Writing Peace

By Maxine Hong Kingston To write a scene, a story, or even a poetic moment of peace may not be easy to do. In the writing workshops that I share with veterans, most of the stories that come are traumatic scenes: a firefight where everybody except the writer is killed, going berserk in the vet hospital and breaking through a wall, giving orders for planes to bomb our own troops because the enemy is coming. It is easier to write about scenes like that than about moments of great joy because the habit energy of our culture tells us that the excitement of violence is more dramatic. Often people say, "Were you excited?" or, "That was really exciting!" We are addicted to excitement more than to calmness, ease, and peace. Violence, conflict, and excitement are what draw us to the movies, television programs, and books we choose. In fact, the whole point of the form of a novel is to lead to conflict and then resolution.

It is very easy to look over our lives and think of all the crises we have had. We think of those as times of growth. But what if you stopped and asked yourself, "When have I been happy?" It could be a childhood memory, but it would be wonderful if you had a happy moment yesterday, because that means that you are experiencing joy and delight now.

Please write a scene of joy. Find a quiet spot, breathe, and review your life. Think about a wonderful moment that has happened to you or that you have caused to happen in this world, a scene of delight, love, hope, or gratitude. When you put a great moment of joy into a story or poem, that joy is passed on to the reader who learns how to have that feeling through what is written. When we write our scenes of happiness and joy, we could be beginning a new kind of literature and changing the consciousness of what great art is.


The words "love," "joy," "delight," and "beauty" are abstractions. You need to write in a way that makes this moment very concrete. Peace, joy, and delight take place in our physical body as physical sensations. When you think of this happy moment, can you remember how your body felt? Where did the joy take place? In your stomach? In your chest? Sometimes I feel as though there is sunlight in my body, and I feel rays of light coming out of my ch.est. I also feel joy and agony in my hands. You are the physical embodiment of those feelings. You feel them in all parts of your body. So when you describe these feelings, remember to describe the way your body felt.

This joy and happiness is not just in your body, it also happens in a place. Write about what is inside of you, and then also write about what is in your surroundings that gives you those feelings.

A scene of joy takes place in sequential and continuous time. When you write a scene, write about a series of moments. Don't skip forward or skip backward, just stay in that scene until you have described everything that contributed to the atmosphere. Use the senses of your body to see if your description is full and complete. Of all our sense organs, our eyes let in the most of the outside world. What does joy look like? Write down all the visual images that contributed to those wonderful feelings . What does peace smell like? What does it sound like? If there were people who contributed to the happiness, what did they talk about? What did you say that made everybody so happy? What tone of voice did they use? What does happiness feel like? There are times when the skin feels different, depending on what feelings and thoughts we're having. What does joy taste like? As you look through your scene, check it for all of these senses. These are ways that we perceive and interact with the real world.

Story is cause and effect. As you write, think about what causes this feeling. Sometimes we have a flash of great happiness or a vision that seems to come out of nowhere, . but there is a cause for our happiness. Keep looking at what caused what, and keep describing what happened.

Don't miss a moment of peace just because it is surrounded by unhappy moments. You may be able to find a diamond or a light of joy in the middle of a very traumatic moment in your life. My husband and I spend summers at the Grand Canyon and live with firefighters who often talk about being surrounded by fire. I know one young man who felt that there is a place of calm and peace even in the middle of a firestorm. It might have been inside of him or it might have been out there, but he was able to sit in the middle of the fire and write a poem.

One of the veterans in our writing group, Mike Wong, was a deserter during the war in Vietnam. He went to Canada and met American, Canadian, and Vietnamese draft resisters and evaders. Mike wrote a wonderful scene about a peace demonstration with his friends that turned into a sit-in in the middle of the street. These young men were risking deportation, arrest, and being put back in the army and shipped to Vietnam, but they sat in the middle of the street anyway. Suddenly, there was a moment of peace as the crowds went around them. In writing that scene, Mike described everything- the feel of the concrete street they were sitting on, the noise of the crowd, the excitement of the mounted policemen on their horses, the people shouting, "Take the street!" He wrote about the peacefulness and the great joy of things not happening-they were not arrested, they were not run down, they were not beaten up by the police-much like Thich Nhat Hanh's reminder to appreciate a non-toothache. Mike had the ability to show a great moment of peace right in the middle of violence and fear.

Many psychotherapists have believed that people need to go deeply into their traumas and wounds and talk about them. But lately, there has been some thought that it might be better to strengthen the positive, joyful aspects of life. I learned about this in my hometown of Stockton, California. Several years ago, a man came into a schoolyard with a machine gun and killed many Southeast Asian children. Afterward, therapists from all over the state came to help the children. The therapists wanted the children to talk about the man with the gun, about who was killed next to them, and so on. But the Vietnamese community in Stockton said they had their own way of handling it. They had Sangha meetings, meditations, tea ceremonies, and games. They constantly had joyful practices with the children.

Last Thanksgiving at Plum Village, Thich Nhat Hanh said to several of us, "Let go of your suffering. Don't be attached to the suffering." But we also remembered him saying at another time, "Stick to your suffering." I have come to the conclusion that there is no contradiction in these statements. In our writing and in our contemplation, we do both. There are times when we attach to our suffering, we feel it, we contemplate it, we breathe it, we hold it, we write about it, and we find words for it. We almost instinctively do that. But the idea of letting go of suffering is a really new thought. Instead of coming directly at that suffering, we can contemplate our joy. When we do this, peace and joy become solid and strong and suffering takes care of itself. Human joy is an advanced stage of our evolution.

