Buddhism

A Letter From Plum Village: Words of Healing During Times of Tragedy.

[blockquote source=”Brother Phap Luu,”]”Did you ever lean your face on the rough furrows of an oak’s bark, feeling its solid heartwood and tranquil vibrancy?…Or did your loneliness know only screens, with dancing figures of light at the bid of your will?”[/blockquote]

A dear friend reached out to me today – his heart overwhelmed with the sadness of recent events.

Tragedy can be so completely debilitating. We feel powerless in the face of such great emotions, as our minds search helplessly for an answer to just one simple question;

Why?

But, sometimes in our sifting through – we find only rubble.

His Holiness, the Dalai Lama once shared,

“There is a saying in Tibetan, ‘Tragedy should be utilized as a source of strength.’ No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that’s our real disaster.”

I can think of no better words to help guide us through the horrors of tragedy – a simple reminder, that in the end, it’s our hope that gets us through.

And, we? We must protect hope with all of our heart.

The following letter is shared graciously and lovingly by Thich Nhat Hanh. It was a letter written by Brother Phap Luu, a monastic at Plum Village, who grew up in Newtown, Connecticut.

It was written in the days following the Newton School Shootings, and addressed to shooter, Adam Lanza.

His heartfelt words resonate with me, still to this day. I often refer to this letter when I feel that hope is waning.

Saturday, 15th of December, 2012
Dharma Cloud Temple
Plum Village

Dear Adam,

Let me start by saying that I wish for you to find peace. It would be easy just to call you a monster and condemn you for evermore, but I don’t think that would help either of us. Given what you have done, I realize that peace may not be easy to find. In a fit of rage, delusion and fear—yes, above all else, I think, fear—you thought that killing was a way out. It was clearly a powerful emotion that drove you from your mother’s dead body to massacre children and staff of Sandy Hook School and to turn the gun in the end on yourself. You decided that the game was over.

But the game is not over, though you are dead. You didn’t find a way out of your anger and loneliness. You live on in other forms, in the torn families and their despair, in the violation of their trust, in the gaping wound in a community, and in the countless articles and news reports spilling across the country and the world—yes, you live on even in me. I was also a young boy who grew up in Newtown. Now I am a Zen Buddhist monk. I see you quite clearly in me now, continued in the legacy of your actions, and I see that in death you have not become free.

You know, I used to play soccer on the school field outside the room where you died, when I was the age of the children you killed. Our team was the Eagles, and we won our division that year. My mom still keeps the trophy stashed in a box. To be honest, I was and am not much of a soccer player. I’ve known winning, but I’ve also known losing, and being picked last for a spot on the team. I think you’ve known this too—the pain of rejection, isolation and loneliness. Loneliness too strong to bear.

You are not alone in feeling this. When loneliness comes up it is so easy to seek refuge in a virtual world of computers and films, but do these really help or only increase our isolation? In our drive to be more connected, have we lost our true connection?

I want to know what you did with your loneliness. Did you ever, like me, cope by walking in the forests that cover our town? I know well the slope that cuts from that school to the stream, shrouded by beech and white pine. It makes up the landscape of my mind. I remember well the thrill of heading out alone on a path winding its way—to Treadwell Park! At that time it felt like a magical path, one of many secrets I discovered throughout those forests, some still hidden. Did you ever lean your face on the rough furrows of an oak’s bark, feeling its solid heartwood and tranquil vibrancy? Did you ever play in the course of a stream, making pools with the stones as if of this stretch you were king? Did you ever experience the healing, connection and peace that comes with such moments, like I often did?

Or did your loneliness know only screens, with dancing figures of light at the bid of your will? How many false lives have you lived, how many shots fired, bombs exploded and lives lost in video games and movies?

By killing yourself at the age of 20, you never gave yourself the chance to grow up and experience a sense of how life’s wonders can bring happiness. I know at your age I hadn’t yet seen how to do this.

