Excerpt
26 June 1962
Medford, New Jersey
I am in a cabin called "Pomona" in the woods of northern New Jersey. It was sodark the night I arrived that I was startled my first morning by the beauty andpeacefulness here. Mornings here remind me of Phuong Boi, the monastery we builtin the highlands of central Vietnam. Phuong Boi was a place for us to heal ourwounds and look deeply at what happened to us and to our situation. Bird songsthere filled the forest, while sunlight collected in great pools.
When I arrived in New York City earlier this year, I couldn't sleep at all.There is so much noise there, even at three in the morning. A friend gave meearplugs, but I found them too uncomfortable. After a few days, I began to sleepa little. It's a matter of familiarity. I know some people who can't sleepwithout a clock ticking loudly. When Cuong, the novelist, came to spend thenight at Phuong Boi, he was so used to the sounds of Saigon traffic that thedeep silence of Dai Lao Forest kept him awake.
I awoke to that same deep silence here in Pomona. Bird songs aren't "noise."They only deepen the sense of silence. I put on my monk's robe, walked outside,and I knew I was in paradise. Pomona is on the shore of a lake that is largerthan Lake Ho Xuan Huong, in Dalat. Its clear water sparkles in the morninglight, and the tree-lined shore reveals leaves of every shape and color,announcing the waning of summer into autumn. I came here to escape the city'sheat and to live in the forest for a few weeks before beginning the fallsemester at Columbia.
That first morning, the faint sound of laughter teased my ears. I followed thesound even while I was buttoning my robe, and after a short while the path frommy cabin opened onto a wide clearing dotted with cabins. There, I saw dozens ofchildren brushing their teeth and washing their faces at an outdoor lavatory. Itwas Cherokee Village, an overnight camp for seven-to-ten-year-olds, one of the"villages" that make up Camp Ockanickon. That whole first day I played with theboys at Cherokee Village. They had found a golden-colored fawn with white spotsnamed Datino, and were feeding her oatmeal mixed with fresh milk and tendercabbage leaves.
I only brought a few books with me, and I haven't had time to read any of them.How can I read when the forest is so calm, the lake so blue, the bird songs soclear? Some mornings I stay in the woods all day, strolling leisurely beneaththe trees and lying down on the carpet of soft moss, my arms folded, my eyeslooking up to the sky. In those moments, I'm a different person; it wouldprobably be accurate to say that I am "my true self." My perceptions, feelings,and thoughts aren't the same as when I am in New York. Everything here appearsbrighter, I daresay miraculous! Yesterday I paddled a canoe more than a mile tothe north end of the lake. I tarried among the water lilies and only turned backas dusk began to stain the sky violet. Then it grew dark quickly. If I haddelayed a moment longer, I would not have found my way back to Pomona's landing.
The forest here doesn't have sim fruit like Phuong Boi, but it does have berriesthat are just as purple and sweet, called blueberries. Today I went with twoeight-year-old boys to pick some, and we stuffed our mouths until they turnedblue! The boys talked the whole time. One said he saw a bogeyman last night, ahorned devil who thrust his hand into the tent and grabbed the sleeping boys. Hesaid it with conviction, but it must have been one of the camp counselorschecking in on them at night. I half-smiled and continued to pick blueberrieswhen the boy stepped back and asked me loudly, "You don't believe me, do you?"
"I do, but only a little," I answered.
"Why?"
"Because what you say is hard to believe. It requires great effort to believeeven a little."
He looked crushed. That evening the two boys came to Pomona and both claimedthat they'd seen the bogeyman. They spoke convincingly, and I was forced toconcede.
"Okay, I believe you both."
Satisfied, they returned to Cherokee Village.
On days like this, I long for Phuong Boi. Dai Lao Forest is much more dense andwild. We even encountered tigers! I dream about Phuong Boi many nights, but inthese dreams, an obstacle always prevents me from entering. The more I long forPhuong Boi, the sadder I feel. Phuong Boi was our homeland. As Brother NguyenHung used to say, "Phuong Boi doesn't belong to us. We belong to Phuong Boi."Our roots are there, deep in the earth. People say that only sad memories staywith you, but it isn't true. Those were the happiest days of our lives, and now,because of our memories, each of us, wherever we are, turns toward Phuong Boilike a sunflower toward the sun.