Maxine Hong Kingston, winner of the National Book Award, is author of The Woman Warrior, China Men, Hawaii One Summer, and Tripmaster Monkey. She leads meditation and writing workshops for veterans of war.

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Counting the Ways

By Therese Fitzgerald How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. -"Sonnets from the Portuguese" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

For the past 12 years, it has been the joy and challenge of the Community of Mindful Living to organize Thay's gatherings in the U.S. During these years, much has unfo lded marvelously. Those who attended Thay's 1987 retreat in New York City can remember doing walking meditation in the subway station and in Central Park with only 47 participants. Practicing meditation with children was a first ever for many of us. Bringing environmentalists, helping professional s, and veterans together with meditators widened our perspective on engaged Buddhism in vivid, transformative ways. The call by Thay to see the "face of the American Buddha" in 1988 has been answered, in part. How fortunate we have been to learn from direct contact with Thay and Sister Chan Khong, and the "interdenominational floating Sangha."

I would like to acknowledge many of the individuals who have been instrumental in helping cultivate the ground of mindfulness practice in the U.S. Carole Melkonian, Wendy Johnson, Ellen Peskin, Andrew Weiss, Richard Brady, Mjtchell Ratner, Michel Colville, Lyn Fine, Rowan Conrad, Marylee Revels, Leslie Rawls, Jerry Braza, and Monica Hoyt have been present for people, taking care of tea meditations, Dharma di scussions, and evening sessions, ananging flowers, and preparing meditation halls-all clear efforts to practice mindfulness as a supportive Sangha of coworkers. These friends and others, such as Anh-Huong Nguyen, Joan Halifax, Caitriona Reed, Michele Benzamin, Eileen Kiera, and Jack Lawlor have been our Sangha builders and caretakers. Retreat regi strars everywhere have shined the Sangha jewel. Sister Annabel in 1991 and Sister Jina in 1993 and 1995 won our affection, and many of us now have special places in our hearts for the monks and nuns who have accompanied Thay and beautifully modelled mindfulness. David Dimmack, Wendy, Betsy Rose, Mobi Phillips, Mark Vette, and Wavy Gravy have shown us how to mindfully, heartily engage with our children. Claude Thomas, Maxine Hong Kingston, Dan Thompson, Ted Sexauer, and Lyn Fine have made the space safe for the veterans to "shine the light at the tip of the candle." And I wish to acknowledge our debt of gratitude for Thay Tinh Tu and Kim Son Monastery and the many other Vietnamese friends who have hosted and nourished Thay so well over these past twelve years-My Hanh Pham, Kim Chi Nguyen, Bich and Chi Nguyen, Anh-Huong and Thu Nguyen, Quan Trung Nguyen, and Mai, Khai, and Lin from La Boi Press.


I would also like to extend gratitude and appreciation for my beloved husband and coworker, Arnie Kotler, who has always been completely available and enthusiastic about every aspect of each event every single time--whether making initial and continuing contact with the sponsoring organizations, arranging for venues and publicity, providing the text of fliers, helping organize Dharma discussions or taking care of the meditation hall, being a resource about the books, or being attentive to the thousands of individuals who needed assistance along the way. Arnie's joy and expertise at "being there" are what make communities sing with soulful delight and shared understanding.

Sounds True, Back Country Productions, and Conference Recording Service have lovingly provided tapes for people to "unpack" the retreats over time with others. It has also been a great pleasure to work closely with Omega Institute, Spirit Rock Meditation Center, the Buddhist Peace Fellowship, the New York, D.C., Los Angeles, and Boston Mindfulness Communities, and all of the other hosts and cosponsors. We have come to know and love each other in the process of developing increasingly complex programs for more and more people. At the retreats in Santa Barbara and Omega this past Fall and at the lectures and days of practice in southern California and on the East Coast, I felt immense joy being part of the great teams assembled to do the invisible work of supporting the gatherings with Thay.

The experience of seeing 1,200 people move as a family of practice in the dining areas or in the meditation hall in Santa Barbara, watching the team at Omega accommodate hundreds of people for private practice instruction, seeing the Omega staff provide a service before we even knew we needed it, walking through the book table area at events and feeling the presence of the Parallax Press staff and other Sangha members there answering questions and providing direction for people's continuation of practice, and so on, has solidified my sense of the maturation of the wide Sangha as a vehicle for mindful living in American society.

Now Thay has asked the monks and nuns of Plum Village and Maple Forest Monastery to take more responsibility for the practice and for retreat organization in this country, and we look forward to working closely with them.

Therese Fitzgerald, True Light, is a Dharma teacher in Berkeley, California.

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Fierce Bodhisattvas

By Daryne Rockett mb66-Fierce1

If you ask my ninety-six-year-old grandfather about his participation in World War II, he might tell you that he was disqualified from service because of his flat feet. His wife, Laura Blackwood, is another story. Fit enough for the typing pool, my grandmother served as a WAVE (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service) in the United States Navy during the war. She died two summers ago. My grandfather will tell you that he gave the Navy the “best years of my wife.”