I am 37 now, about the age my teacher, the Buddha, realized there was a way out of suffering. I am not enlightened. This morning, when I heard the news, and read the words of my shocked classmates, within minutes a wave of sorrow arose, and I wept. Then I walked a bit further, into the woods skirting our monastery, and in the wet, winter cold of France, beside the laurel, I cried again. I cried for the children, for the teachers, for their families. But I also cried for you, Adam, because I think that I know you, though I know we have never met. I think that I know the landscape of your mind, because it is the landscape of my mind.

I don’t think you hated those children, or that you even hated your mother. I think you hated your loneliness.

I cried because I have failed you. I have failed to show you how to cry. I have failed to sit and listen to you without judging or reacting. Like many of my peers, I left Newtown at seventeen, brimming with confidence and purpose, with the congratulations of friends and the approbation of my elders. I was one of the many young people who left, and in leaving we left others, including you, just born, behind. In that sense I am a part of the culture that failed you. I didn’t know yet what a community was, or that I was a part of one, until I no longer had it, and so desperately needed it.

I have failed to be one of the ones who could have been there to sit and listen to you. I was not there to help you to breathe and become aware of your strong emotions, to help you to see that you are more than just an emotion.

But I am also certain that others in the community cared for you, loved you. Did you know it?

In eighth grade I lived in terror of a classmate and his anger. It was the first time I knew aggression. No computer screen or television gave a way out, but my imagination and books. I dreamt myself a great wizard, blasting fireballs down the school corridor, so he would fear and respect me. Did you dream like this too?

The way out of being a victim is not to become the destroyer. No matter how great your loneliness, how heavy your despair, you, like each one of us, still have the capacity to be awake, to be free, to be happy, without being the cause of anyone’s sorrow. You didn’t know that, or couldn’t see that, and so you chose to destroy. We were not skillful enough to help you see a way out.

With this terrible act you have let us know. Now I am listening, we are all listening, to you crying out from the hell of your misunderstanding. You are not alone, and you are not gone. And you may not be at peace until we can stop all our busyness, our quest for power, money or sex, our lives of fear and worry, and really listen to you, Adam, to be a friend, a brother, to you. With a good friend like that your loneliness might not have overwhelmed you.

But we needed your help too, Adam. You needed to let us know that you were suffering, and that is not easy to do. It means overcoming pride, and that takes courage and humility. Because you were unable to do this, you have left a heavy legacy for generations to come. If we cannot learn how to connect with you and understand the loneliness, rage and despair you felt—which also lie deep and sometimes hidden within each one of us—not by connecting through Facebook or Twitter or email or telephone, but by really sitting with you and opening our hearts to you, your rage will manifest again in yet unforeseen forms.

Now we know you are there. You are not random, or an aberration. Let your action move us to find a path out of the loneliness within each one of us. I have learned to use awareness of my breath to recognize and transform these overwhelming emotions, but I hope that every man, woman or child does not need to go halfway across the world to become a monk to learn how to do this. As a community we need to sit down and learn how to cherish life, not with gun-checks and security, but by being fully present for one another, by being truly there for one another. For me, this is the way to restore harmony to our communion.

~~

 Douglas Bachman (Br. Phap Luu) who grew up at 22 Lake Rd. in Newtown, Connecticut, is a Buddhist monk and student of the Vietnamese Zen Master and monk Thich Nhat Hanh. As part of an international community, he teaches Applied Ethics and the art of mindful living to students and school teachers. He lives in Plum Village Monastery, in Thenac, France.

 

 

Awakening the Heart of Compassion.

[blockquote source=”Pema Chödrön”]”The most difficult times for many of us are the ones we give ourselves.”[/blockquote]

It’s a difficult journey, now isn’t it? Something happens at work, or someone cuts us off in traffic – and suddenly, all of our good intentions seem to fly out that ‘spiritual window.’ In an instant, we are triggered – something sets us off, and our mind begins to spin.

