On January 22, 2022, Thich Nhat Hanh left his body. If he saw my tears, he would have consoled me by saying that he hadn’t really gone, but simply taken another form. And if I entered into the present moment in a state of mindfulness, I would be able to feel his presence all around me in the form of a cloud in the sky or in the drops of rain falling to the ground.

In the summer of 1997, my son and I went to Plum Village in France to see who this monk was who could crack my heart open and make me cry simply by listening to his words full of kindness and compassion. I was so moved by the experience, I kept a journal. Below are excerpts from that journal.

 

Reflections on Plum Village

1997

It was only recently that I discovered Thich Nhat Hanh, or Thay (“teacher”) as most people call him. A friend sent me two cassette tapes of Thay speaking on the art of living and teachings on love. The tapes became buried in my pile of papers and projects.

Early one evening, after a long day of treating sick patients, I rummaged through my pile, looking for something mindless to listen to since my brain was too tired to engage in further activity. I found the cassette tapes my friend had given me, put one of them into the player and then stretched out on the couch as I listened to the monk speak. His soft voice and slow, heavily accented English put me into a dream-like state. With my logical mind turned off, his words found their way directly to my heart. As I listened, the tears rolled down my cheeks.

Who is this person who is able to open my heart and make me cry?

I picked up the cassette and pondered over the spelling and repeated the name out loud. THICH NHAT HANH. I dimly recollected hearing his name in college during the l960s in connection with the protests over the war in Vietnam.

After that impactful evening, I devoured any information I could find about this monk whom his students called Thay, meaning “teacher.” At the local bookstore in Santa Fe, I purchased Living Buddha, Living Christ, which helped me to understand my own Christian roots from a different perspective. In the back of the book there was one short paragraph about Thay’s retreat center in France, called Plum Village. Within seconds, with uncharacteristic spontaneity, I made my decision to go to that place.

I planned to take a month off from work and go in the summer. My son, Barrett, insisted on coming with me, even though he had already made plans to spend the summer with his father in southern New Mexico. I told Barrett I didn’t think it would be much fun for an eight-year-old kid because he would probably get bored, and the food would likely be strictly rice and vegetables, and there probably wouldn’t be any kids to play with. My words, which turned out to be incorrect, did not deter Barrett in his determination to accompany me. When I asked him why he wanted to go so badly, he said he didn’t know why.

Our odyssey began in Paris where Barrett and I stayed for several days with my first boyfriend, Daniel Soreau, and his wife and children. I had met Daniel while I was in high school in Europe. One of his daughters came for a month-long visit to Santa Fe after Barrett was born. And now my sister’s daughter, Linnea, was spending a semester with the Soreau family, studying art as part of her college education. It was a treat to have her companionship as well as having our own personal guide to Paris.

Barrett and I took the high-speed train from Paris to the Bordeaux region, then a local train to a village called Sainte Foy La Grande. Vietnamese monks and nuns in long brown robes with shaved heads met us at the station and drove us in their vans to Plum Village.

We drove through low, rolling hillsides, covered with splashes of yellow, and various shades of green and brown. The fields of giant sunflowers had their faces turned in the same direction, like fields of pilgrims worshipping the sun. Row upon row of vineyards alternated with fields of haystacks and clusters of brown cows munching leisurely.

Plum Village is made up of five little farms, or hamlets as they are called, scattered a few miles apart from each other. We were assigned to the Upper Hamlet, which housed the English and French speaking visitors.

When I stepped out of the van I felt like I had stepped into Vietnam. My eyes cast about at the miniature bamboo forest, the lotus pond, the statues of Buddha, and the Vietnamese people with their distinct attire. Whispers in French and Vietnamese drifted in the air. The outdoor phone booth in front of the old farmhouse looked out of place in this timeless setting.

Not long after we arrived, the phone in the booth started to ring. No one answered it. Instead, everyone stood motionless for a few minutes as though captured in a freeze frame photograph. How odd! I later learned that any ringing sound is incorporated into the meditation practice. The ring of the phone is simply another reminder to return to the present moment and follow the breath. I was delighted to see the bane of my existence used in this unlikely manner.

The monks had assigned Barrett and me to a room in the 200-year-old stone farmhouse. The first night Barrett got so many insect bites on his face that he looked like he had the measles. While the mosquito problem was easy to remedy with netting suspended over the beds, the other problems proved to be more difficult. The building was damp, dark, and moldy. At night the mice made a terrific ruckus between the stone walls and the plaster. Our enthusiasm about being in Plum Village made the room bearable for the first couple of nights. By the fourth day it had become intolerable.