If you ask my dad about his participation in the Vietnam War, he might tell you that he would rather not discuss it. It was thirty-five years after his service when I learned he had been awarded a Purple Heart, because he does not believe that he should be in the same company as those who lost a limb or lost their life in that war. He served in the “brown water” Navy (a term used for a Naval force carrying out military operations in a river) in Vietnam. The very little information that I have about my dad’s service I learned from my mother. I am respectful of his preference for privacy. His is not my story to tell.

If you ask my first husband about his service in several modern wars, there will be very little that he is able to say. He was a pilot of the U-2 Reconnaissance Aircraft, and most of what he did prior to his retirement, and in the years since as a contractor, is highly classified. He and I met in South Korea during my service in the Air Force. The nation was still legally at war with its neighbor to the north, functioning under a cease-fire since 1953. We were there together in 1994, on the first of many occasions that North Korea announced it would no longer abide by the armistice agreement. I was a Korean linguist, and there is very little that I am permitted to say about my service in the Air Intelligence Agency or the Air Force Information Warfare Center. We both might say that we have lost a number of close friends in U-2 crashes.

If you ask my clients about their service in World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Grenada, Kuwait, Bosnia, Iraq, or Afghanistan, they may tell you painful stories of loss. They may describe horrible memories from their service––memories of suffering, shame, or death. They might tell you about the losses of relationships, connection, and peace of mind that result from fighting. The losses that bring them to our Vet Center are the ones that hurt the deepest. What many of them will say is that they wish that the military, which taught them so effectively how to fight, had also trained them how not to fight. I had been longing for something similar when I first became familiar with Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching.

I had learned from my father how to fight to win, because he loved me and wanted me to be safe and successful. There was much arguing in my home as I was growing up, and the seeds of aggression were watered. During my military service I learned many wonderful skills, including how to speak Korean, but I was also taught with fear and intimidation, and I was encouraged to see a separation between “us” and “them.” The seeds of disconnection and enmity were watered. By the time I began my studies as a clinical social worker at the age of thirty-four, there was a wake of angry tirades and broken relationships behind me. A beginning meditation class introduced me to the practice of mindfulness, and my studies told me to find a teacher and a community of practice.

It Is Not in Our Nature to Fight

Without being trained, our first impulse is to freeze when we perceive ourselves to be in danger. Something in the most primitive part of our brain knows that predators see their prey as movement against a background. This is very likely the reason that a deer will freeze in the road as a car speeds toward it. Believing the car to be a predator, the deer stays still to avoid being seen, sometimes until it is too late. The second option that we will choose when in peril is to flee. That same ancient part of our brain understands that when we are no longer invisible to the predator, we should hurry away in order to avoid harm. Our last choice is to fight, and without training we will naturally avoid aggression because it is very risky. Our survival instincts tell us that if we stay to fight and sustain even a minor injury, there exists a very real possibility of infection, sepsis, and death.

So, in order to overcome our nonviolent nature and survival instincts, the military has developed very specific training techniques for fighting and surviving in a war. For instance, because weapons have been developed to kill, sicken, or incapacitate people with airborne chemicals, military members are trained to be able to retrieve a gas mask from its carrying pouch, place it over the head, clear it, and seal it completely to the edge of the face within nine seconds. This is not a process that we innately know how to do. It must be practiced repeatedly and under duress in order to be learned in such a way that the gas mask will be properly used even if the soldier is waking from a deep sleep, or disoriented by an explosion, or otherwise in a situation where clear reasoning is less likely to occur.

One of the methods used to teach these military skills is called an “Immediate Action Drill.” In the case of the gas mask, soldiers are taught how to use the equipment, and then the process is repeated a number of times in the classroom. Once it has been practiced formally in this way, trainees are warned to be ready for unexpected tests of their skill with the gas mask. At random times, a drill instructor will enter a room and yell, “Gas! Gas! Gas!” If the trainee does not don the mask within nine seconds, he or she is punished. Fear becomes a very compelling motivator to learn. These Immediate Action Drills are used to teach soldiers how to throw a grenade, fire guns, launch mortars, and bayonet an enemy.

In my own life and in my social work practice with war veterans, I sought a way to undo my conditioning to fight. I found guidance from Thich Nhat Hanh on retreats, in his books, and through my home Sangha, Stillwater Sangha in Maine. I found other teachers who were integrating mindfulness practice with psychotherapy, and I attended workshops and seminars and read more books. I received training in Non-Violent Communication from Peggy Smith, a member of the Order of Interbeing. And I practiced. I discovered that the best of my social work practice occurred when it was also a mindfulness practice.

A mindfulness bell is a kind of immediate action drill. First, in our formal sitting meditation, we learn to return to the present moment and bring awareness to what we are experiencing right now. Then, we have the informal practice of stopping and spending time with the breath in the present moment whenever a bell rings. In the treatment groups that I facilitate for post-traumatic stress disorder, we practice mindfulness of the breath formally in periods of sitting meditation. Then, I set a timer with random bells that sound during the ninety-minute group session. Regardless of where the discussion is going, when the bell sounds, we all stop for two mindful breaths. Only now, instead of being motivated by fear of punishment, we are guided by a desire to live freely in the present moment.

Only This Breath Now

Post-traumatic stress disorder is driven by experiences from the past imposing on the here and now, often triggering anxiety about how things might go badly in the future. In our groups, we practice mindfulness of the breath as a way to return from painful,

unplanned trips into the past or future and resume present moment awareness. I cannot breathe a breath in the future or re-breathe a breath from the past. I may only breathe this breath now.

