He does not speak much — but his work speaks for him.

Born in a mountain village where prayers hang in the wind and tools are passed down instead of toys, Lhakpa grew up watching his grandfather carve figures from trees no one dared to cut. Not all wood, he was told, is ready to become sacred.

At age 15, he carved his first lotus.

It took him four weeks.

He didn’t know yet that the piece would sit above a monastery door for the next 50 years.

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Today, Lhakpa carves not small beads or pendants — but gateways, guardians, blessings too large to carry but too meaningful to ignore.

His wooden sculptures stand in homes, temples, and healing centers across Nepal.

Each one begins the same way:

• With silence.

• With a mantra whispered into the grain.

• With an intention: What will this piece protect? What will it invite?

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To Lhakpa, wood is not material — it is memory.

It remembers the rain. It remembers the prayers.

And in the hands of someone who listens, it speaks.

His pieces are known not just for their detail, but their presence.

Some bring fortune. Some bring love. Some bring peace after years of restlessness.

He does not sign his name.

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Because “the piece is not about me,” he says. “It’s about the person who needs it.”

Lhakpa is just one of many woodcarvers in the Himalayas.

But through his hands, forgotten forests find voice again.