Can you feel it? That chest tightening, pulse pounding, ‘racing out of control’ sort of feeling?

It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?Oh, and, we’ll do our best to defend, deflect…to push it away…anything to avoid the sting; the sting of once again having the ground pulled from beneath our feet.

But, my dears, when we understand the impermanence of our troubles, we begin to see the futility in our ‘clinging.’ It feels good to be attached to something – whether a person, or thing, or ideology.

Our connection, in some ways, defines us.

But, it can also cause us injury – in so much as, we become preoccupied with the facts of that matter, and less interested in examining the energy of the moment.

Take a breath, and look inside – listen to what this moment is trying to share with you. What is the true nature of your upset?

Because, all of that which we experience – the good, the bad, and the not-so-pretty-side of being human – they are all part of your awakening. Each and every single step, leads to a new understanding – a deeper awareness.

But, when we cling – we become trapped inside of our own ‘head space’, incapable of moving forward. Round and round these emotions go, “I can’t believe…”, and “Why is this happening?” become our mantras for the day.

In an excerpt from the chapter “Working with Negativity” in the book “The Myth Of Freedom” by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche states,

[blockquote]”We all experience negativity  -the basic aggression of wanting things to be different than they are. We cling, we defend, we attack, and throughout there is a sense of one’s own wretchedness, and so we blame the world for our pain. This is negativity. We experience it as terribly unpleasant, foul-smelling, something we want to get rid of. But if we look into it more deeply, it has a very juicy smell and is very alive. Negativity is not bad per se, but something living and precise, connected with reality.

Negativity breeds tension, friction, gossip, discontentment, but it is also very accurate, deliberate and profound. Unfortunately, the heavy handed interpretations and judgements we lay on these experiences obscure this fact. These interpretations are negative negativity, watching ourselves being negative and then deciding that the negativity is justified in being there.

Basic negativity is very revealing, sharp and accurate. If we leave it as basic negativity rather than overlaying it with conceptualizations, then we see the nature of its intelligence. Negativity breeds a great deal of energy, which clearly seen becomes intelligence. When we leave the energies as they are with their natural qualities, they are living rather than conceptualized. They strengthen our everyday lives.”[/blockquote]

As difficult as this may seem inside the moment, there is actually a great opportunity for learning. Powerful emotions yield profound wisdom – and if we are able to stay with it, without bias or judgement or some other higher though rationale

Then, my dears, that marks the beginning of our very own, and truest awakening.

A Morning Lesson Over a Cup of Coffee.

[blockquote source=”Pema Chödrön”]“If we learn to open our hearts, anyone, including the people who drive us crazy, can be our teacher.” [/blockquote]

I watched an elderly couple having coffee on the terrace this morning. I had stopped off for coffee at one of my favorite community ‘gathering spots’ – a little cafe, where stories are swapped just as easily as the cappuccinos are foamed.

Like me, they were there to enjoy the morning bustle ~ and perhaps, catch up on the lesser ‘news’ of our community.

But, as she chattered on and on, I watched his head keep gentle nod.

“You never listen to me,” she cowed, lips pursed in disgust. “And, where did you get that shirt? I tossed that old rag out weeks ago.”

I watched as he held back his tongue. Time had long forced this routine, and experience had worn its creases deeply along his face.

Why are we always so quick to criticize? What motivates these moments in which our entire world collapses into a single, and horribly irritating reference point?

Oh, and don’t you try to hide from it, either. We all do it – those instances when patience yields its path to the ‘uglier’ side of our rather fragile human nature.

At home…at work…in traffic…something triggers our emotions. And, with near pinpoint precision – we respond.

It seems, criticism has become the means by which we distance ourselves from the reality of our own imperfection. It helps us to transfer this burden of feeling so very much overwhelmed.

We fear being held in contrast, frightened by that which we can not feel ourselves.