In my practice with my clients, if a veteran comes in feeling angry and argumentative, I may be reminded of my father’s anger and get caught up in my habit of debating. And when this happens, I am no longer able to be compassionate with my client because I am no longer present. I am anticipating what my client will say next and how to counter the argument. After a decade of practice, I am usually able to notice when this habit energy is rising and stop to take a breath. I remind myself that this veteran is in pain and trusts me enough to let me see that she or he is hurting. When I am once again aware, I am able to be compassionate again, and deeply listen in a way that helps to relieve that veteran’s suffering. Because I am no longer fighting an old battle with my father, over and over again, I am also able to heal old hurts and hold both myself and my father with care and gentleness. When this happens, I think of Thay’s teaching about holding your anger like a baby and taking care of it.

My clients are happy to have a new kind of boot camp, where they learn skills to reverse the military’s programming to fight. We practice sitting, eating, breathing, and walking mindfully. We practice mindful speaking and deep listening. We practice empathy and courageous communication (another term for Non-Violent Communication). Over the past decade, as my mindfulness practice has deepened, my therapy practice has also deepened.

“I am aware that I owe so much to my parents, teachers, friends, and all beings. I vow to be worthy of their trust, to practice wholeheartedly, so that understanding and compassion will flower, helping living beings be free from their suffering.” These words from the Refuge Chant are a loving map, reminding me to recognize the fierce bodhisattvas who courageously put down their weapons and remove their armor in my presence. Though we never call it the Dharma in our sessions, it is undoubtedly the way of joy and freedom from suffering, and I am grateful for my many beautiful teachers.

mb66-Fierce2Daryne Rockett, Blossoming Music of the Heart, plays the harp and practices with Stillwater Sangha in Orono, Maine. She is a clinical social worker at the Bangor Vet Center, where she has enjoyed working with veterans and their families for nearly ten years.

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Anchored in Awareness

Transforming Wounds of War

By Alexa Singer-Telles


Over the last several years, I have been working on facing deep-seated fear from my historical and cultural roots. My Jewish roots hold many stories of persecution, but until recently, I didn’t feel they affected me personally. Through the deep looking of meditation and Touching the Earth practices, I realized what my father brought home from his WWII military experience in Germany—fear and a silent anger at G-d that penetrated my sense of being Jewish. I was also changed by a powerful conversation with a loving German woman who spoke for her country, describing the shame and guilt she and her people still carry for what happened during the war. Our interaction opened up a river of compassion for her people and for all who silently suffer from the impact of war.

Knowing that many of us carry invisible wounds, I was moved to take action to bring attention to the unspoken, unseen wounds that veterans bring home to their families. I wanted to confront my own fears of persecution as a Jew, honor my father and his experience, and share my realization with others. As a leader in a local organization for marriage and family therapists, I organized a community-wide conference to help mental health professionals increase their understanding of the needs of returning war veterans and their families. The conference focused on the invisible wounds of war, particularly the self-imposed silence of soldiers upon their return from combat—the mental and emotional anguish of men, and now women, who have seen and done horrific things in war that are unspeakable to anyone at home.

At the conference, to give participants a way to manage intense emotions, I introduced the use of the mindfulness bell and shared some of Thay’s teachings on breathing and embracing difficult emotions. When a presenting psychologist shared how people in the military are trained to ignore the sensations and feelings of their own physical and emotional needs to focus solely on their mission, the group began to understand how veterans can be both unaware of their own bodies and hyper-vigilant to their surroundings. Family members, both wives and mothers, described the impact of combat on their loved ones and themselves—a sense of separation, fear, trauma, violence, and addiction.

The realities of war and its aftereffects on veterans and their loved ones are so painful that therapists can feel our interventions are inadequate. Our mindfulness practice of being able to stay present and offer compassion can be an anchor for ourselves and those we serve. At the conference, the bell was used as this anchor. At first, I invited the bell judiciously, but through the day participants began to request the bell to be rung in response to particularly powerful stories that were impacting their hearts and minds. One therapist shared, “Having the opportunity to stop and breathe gave me the capacity to stay present with the suffering described by the speakers. I was surprised I didn’t feel exhausted at the end of the day.”

This day gave tribute and voice to the silent suffering of my father and all veterans, increased therapists’ awareness of what might not be spoken but can be felt in working with veterans, and offered the practice of mindfulness and the bell as ways to sit with the strong emotions associated with war. The conference participants reported a deepening of their understanding of the invisibility and challenges of the wounds of war, increased their capacity for compassionate listening, and vocalized a willingness to reach out to work with veterans and their families.

After the conference, I shared with my dad how meditation, creative art, and Sangha support had helped me to work through my emotions and to understand how his history and my religious fears lived inside of me. I shared how, through practice, I was able to come to compassion and action. At ninety years of age, he understood and expressed his happiness and gratitude for seeing his unexpressed anger transformed in me, his seed bearing good fruit. I see that my healing is his healing as well.

mb66-Anchor2Alexa Singer-Telles, True Silent Action, co-founded the River Oak Sangha in Redding, California, in 1991 and was ordained as an OI member in 2004. She is a licensed marriage and family therapist, offering the practices of mindfulness and the expressive arts to deepen one’s experience and enliven the creative process.