When we first arrived at Phuong Boi, Nguyen Hung still lived in Dalat. Our grouphad suffered so many disappointments in our efforts to engage the ideals ofBuddhism in the lives of the people of Vietnam. Hung was ten years younger thanI but had already experienced as many disappointments. We all suffered becauseof the situation of our country and because of the state of Buddhism. We triedto create a grassroots Buddhism that would draw on the aspirations of thepeople, but we weren't successful. I wrote articles, published books, and editedmagazines, including the journal of the Buddhist General Association, to promotethe idea of a humanistic, unified Buddhism, but within two years the journal'spublication was suspended. The Association said it was due to the lack of funds,but it was really because the Buddhist leaders didn't approve of my articles. Atone meeting, they declared, "No one has ever used our magazine to preach to usabout unifying the Buddhist community!"
We felt lost. Our opportunity to influence the direction of Buddhism had slippedaway. The hierarchy was so conservative. What chance did we - young peoplewithout position or a center of our own - have to realize our dreams? I becameso sick I almost died, so I left the city to live in a small temple in Blaodistrict. Our other friends also scattered to the winds. It felt like the end.
But I couldn't find peace in Blao either. The temple there was also part of theBuddhist hierarchy. From time to time, Sister Dieu Am came from Djiring tovisit, bringing medicine and a few oranges. Thanks to her, we were able tomuster the courage to make Phuong Boi a reality. Now she lies peacefully in theheart of the earth.
I've been thinking a lot about Phuong Boi's beginnings. In Autumn 1957, Iconfided to Sister Dieu Am, "We've lost our last anchor. Perhaps our practiceisn't strong enough. We need a hermitage where we can devote ourselves topractice. Can you help us?"
She said that she would happily give us Plum Forest and return to Thien MinhTemple in Hue, but that she didn't have the authority. How dear and precious herheart was. I smiled and said, "To ask you to return to Hue would be worse thanus not having a place!" Sister Dieu Am dwelled at Djiring in the tranquility ofPlum Forest. That is why we named the bridge at the entrance to Phuong Boi,"Plum Bridge." How beautiful that bridge was, although it now lies broken anddecayed.
The many setbacks had taken their toll on our faith. We knew we needed a placeto heal our wounds, nourish ourselves, and prepare for new initiatives.Conversations like that one gave birth to our resolve to build a hermitage, andwe chose Dai Lao Forest, a remote and quiet place with plenty of space,mountains to contemplate, clear streams, gardens, and paths for walking, as theplace to do it. The thought of such a hermitage appealed to us like cool waterto a desert traveler, like a gift to a young child. We envisioned a place wherewe could cultivate the practices that were needed for the people of our time.Dai Lao Forest is about four miles north of Blao, where the highest mountainsrise up. At that time, the forest belonged to the Montagnards, the hilltribespeople, and was being sold by them quite cheaply. Plots along both sidesof the highway were being cleared for cultivation or preserved as virgin forest.
The first time we drove up the dirt road into the deep and mysterious Dai LaoForest, Sister Dieu Am, Dieu, and I knew that we were seeing the future. Thename "Phuong Boi" expressed our ideal to serve the roots of our preciousBuddhist culture. Phuong means "fragrant," "rare," or "precious." Boi is thekind of palm leaf on which the teachings of the Buddha were written down inancient times.
This part of the forest was under the jurisdiction of a village named B'suDanglu. After several weeks, Sister Dieu Am, Dieu, and I managed to map out thesixty-acre parcel we wanted, and we offered 6,500 piasters (approximately $90)for it. We weren't trying to take advantage of the easy-going Montagnards. Thatwas the going price for land there, and in fact we offered them an additional3,500 piasters ($50). We completed the transaction with two friendly men namedK'Briu and K'Broi, neither of whom could read or write. But the regional chiefof Blao, named K'Bres, and his district chief, named K'Dinh, could.
On a sunny day in August 1957, Tue and I arrived at the chief's office to signthe papers. I signed it "Nhat Hanh," the first time I'd signed a deed. At thebottom of the contract were the fingerprints of K'Briu, K'Broi, and the deputyprefect of B'su Danglu; the signatures of K'Bres and K'Dinh; and my ownsignature. Thus, I became a property owner, a fact that the communists wouldlater use to denounce me.
Copyright © 2000 Thich Nhât Hanh. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-57322-796-X