“Well, I can’t see it in me, so how can it possibly exist in you?”

My favorite author, and Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön offers brilliant insight,

‘We have a strong tendency to distance ourselves from our experience because it hurts, but the dharma provides encouragement to move closer to that experience.

On the other hand, everything you say and do and think can support your desire to communicate, to move closer and step out of this myth of isolation and separateness that we’re all caught in.

Taking this kind of responsibility is another way of talking about awakening bodhichitta, because part of taking responsibility is the quality of being able to see things very clearly. Another part of taking responsibility is gentleness, which goes along with not judging but rather looking gently and honestly at yourself.

There is also the ability to keep going forward. You can just keep on going; you don’t have to get frozen in an identity as a loser or a winner, the abuser or the abused, the good guy or the bad guy. You just see what you do as clearly and as compassionately as you can then go on. The next moment is always fresh and open.”

Perhaps, this is the key? To move closer towards a more intimate understanding of self, and with that – a deepened appreciation and respect for all that we see within.

And, these feelings like disappointment, anger…sadness, mistrust, and rage? They begin to find purpose, and that purpose is healing.

And that, my dears, is the lesson in the stop off for coffee this morning.

Much love, and many blessings ~ and a special namaste, to the gentleman who purchased my coffee 🙂

The Stories That Have Yet to be Told.

[blockquote source=”Vladimir Nabokov”]“The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible”[/blockquote]

I have a notebook that sits upon my shelf, worn and dusted through these many years. Unassuming in presentation, you might never expect the pages to be ripely filled with such magnificence.

Such is the case, when reality becomes shrouded by illusion—our minds whittling away, weaving stories of all that might have been… boldly seizing the pen, to rewrite its version of that which it believes to be true.

Inside these pages, folded neatly, a ticket stub from my very first ballet. It was Christmas, 1987, and the ticket was a gift to my Mother. In the 1950s, she had worked as a waitress, and just down the street from the Cleveland Playhouse theater. Her eyes would always pull into a smile as she recalled the moments of her ‘memories past’—watching the women, dressed ‘to the nines’ in their ball gowns, and returning from a late night show. In those days, a theater such as this held no place for a simple diner waitress. But on this particular blustery, bitter winter’s night, she and I would be taking in a show.

Another page frames the note from my father, sent one Easter while I was stationed so very far away. My Father wasn’t ever one for letter writing, but on that day he was compelled to send me a short note, reading simply:

“I miss you, and wish you were here. It would have been a much better Easter.”

It was by far the best note I had ever, in my life, received. Because, it was then that I realized how widely a heart could be opened.

On the pages following are scattered ‘snapshots’ of my many mommy memories—a taped sequin from my toddler daughter’s favorite light-up shoes and a broken piece of my son’s Buzz Lightyear helmet.

And taped to another, and most certainly the reason why this book never quite closes… a half crushed peanut shell from a walkabout in the park with my very best spiritual friend.

I’ll bet you never realized just how good squirrel feeding was for one’s soul?

It’s so easy to get swept away in the trivial… the noise of our day can prove to be a noteworthy distraction.

And, my dears, there will always be those whose words might injure, dissuade, or otherwise pull you away from the little things that make life so very much, worthwhile.

That’s why I keep this notebook on my shelf—because these memories become far-more important as time and life circumstance begins to steal them away. In this way, my memories can stay.

And on those days when life seems intent on mottling up my moments… I simply dust off my notebook, flip through a few pages and am reminded,

“No, dear…this is my story.”

I know it must seem such a silly approach—but, I believe theses pages exist for all those tales, that have yet to be told.

And these days, my dears, I choose to write my own darned story – and this story, is only just beginning.

Much love, and many blessings, my most beautiful friends…

A Simpler Sort of Zen.