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Basket by Basket

By Ron Landsel mb66-Basket1

It has been said that bomb craters in post-American-War Vietnam were not always filled in by gathering earth from outside the craters, but by the painstaking work of loosening up the densely compacted soil from within the crater itself, basket by basket. Heard years ago, this story has been a light for my path.

I attended my first retreat with Thich Nhat Hanh in 1997, at Omega Institute in upstate New York, in a veterans group gathered in a little building called Cabin by the Field––a safe haven apart from the several hundred general retreatants. In tears and joy, our group was gently supported by Lyn Fine and Roberta Wall, and for the first time since my combat experiences in Vietnam, I sat and shared with several Vietnamese monastics, including Sister Chan Khong––veterans of our same war. Their sharing offered first-time glimpses of interbeing and deep listening. Doors to my heart were opened to understand my own suffering as only a part of the suffering of many. For the first time, I felt the courage within me to share openly with soldiers, spouses, children, and protesters suffering from the American War in Vietnam. Now, some seventeen years after our wonderful new beginning together, my volition continues to transform my suffering enough––basket by basket––in order to try to help others who suffer the wounds of war.

Thay heartens veterans to understand that we are the light at the tip of the candle, illuminating the way for the whole nation. He encourages us to achieve awareness, transformation, understanding, and peace, to be able to break our silent suffering and share with all of society the roots and the legacies of war. May veterans, youth, parents, educators, and governments join in breaking this long silence of wars and lend voice to our prayerful chant, “May there be no place at war.”

Ron Landsel, True West Garden, served in Vietnam in 1968-69 as a radio operator with 1st Marine Reconnaissance Battalion. He lives and practices in Oceanside, California, with his wife, Margaret, and the sisters and brothers of the Rising Tide Sangha.

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The Path of Tears

By Kate Evans mb66-ThePath1

For years now I have seen in the Mindfulness Bell fruits of work with prisoners. I have longed to hear of peoples’ work in mental hospitals and hostels. I have longed to tell my story of healing from years of abuse, and how Thay’s teachings have helped. In the last issue, two people wrote bravely and movingly of healing from and living with psychological problems in conjunction with the teachings. It was excellent to see this included. However, there is another way for many seriously damaged people to heal, with psychotherapy and the teachings and practices.


When I was preparing to visit Plum Village, my therapist asked, “What will you do in the meditation sessions?” because I could not meditate, but did practice psychological healing work. She suggested I practice my healing work in the sessions. After I arrived at Plum Village, I discussed this with Sister Chan Khong.

I told her, “I am healing from multiple personality, or dissociative identity, disorder. In my mind and consciousness are many, many personalities. They are from my childhood and youth, when each trauma was so severe it became detached from my conscious memory. These traumatic memories stayed bottled up as bits of raw emotion, which surface when triggered, together with my personality at that age. I heal by letting them surface, one by one, sharing their painful memories and welcoming them into a shared  consciousness.

“Because I am lots of pieces that have not all yet come together, ordinary meditation is hard for me. Please can I devote the meditation sessions to my healing work?”

To my delight, Sister Chan Khong said it made complete sense to do this. So during my visits to Plum Village, I spent the lovely meditation and other meditative times loving and nurturing my inner personalities, letting them surface their pain until they were able to let it go. In the years since then, practicing healing work for many hours a day, I have felt part of a wider Sangha.

I have also been helped by two other Plum Village practices. One I learned when Thay came to London last year and taught a huge, packed concert hall the first eight breathing practices of Buddha. The second of these was to breathe in all the way in, and breathe out all the way out. In a very challenging time this was a lifesaver. It was physical, easy enough for all my parts to do, especially the small inner children. It transformed panic into energy.

The other practice was Touching the Earth––getting in touch with ancestors. My ancestors were not good people. To heal, I had had to sever contact with my family of origin, and I had not wanted to get at all in touch with ancestors. When I heard of Thay’s Prayer Ceremonies in Vietnam to heal the wounds of the terrible war, I wondered if I could do an Atonement Prayer Ceremony for my ancestors. I was encouraged in this by the main teacher in a US practice centre. So I wrote prayers and reflections and took spiritual writings from many religions as well as two of Thay’s poems, and, with my therapist, I did an Atonement Ceremony for the misdeeds of my ancestors.

This completely changed my life. Suddenly, I had ancestors, I came from somewhere. Soon afterwards, I was able to look at childhood photos I had previously found too upsetting. Understanding flooded me as I looked at some very odd family photos and realised that my father and grandfather had been put in a terrible situation. With this understanding came the possibility of forgiveness. And with it came a fuller understanding of evil as sickness, with a cause and cure.

Although my healing during these past twelve years has been a “path of tears,” it has been quite different from any other approaches to the chronic psychological pain from my past. Drugs can be terrible as well as helpful, and Cognitive Behaviour Therapy and other therapies I tried were a continual battle. These years of inner healing based on memory work have been radiant and transformative––a healing into love, deeper friendship, unstressed creativity, and so much more. I want to share with the wider Sangha the effectiveness of the psychotherapeutic remembering approach to the dissociation that lies behind so many severe psychological problems suffered by many individuals.*

At present, only some lucky people can afford this therapy, and even then it can mean sacrificing almost everything else. But the more it becomes known, the more likely it is to gain acceptance from health insurance companies and become part of standard health services. It also seems to parallel Thay’s teachings––only towards a group of consciousnesses that slowly merge into the more usual one.

