In November, 1988, I went on a Buddhist pilgrimage to Northern India lead by Zen master/poet/peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh. Thirty of us (Vietnamese refugees living in Canada, Australia, Europe and the United States, Western followers of Nhat Hanh, and a few Indians) travelled on a bus from sacred site to sacred site for thirty days. Each day we would awaken before dawn, walk from our fairly humble hotel to the park or temple of interest, and sit, walk and smile. Thay recommended we recite the following gatha as we walked and sat, following our breath, each word on an inhalation or exhalation:

In, out

Deep, slow

Calm, ease

Smile, release

Present moment

Wonderful moment.

After breakfast, Thay would deliver a dharma talk. Having recently completed a biography of the Buddha, he expounded eloquently on the details of the Buddha’s life and teachings. In our minds, the Buddha stepped out of the realm of myth and magic and into the fleshy incarnation of a real human being with a family, friends, disciples, political liasons, emotions, sickness and very good taste in spiritual sites. We were often moved to tears by the stories of the Buddha’s experiences, and often smiled in recognition of our own life situations.

Thay, a renowned poet in Vietnam, encouraged us to recite poetry, sing songs, and engage in dharma discussions at our daily tea ceremonies. The following are two poems from the pilgrimage.

VULTURE PEAK

(Vulture Peak is a small mountain in Rajgir where the Buddha first ordained monks. At the foot of the mountain are brick ruins of the first monastery, which housed up to a thousand monks. Pilgrims from all over the world walk up the mountain in the footsteps of the Buddha, lighting candles and incense, bowing, chanting and pressing gold leaf onto the cave walls and boulders. Along the cobbled paths, small signs inform the tourists that this site was “the Buddha’s favorite resort.” At the top of the peak a small rectangular flat area with a simple rock altar offers panoramic views of the lush valley and vivid sunrises and sunsets. Monks and nuns from Japan, Viet Nam, Burma, Thailand, China, Nepal and Tibet conduct ceremonies in this simple open-air temple. I learned that it is customary to circumambulate sacred structures counterclockwise, with one’s right side nearest the structure. Monk’s robes leave the right shoulder bear in order to be unveiled in front of the Buddha.)

I am walking slowly

one foot after the next

and then another

following a parade of

saffron robes

bare right shoulders

shaved heads.

I am walking up a mountain

and down again

saying hello

and goodbye again

watching my breath rise

and set again.

The sun sets behind

a jagged mountain range

melts my eyes

into salt pools

loss.

The half moon hanging

mid-sky welcomes

the dark.

And I walk

one foot after the next

and then another

followed by a parade of

saffron robes

bare right shoulders

shaved heads.

We each stop

at the same spot

bow bellies

flat to the ground

worshipping a possibility

lighting candles to

a state of mind

beating drums to the heart

ringing bells to the place

where fear has no object

love no discrimination

death no dominion

and I walk

one step after the next

and then another

and I walk

one step after the next

and then another.

LUMBINI

(Lumbini, a small town in Southern Nepal, is the birthplace of Lord Buddha. It was the custom in those days for a woman to give birth to her first child in the home of her parents. The Buddha’s mother was on her way to her parents’ home when she stopped in a garden in Lumbini to rest. She bathed in the “tank,” a small man-made pool, and upon emerging from the water, went into labor. In the mythology, many miracles attended the birth. Five days later, the Buddha’s mother died, presumably from childbirth complications.)

A furious roar of flapping

and a hundred dark birds

rise into the gilt-edged dawn.

Lift carry step,

I tell myself,

to keep my mind on walking

but I am flying

down the ancient road

high above the snow pink

sunrise peaks

that capture the distance.

I land by the pool

where Buddha’s mother bathed

heavy with the seed of myth.

I paint my forehead with the water

that washed blood from the

complicated birth

(making it seem like magic)

but still the demon death

collected the life

of the holy mother.

I sit in the cradle

of history

breathing the rhythm

of joy and sorrow.

A tympani of flapping

and a Chinese family of

squawking clown white geese

pounce into the sacred tank.

In breath out breath

I tell myself

to keep my mind on sitting

but I am bathing

in still water

before being born,

before dying.

∞

From the Summer 1989 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 6, No. 1)

Text © Nina Wise 1989-2022