A shift in my thinking comes sometime between walking meditation and Thây’s last talk

Calligraphy, Thich Nhat Hanh

I recently was on retreat at Magnolia Grove Monastery in Batesville, Mississippi, with about 900 others and Thich Nhat Hanh (Thây) and a monastic community. This is the fifth consecutive post in a series of six about my experience. Originally published in October 2013.

Around the last day of the retreat, I decided to let go of the fact that I have incurable cancer.

Thây helps me with this decision.

It isn’t a lightning bolt shift in perspective. The change feels more like a soft, gentle soaking in rain.

I remember it like this:

Sometime between walking meditation and Thây’s last talk, there is a session where he invites questions.

Questions such as “How do I deal with my angry friend?”, “Is it possible for humankind to achieve world peace?”, “How do I let go of the fear of someone dying?” and “Should communities organize in civil disobedience to reduce violence?” They grab my be-here-now attention. I feel my mouth open in marvel at the profound simplicity of his responses.

So you want to help?

Start with yourself. Heal yourself. Breathe. Smile. Practice kind, loving speech. Honor all life. Be generous. Make peace with your body, perceptions, thoughts, and feelings, and if you know how to do that, you’ll inspire others to do the same. Consume peace. Be peace. Learn to listen deeply. Allow sharing. Don’t interrupt. Give time and space. Start anew. Write love letters (rather than protest letters). Give your time and energy to creating a happy family and community. Practice diligently.

I realize the retreat is designed to practice all of this. 

My fears about our world left entirely after my first walking meditation. It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.

Thây leads. Though it is 85 degrees, he wears his winter coat, scarf, and hat. I wonder if his need for heavy clothing is about how much energy he gives off.

Children hold his hands. We walk together. In silence. (During the retreat, film and photography were taken for Walk With Me. I see myself in this photograph and feel grateful for the memory.)

Ten minutes into the walk I feel a rising tide of peace, as if I’m part of a larger walk. Others’ steps echo ours—people such as Susan B. Anthony, the Freedom Riders, Buddha, Gandhi, Jesus, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, the Peace Pilgrim, and Malala Yousafzai. I feel like I’m part of a moving river of peace.

My question about whether there will be peace in the world disappears. Peace already is—its river is already moving. 

I feel a connection to the cloudiness of my personal wellness. That river of peace is not just about our world. It’s about my well-being (and yours).

  

Wake up, Susan. Beginner camping at Magnolia Grove Monastery gives me new insight.

Calligraphy, Thich Nhat Hanh

I completed a retreat at Magnolia Grove Monastery in Batesville, Mississippi with about 900 others in mostly silence with Thich Nhat Hanh (Thây) and a monastic community. This is the third consecutive post in a series about my experience. 

I wake at 4:30 AM, stretch, and gather a towel, toiletries, and clothes I placed on my bed rail before going to sleep. I slowly open the cabin door oh so quietly so as not to wake my two roommates.

One roommate is young, perhaps in her twenties, and the other appears my age or older. She has a physical challenge walking, though gets around unassisted. Honoring silence, last night’s greeting was with our eyes and smiles before sleep.

Neither stir.

I left my shoes on the porch and put them on after tapping to make sure no insects chose them for hiding. I like spiders and bugs, though not on me. I’m especially uncomfortable with killing them. (At home, I catch cockroaches with a soft cloth and carry them outside. I know how to use a cup and paper to transfer spiders and other insects with soft exoskeletons to the outdoors.)

I stand up, and let my eyes adjust enough to duck a large spider web I noticed upon arrival yesterday. A large huntsman wood spider sits in it now, waiting for prey.

I forget my flashlight to light the path as I walk. Oops, a mindful-less slip.

And that’s all it takes.

The path is slightly muddy from recent rains. Its runoff formed miniature trenches and a quicker-than-prudent gait puts my butt on the ground. Thud.

Ouch. That gets my breath. 