I offer this to the Sangha.

Kate Evans is a writer for children and adults, living in London. Her Sangha is her therapist, her healing work, her breathing practice, and daily listening to the CD of Plum Village chanting.

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Thich Nhat Hanh Receives Bridge of Peace Award

Five peacemakers honored at ceremony in Los Angeles By Peggy Rowe


The monks and nuns of Deer Park Monastery invited the bell to begin the celebration and offered the Five Contemplations for the banquet. The Bridge of Peace Award, a crystal globe on a crystal stand, was presented to Thay by Soto Zen priest Claude Anshin Thomas. Anshin shared how the Sangha and other veterans enabled him to travel to Plum Village where he experienced a time of profound healing and transformation. The award was accepted by the monastics of Deer Park, who read a statement from Thay: “I am very grateful and very touched to receive this award. We are at a critical point of history in the world. It is heartening to have so many people together to practice peace. Peace is available in every step.” Then they sang Thay’s poem “Recommendation,” accompanied by guitar.

Awards also went to Le Ly Hayslip, Marla Ruzicka, Dr. Waqar Al-Kubaisy, and Marshall Rosenberg. What the five remarkable honorees share is compassion for others, the courage to tell the truth, and the gift of unconditional love. All five took action to better the lives of others and to promote peace in the twenty-first century.

Le Ly Hayslip, a Woman of Ordinary Dreams

Le Ly left Vietnam when she was 13 years old. She describes herself as a “woman of ordinary dreams,” whose only life dream was to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. In 1985 she began her efforts to visit her homeland, but there were no diplomatic relations with Vietnam. She says, “I had a dream in my spirit to see us reunited again as people, if only I could break down the walls of fear and mistrust that divided us. I dreamed that I, a housewife with a third-grade education, could transform the hatred of war into a bridge of peace for all people.”

So Le Ly became a bridge builder. She received permission to travel to Vietnam in 1986, in 1987 she founded the East Meets West Foundation, and built schools, clinics, hospitals in Vietnam along with many other works to foster peace and reconciliation between the US and Vietnam. In 1999, she founded the Global Village Foundation. Her life is chronicled in the Oliver Stone film Heaven and Earth.


A Posthumous Tribute to Marla Ruzicka

After leading a Global Exchange Reality Tour in opposition to the war in Afghanistan, Marla stayed behind to help. She arrived in Kabul only a few days after the Taliban was removed. The day after Saddam’s statue fell, Marla arrived in Iraq where she went door to door tallying the loss and injury of human life and seeing how she could serve. Did you know that in the twentieth century, ninety percent of the casualties of war were soldiers? Did you know that in the twenty-first century, ninety percent of the casualties of war are civilians? So Marla started counting.

In 2003, Marla formed the Campaign for Innocent Victims in Conflict (CIVIC). On April 16, 2005 Marla was killed in a suicide bomb attack in Baghdad on her way to visit an injured child. She was a lovely twenty-eight-year-old woman with an infectious laugh and warm smile. Before her death, she successfully lobbied the

U.S. government to provide medical and other assistance to Afghan and Iraqi families. To date, 25 million dollars have been appropriated and Marla’s work continues through CIVIC Worldwide.


The Courage of Dr. Waqar Al-Kubaisy

A woman with a beautiful smile presented herself to me with a firm handshake. “Thank you for your presence of peace,” she said. I found out later that she was the Iraqi physician receiving the Bridge of Peace award for courage. In her acceptance speech she talked about the lives being lost; she described her relentless work to help all people by bringing medical services and supplies to where they are needed. She has had many family members killed, including six of her cousins who were bombed in a car. Most recently, in the dead of night, her husband was kidnapped; he was tortured for twenty-six days and suffered extreme injuries for which he is receiving medical care. She spoke of the pointlessness of war and its tragic impact in her homeland.

Pete Peterson, from POW to Ambassador

In 1966, U.S. Air Force Captain Pete Peterson was shot down over North Vietnam. He spent over six years in the infamous Hanoi Hilton as a prisoner of war. On his return, he placed his attention on reconciliation and peace. “After the war I had two choices,” he said. “I could go home angry, disenchanted, depressed… or I could get on with my life. I woke up one morning and realized I had no control over yesterday. But I had full control over and responsibility for tomorrow.” After serving as a member of the U.S. Congress, Pete was appointed by President Clinton as ambassador to Vietnam, a post he held until 2001. He set about to reopen diplomatic and economic ties between the U.S. and Vietnam. Today hundreds of American companies have offices and factories in Vietnam. In 1998 he married Vi Le at the Hanoi Cathedral just a few blocks from the Hanoi Hilton. He continues to further ties between the two nations through his foundation, The Alliance for Safe Children, Vietnam.


To Be a Bridge of Peace

Marshall Rosenberg, renowned developer of a method of conflict resolution called Nonviolent Communication (NVC), was there to receive the Nonviolence award. “What I want in my life is compassion, a flow between myself and others based on a mutual giving from the heart,” he said, and shared stories from his experiences of offering NVC around the world.

