the barriers up, while the other builds bridges. I used to believe that my father’s Buddhist practices kept us apart, but it was actually my misunderstanding and attitude. 

Now I took to heart that I should respect differences, even if they do not align with my personal beliefs. I am still not a Buddhist, probably I never will be. But the lessons I’ve learned from my father have made me more accepting, more curious, and ultimately more open-minded. 

Later, when I taught in volunteer activities, I paid more attention to the diverse religious and cultural backgrounds of my students and tried to convey the concept of respect and empathy. This is the kind of educator I aspire to be.