Yang Dingyi was born in Taiwan in 1958, and from the very beginning, there was something extraordinary about him. He arrived a full month and a half late. By then, the placenta had already calcified. Yet instead of a frail infant, he came into the world a robust, nearly nine-pound baby boy, with a full head of long hair — as though he had lingered inside just a little longer, gathering strength before stepping into this life.
Years later, after becoming a medical doctor himself, Yang Dingyi would reflect that his very birth was nothing short of a miracle. In such conditions, most infants would not survive — they would either be stillborn or lost shortly after birth. And yet, not only did he live — he thrived. Gifted with an extraordinary mind, he could perceive what others could neither see nor hear.
The music beyond the world
From a very young age, music would come to him in his sleep. It was not the music of this world. No instrument could reproduce it, and no ear but his could hear it. It seemed to flow from another realm altogether — a celestial harmony he later called “heavenly music.” Night after night, these melodies would fill his heart with light and quiet joy. They soothed him, softened him, and gently carried his awareness beyond the limits of the physical body.
Often, he felt as though he had left his body entirely — traveling freely in other worlds. Then morning would come. Looking at his own body, he would sometimes feel a strange distance and an almost childlike curiosity: Huh? Who is this? Is this… me? Much later in life, he realized that what he had heard closely resembled what the ancient Greek philosopher Pythagoras described as the “music of the spheres.”
Pythagoras believed that the Sun, the Moon, and the planets all emit subtle vibrations — a cosmic hum beyond human hearing, yet audible to the soul. These harmonies, he said, echo the music of the divine and bring a deep, ineffable joy. It seemed that, somehow, Yang Dingyi had been listening all along.
The radiance of living beings
Music was not the only thing he perceived. He also saw light that others couldn’t see. Every person, he noticed, carried a luminous field — a glow that shimmered in ever-changing colors. Joy looked different from anger; kindness radiated differently from fear. Over time, he began to “read” these lights. Without a word being spoken, he could sense a person’s inner world. And therein lay a quiet burden.
Because what people try to hide — their fears, their wounds, their secrets — light reveals without hesitation. So he learned to remain silent about this gift. After all, who would feel at ease around someone who could see straight through them? Probably not many children on the playground, or even adults. They’d all run away in no time! But it wasn’t just people.
Animals, too, could perceive this light — especially those in the wild. They seemed to instinctively know whether a person meant harm or kindness, and would draw near to those whose light felt gentle. Even plants, he sensed, were quietly communicating — responding to one another in ways invisible to the human eye. These things defy ordinary logic. Many would say: “That doesn’t make sense.” And yet… they simply are true.
Encounters beyond the seen
As he grew older, Yang Dingyi’s perceptions deepened. He no longer saw only light — he began to encounter beings from other dimensions, whom he called “great sages.” Among them, one presence left the deepest impression: Jesus.
When Yang Dingyi was about five years old, he had an experience that would remain with him for life. His mother was a devout Catholic who attended church faithfully every Sunday. Young Yang Dingyi would accompany her each time. While other children played outside, he found himself drawn inward — listening attentively to the priest, kneeling in quiet sincerity, praying as though he already understood something beyond his years.
One day, as he knelt before the cross, gazing at the figure of Jesus, something extraordinary happened. Jesus… moved. He blinked, as if alive. Then slowly, He opened His arms. A radiant light — golden and white — began to pour from His body. And then, impossibly, He stepped down from the altar.
Walking toward the child, He came close, looked into his eyes, and gently placed a hand upon his head. In that instant, it was as if a bolt of living light coursed through him — warm, powerful, all-encompassing. Everything around him dissolved into brilliance. His heart seemed to stop. What remained was something he had never known before: A vast, overflowing joy. A completeness beyond words. Love, from Jesus. A love that felt as though it came from the very source of existence.
In the years that followed, this experience would return again and again — waves of warmth, light, and quiet bliss, as though he were being renewed from within. A kind of inner “recharging,” he would later say — one that kept him from losing himself in the complexities of the world.
Angels and dragons
Jesus was not the only presence he encountered. He also saw angels. Many people say that each person has a guardian angel — unseen, yet always near. Yang Dingyi would say: “They are indeed real.” And, in his experience, visible. He spoke of archangels — Michael, Raphael, Gabriel — who would appear when called sincerely, their forms not always as we imagine. Some had two wings, others five, even seven. Their existence was vast, varied, and quietly magnificent.
And then… There were dragons. Yes — dragons. They appeared most often before thunderstorms, moving through the sky with a presence both powerful and elusive. Occasionally, some children could see them too. He once noted that certain infrared images of storm clouds resemble the forms he had witnessed — suggesting that perhaps these beings exist in dimensions just beyond ordinary perception. They have always existed along with humans. It’s just that we can’t see them. In sacred places — pilgrimage sites — he often sensed dragons as guardians, sometimes one or two, sometimes many. One encounter remained especially vivid.
Years later, in Sedona, Arizona — renowned for its powerful energy vortices — he saw a dragon appear in the sky on a bright June day. He casually asked the tour guide: “Do thunderstorms happen this time of year?” “No,” the guide replied. “Not until late July.” Minutes later, the sky darkened. Thunder rumbled. Rain poured down. Half-joking, Yang Dingyi said: “Maybe there’s a dragon above us… should we drive another way?” They tried. Left, right — it made no difference. The storm followed.
The driver, who had lived there for 38 years, said he had never seen anything like it. One couldn’t help but wonder… Had the dragon come because of him?
To be continued…
Translated by Katy Liu and edited by Tatiana Denning
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