using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Buddhadharma : Spring 2010
buddhadharma: the practitioner’s quarterly spring 2 0 10 66 and I shrugged, letting the sheer happiness wash over us all for a minute. What had caused such suffering on Friday was now bringing the house down on Tuesday. Talk about transforma- tion. Go figure. I began to recite the poem. I wanted to sit at the feet of the master When Friday I heard these words of disaster: “I write this letter from Mass General,” you said And from 900 people, an audible dread. I came to experience life without fear And what do you know? Thich Nhat here! We came from Virginia, Montana, DC From the mountains and deserts, by land and by sea. Spent money, took time, from far and from near. And what had we heard? Thich Nhat here! Your brave monks and nuns did not miss a beat. We sat there stunned, nailed to the seat. A very good thing we had silence while dining; In our heads, dear Thay, trust me we were whining. My roommate was snoring, the room hot as hell But your monks they were smiling and ringing the bell And all we could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit. And we did not like it, not one little bit. But as the days passed, though we thought of you often Maybe you did us a favor in Boston. What we did learn with you far back east Is we are the sangha, we are the feast. And who can contain your spirit so vast In a body that’s old and not built to last. By Sunday I looked at my roommate so dear And what do you know? Thay, he is here! The doctors in Boston would feel much chagrin To know you’re here where the air is so thin. You’re here, dear teacher, as we walk in the dark And sit in the hall and stand in the park. Your monks and nuns, they did not miss a beat They breathed and they breathed and they sat on their seat And it dawned on us all as we sat very still That you are the teaching as old as these hills And we live the practice, we light the way And wherever you go, Thay, and whether you stay I look in the eyes of my roommate so dear And what do you know, Thay you are here! There was not a sound in the meditation hall. I bowed to them, my sangha, and to the camera, for Thay our teacher. Our friend played the guitar and sang one of Thay’s poems. I’m sure Thich Nhat Hanh could not have been more present if he was smack in the middle of the room. When I walked off the stage, one of Thay’s nuns asked me for a copy of the poem, to give to Thay. Happily I handed it over. What do you know? I’m having personal contact with the master through a Dr. Seuss poem. Life is strange, no? On our final morning together many of us took transmis- sion of the five mindfulness trainings. We wore our best and sat together in the center of the hall. Those farther down the path sat all around us, surrounding us with love and sup- port. The monks and nuns wore yellow over the brown. They were resplendent. During part of the ceremony we “touched the earth” and did prostrations to connect deeply with the earth’s energy. Bowing deeply had never felt so good. As I put my forehead to the rug, I felt a wash of familiarity, like I had come home. When I first did prostrations years ago on a retreat I felt strange and awkward—who am I bowing to? I had wondered. No one, and everyone now was the answer. I could have spent the whole day on the floor. Thay is doing fine, I hear, his strong eighty-three-year-old lungs recovering well from an infection that would have felled a man thirty years younger. Guess all that good breathing paid off for him, our dear teacher. I am sorry you had to endure two weeks of IV treatment in the hospital, Thay. I’m sorry that’s what it took for me—for us—to understand that the teachings are never about the teacher. The Way is not about one person, one idol, but all of us—good souls on the path together, finding the Buddha, singing the dharma, and loving the sangha. So all we can do is to sit, sit, sit, sit, and we’ve come to love it. It really does fit. It had hardly occurred to me I’d be reading my Dr. Seuss poem to a thousand people while staring into a camera, recording the whole thing for Thay, with my hair in a ponytail on top of my head like Betty Lou Who. BörjeToBiaSSoN