Sleep deprivation began to take its toll. I found myself falling asleep during most of Thay’s dharma talks. At one point, I was awake just long enough to hear him say that sleeping during the talks was preferable to listening with our analyzing and judging minds, as opposed to listening with our hearts. In an attempt to get some sleep to be able to listen in any manner possible, I searched in a storage room and found a tent that Barrett and I assembled on a flat spot at the edge of the woods. By this time, life in the tent seemed like a luxury. We had privacy, clean air, a good view, and silence.

Right now I’m sitting in the tent at the end of the day, writing in my journal as the light begins to dim outside.

Life in Plum Village is slow, measured, and mindful. At the sound of the bell, we all stop whatever we are doing and remember to breathe deeply and return to the present moment. The first week we spent unwinding and adjusting to the schedule and to the snail-like pace of life. At 6 a.m. our dreams are gently pierced by the haunting sound of the distant bell. By 6:30 the bell reminds us that it is time to be in the meditation hall. There are twenty minutes of sitting meditation, twenty minutes of walking meditation, then twenty more minutes of sitting, followed by reading of sutras or chanting. The bell for breakfast sounds at 8 am.

The food is usually organic and nutritious. Some people eat their food at tables, others, like me, eat scattered about on the grass or in the gardens. We begin by meditating on our food, focusing on our gratitude, on the connection with the sun, the rain, the dirt, and the farmer who grew the food. The first part of the meal is eaten in silence. When sharing an activity in total silence, like eating and walking, I feel a sense of intimacy more palpable than when we talk among ourselves. We eat slowly, chewing our food until it turns to liquid.

After breakfast we engage in an hour of working meditation, followed by two hours of dharma talks given by Thay. His talks penetrate deeply into the hearts of the listeners. Each day he speaks in a different language, alternating between French, English, and Vietnamese, with simultaneous translations available in the various European languages by headphones. After today’s talk, Thay took questions. A young boy, about five or six years old, raised his hand to speak. He described what it was like to eat his food in gratitude, as Thay had taught him. He said it took him over an hour to eat his little portion of rice and vegetables. He wondered if there was a shorter way to express gratitude. Thay responded with a big smile that illuminated his face.

Thay speaks simply. His words are profound and poetic. The tears freely roll down my cheeks as his words penetrate my heart and stir my soul. Today he spoke about our ancestors, our family, and community. He asked us to gently cradle one hand in the other and look deeply into our hands. There we would find parts of our mother and our father and all the ancestors who went before us, and there we would find parts of our descendants. He reminded us that we are all connected to each other. There is no individual happiness. When one person transforms and finds peace within, we are all affected. And, on the other hand, when we say, “This is my body. I can do with it what I please,” we mistakenly believe that we are separate. Yesterday he spoke of the important place for all of us in the web of life. Again he asked us to meditate on our hands. If you are right-handed, he asked, do you have any less appreciation for the left hand because it follows and supports the work of the right hand?

Although the dharma talks are about Buddhist teachings, I feel closer to my Christian roots in this Buddhist sangha than I ever did in church. The heart of Buddhism and the heart of Christianity are the same in my heart. Christ and Buddha are but different manifestations of the same consciousness.

Although I have explored and flirted with Zen Buddhism since the sixties, the teachings felt cold and abstract. As part of my duties during my two years as medical director in Cuba, New Mexico, I drove to Jemez Springs once a week to treat the local townspeople. One of my regular patients was the Roshi at the Bodhi Mandala Zen Monastery. Out of curiosity, I spent part of my annual vacation time attending a week-long sesshin at the Zen Monastery. This period of intensive meditation, called zazen, resulted in sore muscles and perhaps a quieter mind, but little else.

Thay, on the other hand, brings a unique flavor to Mahayana Buddhism that is poetic, compassionate, full of heart, and actively engaged in the world. Transformation seems more accessible to my western mind.

The word “engaged Buddhism” originated in reference to Thich Nhat Hanh’s work as a social activist. Thay traveled to the United States to testify before Congress about the urgent need to end the war in Vietnam. His peacemaking activities earned him a nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize by Martin Luther King, but also resulted in banishment from his country by the South Vietnamese government as well as the communist government. His crimes? He peacefully protested the war in Vietnam.

Thay lived in exile outside of Paris for many years. In l982 he established a Buddhist center in the southwestern part of France. Vietnamese school children throughout Europe donated their lunch money to the center. The monks and nuns used the money to buy and plant hundreds of young plum trees, which would eventually provide a source of income. The center was henceforth called Plum Village. Over time it attracted many Europeans who came to hear Thay speak. Although the cost of participating in the retreat is very modest, the staff still manages to make a meager profit, which they send to Vietnam to feed hungry children.

Thay has been invited frequently to come to the United States to give workshops. I heard many stories about American veterans who found personal healing and transformation in his workshops after suffering years of internal torment and self-hatred.