Larry Ward and I sat with Ron Kovic in the VIP room. Ron was the 2005 recipient of the Bridge of Peace award, and he was portrayed by Tom Cruise in the Oliver Stone film Born on the Fourth of July. Ron has twinkling eyes and infectious positive energy. He wheeled his chair to me and held my hand, commenting on my peaceful energy. I, in turn, asked him his secret. “Life is precious,” he said. “I woke up in the hospital in Vietnam with part of my body gone, and in incredible pain and deep despair. But I should have been dead. This is a miracle, that I am alive. I get my energy from people and from life. I love people. I am alive. What a miracle!”

This evening was a wake-up call for me. I am grateful to have been touched by these people, to have the opportunity to be called into a bigger story. What is my dream for peace? How can I be a bridge of peace? How can I grow my heart larger for this world?

Peggy Rowe, True Original Source, is a Dharma Teacher and gourd artist practicing with the Bright Path Sangha in Asheville, North Carolina.

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The Long Walk from War to Peace

By Larry Calloway mb49-TheLong1

Thich Nhat Hanh’s return to Vietnam in May for several retreats followed by a United Nations conference was a triumph for his “engaged Buddhism.” Not only was his global influence evident at the conference, but he and four hundred retreat participants (most of us Westerners) were warmly received on a dramatic slow walk in the center of Hanoi.

Triumph perhaps is too military a term for the vindication of an eighty-two-year-old monk who teaches “peace is every step,” but his young life was defined by war, as was his ancient nation. Not until 2005 was he free to return after thirty-nine years — exiled first by the anti-communists, then by the communists.

Sponsoring this year’s UN Vesak Conference was a significant move for the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, which has been criticized for religious repression but is encouraging tourism and the recovery of ancient cultural traditions. The conference at Hanoi’s proud new National Convention Center included formal workshops on a variety of issues addressed by Thich Nhat Hanh and his monastic representatives. But because the world continues to suffer from “the scourge of war,” and perhaps because the conference was for the first time in Vietnam, the issues of war, conflict, and healing were foremost.

In his opening address, Phra Dharmakosajarn, one of the most prominent monks in Thailand, made the connection between world peace and Buddhism saying, “No doubt meditation and moral principles contribute to peace, since war begins in the minds of men.” Or, as Thich Nhat Hanh put it in his keynote address, “The roots of war and conflict are in us!”

Thay proposed “the idea of engagement,” he told us, in his first published article in 1954. It was “a time of great confusion” in Vietnam. (The French colonialists, defeated at Dien Bien Phu, were exiting and the Americans, covert sponsors of the Ngo Dinh Diem regime, were entering.) As war formed in the minds of McNamara, Rusk, Bundy, the joint chiefs, the Kremlin, Mao, and others, the Vietnam Buddhists countered, in so many words: Leave Vietnam alone!

Perhaps because this was Vietnam, Thay’s Dharma talks in the eight-day retreat dwelt on the American war, as it is known there. The people of the small nation were

caught between foreign ideologies. “Everyone was willing to die for ideologies,” he said, but Buddhism teaches freedom from ideology. The fighting was with ideas and weapons from the outside. “How can you fight such a war? Brother against brother?”

In the early sixties Thay went often to the United States, where he would eventually study at Princeton, lecture at Cornell and teach at Columbia. He was a powerful multilingual anti-war speaker. But sometimes there was a problem. At a huge anti-war rally in 1966 a young man suddenly yelled, “Why are you here? You should be in Vietnam fighting the American imperialists!” In other words, Thay said, the man wanted him to fight, to kill Americans. He answered, “Well, I thought the root of the war was here — in Washington — and that’s why I have come.”

No Ordinary Protester

In Hanoi I met Paul Davis, who had a similar thought at an anti-war march in New York in the sixties. People started yelling, “Ho Chi Minh, Ho Chi Minh, you’re the one who’s gonna win.” That was never the point.

Paul was no ordinary protester. He had joined the United States Marines two weeks after his high school graduation in rural Ohio and landed at Da Nang in 1965, when the U.S. under President Johnson began direct combat operations. Davis was wounded in 1966, and while recovering in the U.S. appeared as a Marine on a panel at a college. Someone asked him if the Vietnamese wanted us there. He spun out a long response, and his interlocutor said, “You have not answered the question.” In a Zen-like, koan-like moment, Paul’s whole mental being suddenly dissolved. He held back tears. Somehow his life had changed forever.

More than ten years ago, after his son died in a car crash, Paul began attending Thich Nhat Hanh retreats. He now counsels Iraq war veterans and their families. In 2003, Paul obtained his Marine casualty report and followed the coordinates to the point where he was wounded. He recognized the distant horizon that he saw as he waited for evacuation. This was on Marble Mountain, near Da Nang, named for a pure white quarry. In the village below, dozens of shops now sell sculptures to tourists.

The War Remembered

The first morning in Hanoi I went walking around the lake (not the one John McCain dropped into) near the big government-built Kim Lien hotel that Plum Village had booked. I took photos of people walking, fishing, or just sitting by the pretty lake. There were young lovers. I was generally ignored except that some children were delighted to see their digital pictures and some old men stared at me coldly.

Later I told my discussion group that I felt the Vietnamese had forgotten the war, had moved on. Two Americans disagreed. But an expatriate Vietnamese man said the Vietnamese had not forgotten but they were used to war. The Americans were just another invader in a long history of warfare to which the nation is inured. This is a sentiment often heard in Vietnam.