[blockquote source=”Bill Watterson”]“Did you ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real, and you’re just a reflection of him?”[/blockquote]

Do you remember when an entire day could be lost inside a single mud puddle? When hours would slip into the ripplings of raindrops upon an unbroken surface? And a long stick, just perfectly crooked, was your very best ‘explorer’ friend?

I used to play for hours along that stream, lost in a wonderment that only a child’s heart could hold – and still, carried on through all these years.

Curiosity has always been my Zen. And, a good spot by the stream – my thinking space.

In those days, there was no hurrying to get ‘done.’ Rather, simplicity in purpose, ushered its very own sort of bliss.

When we were beguiled by the breaking of water, bubbling over worn rocks…and the softness of moss growing against a  hardened bark.

In those days, we didn’t so much worry about our pants getting wet.

And, our end of day was always marked by those awful mosquitoes moving in…

[blockquote source=”Karen Maezen Miller”]“Your life is your practice. Your spiritual practice does not occur someplace other than in your life right now, and your life is nowhere other than where you are. You are looking for answers, insight, and wisdom that you already possess. Live the life in front of you, be the life you are, and see what you find out for yourself.”[/blockquote]

In simpler times, there is always a simpler sort of Zen…

And, when we can connect with it – there’s just no telling what wonders it may bring.

 

Floating Into the Waters of the Unknown.

[blockquote source=”Ray Bradbury, Farewell Summer “]“Learning to let go should be learned before learning to get. Life should be touched, not strangled. You’ve got to relax, let it happen at times, and at others move forward with it. It’s like boats. You keep your motor on so you can steer with the current. And when you hear the sound of the waterfall coming nearer and nearer, tidy up the boat, put on your best tie and hat, and smoke a cigar right up till the moment you go over. That’s a triumph.” [/blockquote]

I’ve been having some issues with a bit of software I purchased recently.

The code, though noble in feature, was a bit too ambitious for its own good.

When I contacted the vendor and original author of the product, my intention was to help. As a web developer, I’ve learned the troubles of these waters quite well – having fallen down a time or two, myself.

“Look, let me show you…” I offered. But my attempts were met with the harumph of disdain.

To say that he was a little reluctant would have been the understatement of the century. He didn’t want to hear any of what I had to say, and he certainly wasn’t interested in my efforts to improve things.

“Leave me alone,” he hissed, “and don’t ever call here again.”

So, what did I do? I called back, once again – leaving two bullish souls locked in foolish impasse.

You see, I wanted so desperately to teach…what I failed to realize was that he just wasn’t ready to learn.

“It’s never about what it’s about,” my Mother used to say.

And so I waited patiently, and knowing the right moment would soon come.

But, after a week’s worth of waiting – I resigned myself to the fact, that perhaps this moment might never come.

Eventually, I contacted my bank. I felt so defeated, and hoped that they might help to mediate. But, alas, in reaching out to this young man – they, too, were met with a similar ‘go away’ energy.

In good faith, the bank proceeded with a formal claim – the effect of which, would certainly impact the seller’s ‘good merchant’ status. Given only 2 days to respond, the young man was finally forced to acknowledge the issue.

When I came home that day, I was excited to see a message from him. Finally, a glimmer of hope’s light was breaking through.

Until, I listened to the message, that is – which was, surly at best.

“I’m refunding your money, so don’t ever contact me again!”

sigh…this didn’t go at all as I had expected.

The following morning, I received the refund deposit to my account – all three of them. You see, in his flurried upset and haste, he inadvertently duplicated his efforts.

Oh, Karma…not yet.

“It’s never about what it’s about..”

And when the phone rang, I knew it was he on the other end – though, this time with a bit more patience to boot.

Sometimes, it takes a good stinging pain to capture our attention. And, sometimes it takes those moments of pain for us to finally hush up and listen.

As dearest Pema Chodron might add, sometimes this pain is our opportunity for healing.

“Would you mind please, calling your bank…?” he asked. His voice seemed humbled by the embarrassment…sheepish, perhaps.