One of these veterans is now a monk at Plum Village. He had murdered countless Vietnamese civilians during the war, including children. When he returned to the States after the war, he sunk into self-loathing, drugs, alcohol, unemployment, and despair that lasted for two decades. At a workshop that Thay gave for veterans, he met Sister Chan Khong, a 65-year-old nun who had been active as a social worker in the war in Vietnam. She invited the veteran to Plum Village as her guest. Normally, all the English-speaking people are placed together. Instead, Sister Chan Khong assigned the vet to the hamlet that was exclusively for Vietnamese people. The veteran set up his tent at the edge of the woods. When he awoke the first morning, he saw a group of curious Vietnamese children surrounding his tent. Memories of the war came flooding back to him. He panicked. Sister Chan Khong helped him to come face to face with his demons and ultimately find peace and forgiveness. He eventually devoted his life as a monk to service for others in need.

This awe-inspiring story gave me much to contemplate. Out of Vietnam, the country we almost destroyed, come teachers who help our soldiers transform their pain and suffering. Thich Naht Hanh teaches us to have compassion for our tormentors because they are part of us and we are part of them. Given the right conditions, we are capable of the same heinous deeds. Oppressors are victims themselves, and victims are potential oppressors. We can break this re-cycling of oppression by acknowledging and embracing all parts of ourselves with compassion.

When Barrett and I first arrived at Plum Village, I had a bizarre and troubling experience that I still do not fully understand. As I was eating my meal outside on the grassy field, I gazed into the miniature bamboo forest in front of me. From out of nowhere came images of death and destruction, flashes in my mind of news footage from television in the late 60s and early 70s of children running naked, screaming in pain from the napalm bombings. I looked around me at the people eating peacefully. I felt self-conscious. Where were these ugly scenes coming from?

The next day, as a nun greeted me with palms together in prayer-like fashion with a sweet smile on her face, I returned the gesture but had to quickly avert my eyes as my mind pictured her head blown to pieces. My mental images of war became so puzzling and disturbing to me that I decided to confide in someone. I found a man who was half Vietnamese and half French and an ordained Buddhist teacher in the community. I cried with shame as I told him of the hideous visions I had seen. He gently told me that I was experiencing the collective pain and suffering from the war. I told him I didn’t realize I had any unhealed wounds from the war in Vietnam. He explained that in a community like Plum Village, there is so much loving kindness that it offers a safe place for all the ancient hurts inside of us to reveal themselves for transformation. After my talk with this kind and gentle man, the images never returned.

So far, I have come to the aid of about twenty visitors and have treated their various ailments, which have mostly been relatively minor. I feel so fortunate to be able to be of service. The people express profuse gratitude.

Each week we make preparations for a ceremony. Last week we had the Full Moon Ceremony in which we honored the moon. There was much singing and dancing. Young Vietnamese children dressed in their finest traditional attire played the violin and the flute. The music floated about in the fragrant night air. This week we had a magnificent ceremony and feast to honor our ancestors. We ate exotic Asian delicacies, prayed to our dead loved ones and to our unknown ancestors, to our spiritual ancestors, to our homeland, to our loved ones, and to those people with whom we are having difficulty. We sang and played music. Since I have been in Plum Village, I have begun to view my ancestors with a new feeling of connection.

Since there are so many visitors, we are divided up into groups of about 15 people, called “families,” who speak the same language. Each family is led by a monk or nun and is assigned a specific work task. My family was assigned to chopping vegetables and food preparation. Another family was assigned to clean both the altars and the toilets, the sublime and the profane being one and the same, according to these teachings. The family groups meet each evening to discuss the morning dharma talk, ask questions, and share ideas on the relevance of the practices and teachings to our personal lives. We sing songs.

One of my favorite activities is the hugging meditation. If there is someone we wish to hug, we bow to that person and indicate our desire. We then ceremoniously bow to each other, embrace in a bear hug while breathing deeply together three times, then bow again.

The atmosphere here is disarming. It is beautiful to watch the transformation in people’s faces as the days pass. There are smiles and laughter, as well as tears of reconciliation, tears of forgiveness, tears of joy, and tears from simply being touched in a profound way. The layers of armoring melt away, allowing our true selves to emerge.

Each week our family group engages in a ritual called “beginning anew.” The first part of the ritual is called “watering the seeds” in which each person has a chance to express appreciation to other people in the group. The second part of the ritual is a time for expressing problems we are having with each other in a respectful, non-blaming manner. We have not been with each other long enough to have specific problems. So, once a week we watered the seeds. It felt good.