One day I went to the National Fine Arts Museum and saw the artistic record of the war. There were a dozen impressions of Viet Cong guerrillas set in villages with women and often children looking on. The pictures carried a mood of grim determination and suffering. Americans were depicted as large and authoritative, including a captive pilot who was being beaten.

Hanoi also has a war museum that displays wreckage of American planes shot down, although it is not promoted for tourists. Near Saigon, however, a park called the Cu Chi Tunnels is on the tourist circuit. Here you can crawl forty feet in a dark, claustrophobic representation of the hundred miles of tunnels from which the Viet Cong attacked and vanished, unaffected by constant B52 bombardment and undiscovered by ground patrols. There are displays with mannequins representing the ingenious tricks of camouflage and cruel demonstrations of pitfalls and traps made from sharpened bamboo.

Once, our bus went through a crowded slum near the center of Hanoi and a Vietnamese woman who worked as a tour guide said, “I hate this neighborhood. It was destroyed in the Christmas bombing. There is a monument here to the dead.” The NixonKissinger bombing of Hanoi and Haiphong from December 18 to 30, 1972 was described by the Washington Post as “the most savage and senseless act of war ever visited ... by one sovereign people over another.” Senate Leader Mike Mansfield called it “a stone age tactic.” Le Duc Tho, the North Vietnamese negotiator at the Paris peace talks, called it “barbarous and inhumane.” It was the last desperate U.S. air offensive in a war that had already been lost. Sixteen of the one hundred B-52s were shot down. The Paris Peace Accords would be signed January 27, 1973.

Morning at the Lake

Early one morning during the retreat, we boarded buses and took a walk along the shore of the central lake, Hoan Kiem, in downtown Hanoi. People were already out doing their morning jogging and aerobics. We left the buses and gathered at the tall statue of Ly Thai To, who moved the capital to Hanoi. There were the four hundred of us in gray robes, plus thirty or so monks and nuns in brown robes with conical reed hats. We walked along the old section of Hanoi and past the historic water puppet theater and turned around near the rock pile monument with the Chinese character for heaven and passed the red bow bridge that goes to an island shrine.

Funny thing, I thought. No police. No wise guys making nervous comments. No angry motorcycle drivers urging our slow-walking meditative line to clear an intersection. Just people watching, curious. Then, about half way through the demonstration, I noticed some of them were lining up along our way. And they were standing respectfully with their palms together at their hearts.

Back at the foot of Ly Thai To sat Thich Nhat Hanh, diminutive and smiling. Many of us sat around him, as if waiting for a lesson. Without comment, he took in the air and the morning sun and the trees and the birds and the lake, which was at our backs. He suggested that we all turn around, that the view was much better that way. He smiled. He was home.

Larry Calloway lives in the high mountains near Crestone, Colorado. A retired journalist, he recently received a Master’s degree in Eastern classics from St. John’s College of Santa Fe.

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Letter from the Editor

mb53-LetterFromEditorDear Thay, dear Sangha, It is with deep gratitude that I write this letter to you. Gratitude for the honor of editing this much-loved magazine; gratitude for every writer, artist, volunteer, and supporter who brought this issue to life; gratitude for your hands holding these pages. I’m indebted to Sister Annabel, the senior editor, for her discerning wisdom; to each prior editor whose mindful steps created a path to follow; and to Janelle Combelic, whose patient assistance was a clear and guiding light.

Our local Sangha, the Heart Sangha in Santa Cruz, California, recently hosted a weekend retreat, led by Dharma Teacher Wendy Johnson and writer Maxine Hong Kingston. One of the themes was “moving from war to gratitude.” Maxine told us about a group of young soldiers who returned from Iraq and Afghanistan and formed a writers’ group. “They had faith that writing would bring them home,” she explained. She showed us a small book of poetry with a rough, scratchy cover, which the veterans had created. They’d cut up and boiled their uniforms and used the remains to make book covers. As a Sangha, they transformed their suffering: their war clothes became book jackets; their pain became poems.

This issue offers powerful stories about the transformation of suffering into love. Heartfelt stories in “Death and Dying” show us how mindfulness, kindness, and Sangha building can nourish us through the uncertain terrain of loss. “Mindful Living” includes stories about transforming busyness and distraction into mindfulness at home and at work.

“Miracle of Sangha” offers stories from the Estes Park, Colorado retreat. This retreat was just one of several in the 2009 U.S. Tour. From Massachusetts to Colorado, and California to New York, practitioners gathered by the thousands, strengthening the collective energy of mindfulness. The Estes Park retreat was unique—the largest retreat ever conducted by monastics without Thay’s physical presence, it demonstrated that each of us is a continuation of our teacher, and that many beautiful flowers can blossom when “over one thousand Thays” practice joyfully together.

“Embracing Vietnam” calls our attention to the young monastics who were forcibly removed from Bat Nha Monastery in September 2009. Dear friends, please do everything you can to support our Vietnamese sisters and brothers. Look at page 18 to find out how to help. And enjoy the essay about Maitreya Fonds, a German organization enriching children’s education in Vietnam.

Thich Nhat Hanh tells us he wouldn’t want to live in a place where there is no suffering, because there would be no compassion. The Mindfulness Trainings encourage us to spend time with beings who are suffering, “so we can understand their situation deeply and help them transform their suffering into compassion, peace, and joy.” May the stories in this issue show us ways to transform war into gratitude, suffering into peace. May they help our hearts to open and to love.


Benevolent Respect of the Heart

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