I take a couple in and outs. My ego is bruised enough to align my concentration and focus. My hip hurts and I take care of it by massaging it. I recall a Thay lesson about loving speech.

Rather than say something unkind to myself about falling or messing up (like sarcastically, “Susan, you’re really doing this mindfulness thing well” or "So where is your breath now, Buddha pants?" or critically, “Why weren’t you watching out”), I refrain.

I make a connection.

So when a family, friend, or student is difficult, I can practice just like I am in this fall. I don’t get angry or say something unkind. I try to take care of her like I take care of my hip. Because getting mad at her is like getting mad at myself.

This is an insight. I declare insight a superpower.

I get up and continue.

I’m one of the first to arrive for a shower.

Each of the 10 shower rooms and commodes accommodates most of the 500 women attending. Floors are mopped. Sinks, commodes, and toilets are sanitized, and trash and used toilet paper is removed three times a day. (No toilet tissue goes down the commode.)

My shower is warm and comforting. I think, one shower down, only 5 more to go.

I haven’t warmed up to camping yet. And yes. I know I know. My husband reminded me before I left that camping usually means a tent, washing up in a cold river, cooking over an open fire, and peeing in the woods. I’m aware I’m participating in what might be called Beginner Camping.

And that’s good enough.

On my hike back to the cabin, I look for the trench and step over it grateful to be awake and not stumble again. And for self-care. My fall was cushioned by flexibility from regular yoga practice.

Before going into the cabin, I stop and gaze up at the stars and moon. I see the North Star. I ponder the simple and profound aspect of living fully awake. I think to myself, “I have the North Star in view,” smile and realize, “All I need to do is head for it.”

Yes, I’ll just head for the North Star*. 

That’s another way to talk about diligence. I’ll write more about that next.

*“If you are lost in the forest at night, you can follow the North Star to find your way out. You follow the North Star, but your goal is to get back home; it's not to arrive at the North Star (The Art of Power, Thich Nhat Hanh, p. 62).” My practice is like the North Star, I don't have to be perfect practicing. It's my path towards living with more love, compassion, and understanding.

Being peace in every bite: getting friendly with food and how I eat

Calligraphy, Thich Nhat Hanh

I was on retreat at Magnolia Grove Monastery in Batesville, Mississippi with about 900 others with Thich Nhat Hanh (Thây) and a monastic community. This is the second in a series of posts about my experience. The first post is here. (Posted in October 2013)

I’m in one of six lines for dinner the first night. 

A gentle breeze wafts the fragrance of coconut sautéed peppers, yellow and orange squash, broccoli, onion, and eggplant. Bowls hold nuts, tofu, quartered apples and oranges, mounds of torn kale, brown rice, mesclun greens mixed with peppers, carrots, and tomatoes, and bean mixes. Sauces are available to drizzle. Hot spice-infused bitter melon offers a first-time taste adventure. I don’t know its name until I Google it when I get home:  goya or karavella from the plant Momordica Charantia.

This meal is vegan.

A person in front of me picks a vegetable from a bowl, puts it in her hand and then into her mouth. I think, “That’s not how we’re supposed to do it.”

She chews, looks at me and asks, “What is it?” I shrug my shoulders and smile. She slaps a spoonful on her plate. A man in front of her bows his head slightly at the food while making lotus flower hands (eight fingers up touching each other with thumbs crossed as a gesture of giving appreciation).

People stand around two waist high pots big enough to hold, well—a person, filled with a luscious thick purple and white potato soup swirled with greens.

Within hours, I’ll learn that my work meditation is kitchen clean-up after dinner. I’ll see first-hand how three meals a day for 900 happens with such deliciousness and efficiency. (I’m still flabbergasted about witnessing one monastic brother using a hand immersion mixer to make hummus from fresh garbanzo, enough for all to enjoy.)

In a brief meeting earlier, we’re reminded that we’ll practice eating in noble silence.

“Silence heals. We allow it to penetrate our flesh and bones.”

