Walking Meditation

 In honor of Thich Nhat Hahn's passing, I offer this essay written following a walking meditation at a retreat in 2009...

We gather in the parking lot, breath visible vapor swirling in the pre~dawn air. Jagged peaks rise on all sides, silhouetted against a lighter sky that still holds stars and the brighter shimmer of a few planets. A tiny Vietnamese woman, dressed in the plain brown robes of her lineage, leads us through gentle stretches as our numbers steadily swell. 

 

At the appointed time, she stops, places palms together, bows to us. We bow in return. She moves slowly through the throng we have become, and is joined by several other brown~clad monastics. We fall in behind them, matching our pace to their slow one. Inhale with one paired step, right and left. Exhale with the next, right and left. Inhale. Exhale. Step by slow step. And so begins this morning’s walking meditation. 

 

We traverse the adjoining parking lot. The only sounds are shoes brushing blacktop, the calls of a few just~waking birds, an occasional cough. We cross the narrow drive, merge onto the footpath that circumnavigates the large field. Sky gradually lightens as we walk. Stars recede, and mountainsides gain depth and texture. 

 

Those in front, far ahead now given the narrowing of the path, come to a standstill. It takes several steps, however, before this stillness passes as a wave through our slender line. Finally, we stop, too. I look up, see the sun’s light touching the craggy tors surrounding us. And then I turn and look behind.

 

A silent line of people stretches far back into the dim light, most having not yet left the parking lot. I didn’t realize there were so many of us! What is it about this long slender cord of humanity walking peacefully, silently, and with full awareness, that brings tears to my eyes? I don’t fully understand it, know only that wonder fills me.

 

Our slow progression resumes. We round the far end of the field and tears spring again. Another graceful line walks slowly, mindfully, silently toward us. Remembering only now that another group was to begin at a different location, I realize that I had only seen half our total before. There must be nearly a thousand of us! Yet it is not the sheer number of participants that touches me so. It is our coming together, this gentle walking in harmony and in gratitude, that brings me awe.

 

We meet at the center of the field. Our two separate lines spontaneously dissolve, individual streams flowing into a common sea. We sit. Outer stillness moves ever more deeply inside. Mountain air fills our lungs, flows out. A bell chimes. We breathe. Sunlight creeps down mountainside. Breathe. Birdsong rises. Breathe. A fresh morning breeze stirs hair, brushes skin. Breathe. A small bird dips suddenly, darts here and there among us just two feet above the ground, flies off again. And still, we breathe.

 

In the experience of this morning, we are not separate beings. Belief in individual drops of water and distinct streams gives way. We recognize that we are, in truth, the ocean. Many drops, one sea. 

 

The bell chimes again. We rise and bow~~to one another, to the beauty of the world around us, to the sea itself that both buoys and suffuses us. Our slow pace resumes as we move toward the meditation hall. Inhale with one paired step, exhale with the next. Inhale. Exhale. Step by slow step.

 

Our day has begun. 

Leia

For a related writing, click here.

 

 

Goodbye, dear Thay

 Zen Master Thich Nhat Hahn died three weeks ago at the age of 95. Born in central Vietnam, Nhat Hanh entered the monastery at the age of 16 to begin the practice of formal meditation and scholarly study. However, his life path was forever altered when war ravaged his country, particularly as it intensified during the 1960's. Engaged Buddhism was the term he coined for this new approach that blended a life of meditation with a commitment to alleviate suffering in the world.

This was meditation~in~action. While rebuilding bombed villages and setting up medical clinics, and while facing the possibility of their own deaths, the nuns and monks meditated. They breathed with an inner calm while building schools and while advocating for peace. 

This approach continued in all of Nhat Hanh’s subsequent activities, including retreats in which formal teachings were actively applied to the most ordinary moments of life. I was fortunate enough to have attended one such retreat led by Thay, an honorific meaning "teacher" in Vietnamese, and two others led by his monastics.

The most effective way to learn a foreign language is the immersion method. Rather than sitting with dictionary and grammar book, one actively lives the language with others. The retreats I attended were similar, though the language was not truly foreign to any of the attendees. It was a language known to us all, one as near as our own breath and as close as this very moment.

In the Thay~led retreat in 2011, 900 of us gathered for five days in magnificent Rocky Mountain National Park. We took part in periods of sitting meditation, though those were not the backbone of the retreat. We meditated continuously, living and breathing the present moment in every act. We were a village of meditators, each one of us committed to being as aware as possible, all of us living the reality that all is one, despite the divisions our earth eyes might see.

While eating, we looked deeply into the food on our plate, seeing sun and rain and numerous living beings reflected there. While walking slowly, we touched the earth with reverence. Listening to daily talks by Thay and others, discussing our experience in small groups, in virtually everything we did, we returned again and again to the spacious qualities of the present moment and the interconnectedness of all life.

Yet it was not bliss alone. The mind can be a tumultuous place. Without the usual methods of distraction and avoidance, habitual patterns of thought and emotion became more obvious. We were encouraged to greet these as opportunities to practice, a chance to transform difficulties while actively nurturing our positive capacities.

As one experience moved into the next, and each day streamed into the one that followed, my inner stillness gradually deepened and an openness to the world around me, simply as it was, grew. When my husband and I took off for a few days of camping following the retreat, I took the experience into the forest. I carry it with me still.

When I studied at a language school in Mexico four decades ago, I was thrilled when I first dreamt in Spanish. I recognized it as evidence that this new language had seeped deep into my core. One night soon after Thay's Retreat ended, I dreamt in the language of awareness. 

A person with whom I’d had a great deal of conflict was speaking in the way I often found offensive. In this dream, I did not react as usual. I saw clearly the pain that gave rise to his behavior and, importantly, recognized this same pain in myself, though it manifests differently. Rather than responding with anger or defensiveness, I breathed with compassion, for him and for me and for us all.  

My immersion program with Thay came to a close nearly eleven years ago. And yet it has never really ended. What was true in those five days remains true today, as it will remain true in all the tomorrows yet to come. We are one. Separation into discreet entities is an illusion. Peace is available to us all. If he and his monastics could live this as war raged around them, you and I can certainly do it now. And in this way, Thay will never die. He will live on in me and in you and in us all. 

Fare thee well, dear Thay. And from the depths of a heart you helped to become more open, more loving, I thank you.

Leia

For a related writing, click here.