“Not at all,” I replied, “but, only if you’ll explain why on earth you wouldn’t listen to me?”

After some hemming and hawing, the truth finally emerged. “I suppose, maybe because my Dad said I’d never amount to anything.”

Oh, dear…

So, there it was, in all of its fullness and glory – this simple truth, buried for years under the heavy cloak of our own story.

Oh, and that story can be a good one, too – telling tales of the many instances we’ve suffered a loss, felt betrayal…or never quite measured up.

Why do we place such a terrible burden on our shoulders? To carry this weight for so many years?

No wonder, we’re always so exhausted.

But, in the end, it’s these stories that keep us here – unavailable to our truth.

There is a saying in Buddhism: “Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional“.

In an odd way, this young man had carried his father’s expectation of failure with him through all of these years.

Even in those situations intended for good, he was unable to see past the confines of these past limitations.

Until one day, when the pain was so great he was forced to listen – it was only then that he was able to see the truth in his own existence.

So, even though we may feel so very anxious to learn…still, we must learn also to wait for the lesson.

Learning can’t be forced, and some lessons can’t be taught.

But, when a lesson finds us in our moment of greatest need – my dears, that’s when it becomes everlasting.

“It’s never about what it’s about..”

And, when we let go – we learn.

Stepping Fearlessly Into This River.

[blockquote source=”Agnes de Mille”]“Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark.”[/blockquote]

Oh my goodness, what a busy day – people shouting to “Get things done..” without really understanding the why.

I’m always baffled by these flurries of chaos. I mean, what is it that’s so darned important that it simply just can’t wait?

And yet, we follow chaos’ storm day after day.

Life is full of uncertainties and challenges, each with the capacity to topple even the most well-rounded of spiritual beings. And, often leaving us to wonder, how on earth might we ever live peacefully when our foundation appears to be constantly crumbling?

Why, sometimes, it may feel as if these changes are a violent river, threatening to pull us under – so then, why shouldn’t we cling to the safety of the ‘shore’? Or rather, that which is most familiar to our soul?

“Life is like stepping into a boat that is about to sail out to sea and sink.” —Shunryu Suzuki Roshi

Indeed, life can very much seem this way. The key is to fight our urge to cling – to open up, and lean in, just a bit.

Why? Because, as Pema Chödrön teaches, fear-based clinging keeps us from the richly more satisfying of human experiences – that of being fully alive.

In her discussion of the “Three Commitments”, we begin to understand the connection between presence and empowerment. That we must be fully and completely present in all moments, even those more challenging ones.

In doing so, we learn how to step fearlessly into that river.

But, how do you learn to relax into a fundamental uncertainty? How do we learn to breathe in this chaos of being human?

[blockquote source=”Pema Chödrön”]’My first teacher, Chögyam Trungpa, used to talk about the fundamental anxiety of being human. This anxiety or queasiness in the face of impermanence isn’t something that afflicts just a few of us; it’s an all-pervasive state that human beings share. But rather than being disheartened by the ambiguity, the uncertainty of life, what if we accepted it and relaxed into it? What if we said, “Yes, this is the way it is; this is what it means to be human,” and decided to sit down and enjoy the ride?”[/blockquote]

My dears, sometimes the answer is easier than you think. Sometimes, the answer is to simply be. Instead of alternating between what we perceive as pleasure and pain; grasping to one…fleeing the other…it’s an endless, futile cycle. And, leaving our energy depleted, and our spirit…no better off.

The Buddha taught that our discomfort arises not so much from the uncertainty itself, but rather, as a result of our resistance to this uncertainty.

When we’re able to understand that everything is always changing, that fixation and stability are an illusion – my dears, that is when the unsettledness finally subsides…

And, our living fearlessly begins.

It’s all a matter of perspective…and a little breath, now and again.

Much love, my dears…blessings to all.

 

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