Noble silence means that I breathe deeply and enjoy the stillness and the freshness of quiet. I don’t talk to the person by my side. I do not have to wait for anyone after I serve myself.

I practice eating awake to its spiritual and physical benefit.

That means chewing well (every mouthful at least thirty times) so saliva has a chance to aid the digestive process. (I hear my stomach thanking me in advance for such kindness.) It also means eating with reverence for life.

“Consume in a way that preserves peace, joy, and well-being in your body, the collective body of your family, our society, and earth.” I feel myself open to consider the interdependence of such an intention.

I recall my husband’s annual diligence to grow vegetables for us. I transfer this effort to what it takes to feed 900 of us tonight.

“Eat with your whole being.”

I take a bowl and fill it with tastes of everything, carefully considering portion.

I sit on a ledge near a garden, take out my turquoise polka-dot cotton cloth and open each corner as if unfolding an origami. I spread it on my lap.

I look into my bowl.

I focus on a kale leaf and see the rain, sun, and earth. I see seeds sown, pollinators, farmers, transporters and cooks who bring it to my plate. I tell myself, “Be gentle with yourself. Really try not to gulp, Susan.”

I close my eyes as if understanding for the first time the grace of such a nourishing gift.

I take a bite and put my fork down.

Quietly to myself I say,  “Kale, kale, kale” as a way to stay aware of what I’m chewing and to not occupy my mind with anything else. 

I feel fortunate to have nutritious food to eat and even more fortunate to have a community to slow my pace.

From time to time I look at the people sitting nearby, stop chewing and smile. A bell sounds and I take three breaths.

I take another bite. But my teeth quicken the pace.

They connect with my habit of a few chews and push the food to my tongue. My stomach growls its way into the scenario. But I know what’s going on. I think, “No swallowing yet.” My tongue pushes the food back over to my teeth.  I take a breath.

My teeth chew.

I think I have a little Thay story in the making. I remember a lesson he shares about how he was hammering a nail to the wall to hang a picture. He admits he’s not skilled with the hammer and instead of hitting the nail, he hits his finger. And what happens? Immediately, the right-hand put down the hammer and takes care of the left hand. In a hand-hugging gesture.

The right hand never says in a blaming way, “Left hand, I’m taking good care of you, you should remember that. Hold the nail steady.” And the left-hand doesn’t say critically, judgmentally, and with revenge, “Right hand, you hurt me and made me suffer. What lousy work. I want justice, give me that hammer.”

I transfer that story to my current plight: my tongue doesn’t say, “Hey, teeth! You’re slackers. Get with the program.” My teeth don’t say, “Lazy tongue, get busy.” My stomach doesn’t yell up to my teeth and tongue, “You’re bad at this.”

No. Tongue gently pushes food back over to teeth. And teeth keep chewing and when they’re done, the tongue takes the food and signals a swallow, no questions asked. Stomach does its job as it always has.

I think, “Hey, I’m awake to eating in this moment.”

I notice that my spoon holds a macadamia nut. Even though I know that this dense circular nut needs 60 – 120 inches of rainfall a year and the sunshine of Hawaii, it’s not the first nut on my favorite list. I think, “Susan, no discrimination,” and chew it with appreciation. It’s a tastier nut than I remember.

I pause every once in a while to gaze at the garden and woods in the distance.

After dinner, I carry my bowl to the dish-wash lines.

I wait my turn breathing in and out. I can already feel myself slowing down.

The soapy water invites completion to my dinner. I gently move the sponge back and forth over my bowl and spoon before rinses in multiple tubs. I turn and place my dishes in a rack for sanitizing and smile at the person overseeing that task.

My steps are deliberate and soft as I head back to my cabin.

I see that I’m doing very much the same things as I do at home: walking, eating, working, washing hands and dishes, making my bed, except now I’m learning to do them with an awareness that I am doing it. 100% with the present activity, moment.

At the end of the week, I weigh six pounds less and feel better than I have in years.