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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 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, 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.
∞