Everyone spoke except for Gunnar, a middle-aged man from Norway. Gunnar rarely spoke, but when he did, his face turned crimson and his lower lip trembled. By the third week, when it was his turn to speak, he blurted out, “I love you. I love you.” He was speaking to no one in particular. Gunnar sobbed and trembled as he painfully told his heart-rending story. “When I was a small boy my father often beat me severely. I hated my father. I decided to never speak again. All these years I hardly have spoken. I have no friends. I have seen a therapist for a few years but he could not help me. He taught me how to meditate. We meditated together during therapy. He said I needed to go to Plum Village. I did not know anything about Plum Village. I came because I trusted my therapist. Something has happened to me since I have been here. I am feeling things I haven’t felt since I was a young child. My heart has opened up. I feel love for the first time. I love all of you. But I also feel so much pain that sometimes I cannot bear it and feel like I must kill myself. With the love comes the hurt, the rage, and the fear. I am terrified. I don’t know if I will survive but I want to try.”

Another Scandinavian in our family group is Hasse, a robust, bespectacled man from Sweden. Hasse had taught pre-school for 15 years and, by the way he speaks, appears to be devoted to his work. This past year Hasse had a boy in his classroom who was troubled and needed extra attention which Hasse gave gladly. The boy’s mother was single, with chronic financial difficulties and very unhappy and angry. One day the mother telephoned Hasse and accused him of child abuse. Word spread throughout the entire village. He was shunned and his reputation tarnished. Hasse was deeply hurt and outraged. He felt murderous rage toward his accuser. He came to Plum Village in hopes of finding peace. He tells us he has begun to feel compassion for the woman and is now able to see her as someone trapped in her own suffering. He no longer feels anger and is ready to forgive. In fact, he plans to invite her to his house for tea when he returns to Sweden.

Thay teaches us to recognize and befriend our demons, our angers, fears, and hatred. He asks us to invite them into our consciousness, into our living room, and embrace them, and send them love and mindfulness. He speaks often about turning the garbage into compost.

Barrett is undergoing his own form of transformation. He has no interest in the Buddhist practices but he seems particularly happy here. He plays hard all day long and comes back to the tent with a different accent each evening, depending on the nationality of the kids with whom he played. His Irish brogue is hilarious, especially since he has no awareness that his speech has altered.

The children’s program gives Barrett a little taste of Buddhist practice without being oppressive. Thay has a particular fondness for children. A few days ago Thay did walking meditation around the lotus pond and through the plum orchards while holding Barrett’s hand. Hundreds and hundreds of people of many nationalities trailed behind. Barrett had a very serious look on his face.

The children are taught through stories. They are given their own little dharma talks, one of which I was asked to translate simultaneously into French from English. It was about a young American boy who came several times to Plum Village with his mother. His parents were divorced. He told one of the nuns that he hated his father and never wanted to see him again. He said his father hit him and punished him for things that were not even his fault, like tripping and falling down. Instead of comforting him, his father yelled criticisms at him. The next year he returned to Plum Village and told the same nun that when he grew up, he was not going to be like his father. He was going to be very kind when he had children. When they fell down and got hurt, he was going to comfort them. He was never going to yell at them. He came back to Plum Village a third year, this time with his brother and younger sister. While the sister was swinging in the hammock, she swung so high that the hammock turned over and the girl fell and cut her knee. The boy yelled, “How could you be so stupid! Why weren’t you paying attention?” Towards the end of the visit he told the nun that he realized that he had done exactly what his father had done to him. “Maybe I am like my father,” he pondered. The fourth year the boy arrived in Plum Village with his father. He explained to the nun that he could see that he was like his father and that his father was not a bad man. He started to visit his father and they became friends. He said his father no longer yells at him and hits him, but rather, treats him as a friend. He said they had both changed. I had to wipe away the tears as I translated the boy’s story.

One day while Barrett and I were in the bookshop, I noticed a miniature mindfulness bell that was for sale. I asked Barrett if we should buy this bell and use it at home to help us be mindful and remain in the present moment. Barrett thought it was not a good idea. After a few seconds he changed his mind. “Maybe it would be a good idea after all, Mom. I could ring the bell whenever you were having trouble with me,” he offered.

Barrett likes to go to the bookshop because there is ice cream for sale for the people in withdrawal from their comfort foods. The monk in charge of sales, Phaph Angh, frequently buys Barrett ice cream. In fact, Barrett recently confessed that he had received six offers of ice cream in one day from various people he had befriended. He accepted all of the offers and is happy to report that Plum Village was not the strict experience his mother had mistakenly predicted. Rice and vegetables with ice cream was not so bad.

Now that the three weeks are over, Barrett does not want to leave. Although he is not able to articulate his feelings about this experience, the sweet and loving atmosphere has clearly affected him. He says he wishes he lived in a community like this.

Many people express the wish to stay forever. Thay says that is not the idea. The idea is to bring home what we have learned and to create a sangha wherever we are, even if that sangha consists of just us and the trees and the birds. Barrett and I pack our things and prepare for our trip to Switzerland to visit my mother’s brother and sister in the Alps. We will hold Plum Village in our hearts forever.

Thay is truly a bodhisattva. With palms pressed together I bow to this man who has deeply impacted millions of lives, including my own.