Walk With Me, Thich Nhat Hanh

My friend Kelly and I finally got to see Walk With Me, the film about the monastic tradition of Vietnamese Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh that has been in the works for years. As a member of the larger sangha of the Plum Village tradition, having met with a small group of friends, new and old, for more than fifteen years, I have waited in happy anticipation for its release.

I was going to call it a documentary, but it is more than that. It isn't fiction. It is a meditative experience that exposes the viewer to some of the most graceful elements (and some amusing ones) of the life of nuns and monks in the Plum Village tradition, and those who come on retreat with them. There is a lot of silence. There are a lot of gentle bells. There are smiles and tears and yes, tiny motes of instruction to have it all make sense to the Western mind.

There are moments here and there where the deep, dulcet voice of Benedict Cumberbatch reads from Thich Nhat Hanh's book, Fragrant Palm Leaves: Journals, 1962–1966. These journals were written at a time when he was in exile from his beloved country because of his peace activism. They are extraordinarily beautiful and profound reflections, and move like a thread of silver through the happenings, and nonhappenings, of the film.

I want to see it again. And I am grateful still more that I have the support and inspiration of this wonderful community.

If Walk With Me is not scheduled to appear in your town, suggest a venue to the organizers (you can find them on Facebook), or ask your local film festival or theatre to schedule some showings. In Vancouver, the film festival added several showings because the first ones all sold out. These ones are selling out, too. It is probably a good bet for your theatre.

A lotus for you, Buddhas to be!

Casey

The Long Road Leads to Joy

More than forty years ago I set off with two friends on a journey across a vast stretch of country. It wasn't the first time I'd taken a long trip paid for by thumb, nor was it quite the last. But something changed as a result of that particular voyage, as I suppose it did, in other ways, through all the others as well.

Before we left the small automotive city where we had met, three strangers from three different worlds who became good friends, I was caught in a directionless, rootless life. Shortly after we landed in Vancouver, the city I had longed to return to, I began to commit myself to life in a concrete way. I became an activist, volunteering for several years in feminist collectives, a rape crisis centre and a women's bookstore; I began doing Radical Therapy, where I learned about the social causes of personal troubles; I began digging deep into what the dynamics were among women and men, classes of people, and so on, that led to the great disparities in our lives and the monumental challenges in understanding and communicating that we faced. I grew more aware of my own limits and needs, and indeed my own limitations. I learned to receive and give support in new ways, to be more self-reflective, to believe in my goals.

Over time I got a little too serious. You won't often see me taking months out of my life to explore the world anymore. I have projects, I have illnesses, I have commitments. I don't remember the last time I just lay out in the sun and dreamed about the clouds. I am learning, though, more practical and better controlled ways to find rest and renewal. My Buddhist sangha is one part of that. I am embarking, right now, on a new leg of the journey, enrolling in a year long Complex Chronic Diseases Program at Women's Hospital. Whatever other projects I attempt to complete in the coming months, the centre is that program, the quest for greater health and energy through effort, rest, and increased understanding and support. This is a very cool thing.

There have been long, harsh periods on the road. Times of anguish, times of drought, times when I could not get a lift no matter how I tried. There have been times of rapt absorption, times of silliness, times of deep satisfaction, times of deep regret.

I am not old, but I feel old in many ways, because of my illnesses. I have no idea how long I will be treading the roads. Surely less time than I have already walked. My goal is only, as long it has been, to walk it well. To put one foot in front of the other with awareness and compassion--for myself, for those I meet along the way, from ants to elephants. Whatever I do, I do it, generally, invisibly. I am more comfortable that way. But just because I am not bouncing along beside you doesn't mean I don't know that you are there. You are my companions. We travel, and join, and separate, and change, and intersect again as life permits.

I have no idea if this is making sense. I have been in a fog of exhaustion for months. But I wanted to call out to you from my dwelling place on the path. To let you know I haven't forgotten you. To send you blessings as you wander your own long road.







Note: The Long Road Leads to Joy is the title of a book on walking meditation by Vietnamese Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh.

Image: Casey and Rachel. Photo credit, Vera.

Done

Whoo. I try to post something roughly once a month here, but I have had my nose pressed so close to the grindstone that it's looking a lot blunter than before. For more than three months I worked away, day and night (well, day and evening) on a project I had to get done, tout de suite, and everything else took a back seat. Or a trunk. Or went spinning out the window on the breeze.

Now, it's done. There are a few small details left to sort out, and new projects have already begun (and old ones been resumed, and postponed Important Matters begun to be dealt with). But the weight has lifted off my shoulders in a tremendous way.

I love working. I love feeling a sense of purpose, pouring my heart and mind into something that seems important to me in some way, that will benefit someone, I hope, besides myself. (Though I'm happy if it benefits me, too.) But because my energy is so all-over-the-place, no matter how hard I try, it takes ages to get anything done, it wipes me out, it interferes with the things I need to do to keep healthy, and it worries me. That's the worst part—the worry.

But I almost don't care. I am grateful that I have some work of value in my life, even if it doesn't pay, even if it isn't what I hoped to do when I was young. I'm grateful that I have stayed with it long enough to have some skill. I'm grateful that it does have meaning for a few other people, too.

I've been sleeping ridiculously poorly lately. But I don't care. It screws my day up; I can only think a tiny bit and so get little work done. But I just feel so gall-darned pleased with everything. Even if I'm tired, even if I'm a little anxious, even if anything. I'm just glad to be alive.