Ultimate Dimension

The Sound of a Great Bird

The old path

and his footprints—

the perfume of time does not smell of the violet;

the color of time is not the color of the sky.

Dust on my way,

moss on the wild stone,

soot on the old wood—

time is not flowing.

The unlimited is concentrated—

above my head, the thundering sound of passing wings.

In his very hand is found

the power to open or to close.

Let the wanderer return to his starting point.

I find myself today all alone

at this crossroads

that offers both opening and closing,

mounting and descending.

In a startling moment

the echo of the ages,

the sound of the walking steps,

projected to the present

shakes me

awake.

“One open, one closed—that is Tao,” is a sentence from the Tao Te Ching. This poem was written at the same time as “Beckoning.”

The Beauty of Spring Blocks My Way

Spring comes slowly and quietly

to allow Winter to withdraw

slowly and quietly.

The color of the mountain this afternoon

is tinged with nostalgia.

The terrible war flower

has left her footprints—

countless petals of separation and death

in white and violet.

Very tenderly, the wound opens itself in the depths of my heart.

Its color is the color of blood,

its nature the nature of separation.

The beauty of Spring blocks my way.

How could I find another path up the mountain?

I suffer so. My soul is frozen.

My heart vibrates like the fragile string of a lute

left out in a stormy night.

Yes, it is there. Spring has really come.

But the mourning is heard

clearly, unmistakably,

in the wonderful sounds of the birds.

The morning mist is already born.

The breeze of Spring in its song

expresses both my love and my despair.

The cosmos is so indifferent. Why?

To the harbor, I came alone,

and now I leave alone.

There are so many paths leading to the homeland.

They all talk to me in silence. I invoke the Absolute.

Spring has come

to every corner of the ten directions.

Its song, alas, is only the song

of departure.

1951. This was written less than twelve hours after I fell in love with a nun. It happened at the Vien Giac Temple on New Year’s Eve in the beautiful village of Cau Dat in the highlands. She was twenty. Both of us realized that we wanted to continue being a monk and a nun. So we decided to depart from each other. This was not easy. I was lucky to have a loving and understanding Sangha with me at that time that made it possible. Forty-one years later, I told this love story in a twenty-one day retreat at Plum Village in English, on the theme of Vipassana meditation in the Mahayana tradition.

Unclasp

Deserted beach,

footsteps in the sand

erased by rain—

this anguish comes from nowhere,

and its feet do not yet touch the Earth.

Suddenly I hear a far-off whisper

of the gentle winds of Spring,

and the anguish is gone.

1966. A feeling of anxiety can be transformed with a few conscious breaths. The anxiety is like a cloud trying to land on me. I breathe in and out, and it vanishes.

Silence

The paper smells wonderful

as I turn the pages of this ancient book.

The water in my glass

smiles to me with crystal eyes.

Suddenly oceanic waves come up one after another

with their foamy heads.

A cold stone

summons the fog

up on the distant mountain

where the wind is howling hard.

I wake up.

The tip of my tongue is frozen

by the dewdrops

that have been sent to me

by a blade of grass on a late night.

Light flashes across

like the blade of a sword.

Perhaps it is the beginning of a storm.

Clouds rise very quickly.

From the East, urgently,

the sound of the horns is calling.

Where is my palm-leaf raincoat of years ago?

The winds are chasing after the leaves.

The lines and strokes

your brush used to trace

are brown,

the color of your arm,

the sweat that penetrates the rice field.

In this moment, our planet is lost

somewhere in the unknown,

and the giant bird

is shaking its wings in outer space.

Space in puddles

is splashing.

Space is exploding.

There is a sun

struggling up and down

in the ocean

like a giant fish with enormous red eyes.

My telephoto lens

is trying to catch the images of prehistory.

Look! The door is just unlocked,

and the future is let free.

For many lives,

that door has prevented the future from fleeing.

This morning on my way to the woods,

through the singing of the bird,

I know you are there, free,

free on a green path.

There are buds, flowers, and tiny leaves

waving to space.

The hand,

the hand that holds the baton of the talented artist

conducts the world of sound.

All sounds return

to this one point

of great silence,

this point

of great emptiness.

There is too much light—

too much light for a baby just entering life.

I see now

our grandmother

with her hair tied behind her head

in the form of an onion.

She is sweeping bamboo leaves.

She begins to gather the leaves into a pile

and burn them.

The smoke is rising,

warming up the sky.

The Buddha smiles behind a thin cloud.

Tonight the moon is full.

April

April is back,

among trees that stand

like pillars in a cathedral.

Compassion is like the rain

that comes from mountains and forest.

The motherly hands, so wondrous,

prepared for our arrival

in the warmth and light of Spring.

On the first day I was brought to life,

strange birds came from all directions to sing.

I was like a naive deer.

I looked at the blue sky,

the clear water, the young leaves.

I learned to touch

when everything from the deep Earth

was ready to spring up.

The forest is trying to put on a new dress.

The little deer looks at his image in the water.

He listens to the murmur of foreign winds

as the sap of life is rising up.

He hears the singing in every bud of life.

My homeland is the rainforest,

where there are so many ancient trees

always straining to grow higher.

Every time the light streams down onto the trees,

the perfume of the jungle floats in the sky.

Above, white clouds hover and try to protect.

There is the forest.

There is also the meadow.

And there is a stream of water to refresh the Earth.

As soon as Earth and Sky brought me to life,

I was offered music by the birds

and fragrance by the trees.

I grow up.

Music is now played by the waters of the spring.

It is the second day.

And the deer comes up close to the stream.

He tries hard to listen.

The sap runs strong, urging the flower buds

who feel too shy to bloom.

In fact, it is already the third day.

The flowers are about to bloom.

The sunshine brings joy onto the delicate petals.

The fourth day has come. The cherry blossom starts the festival.

Do you hear something strange in the song of April?

On the fifth day, dawn comes with a surprise.

The forest wakes up in fragrance.

All of a sudden, you appear in the heart of the rainforest.

Step by step, you walk as if you are afraid to disturb us.

The deer looks at you with surprised eyes.

At that miraculous moment, you transform yourself

into a tiny flower

clinging to Mother Earth.

The sun is up.

One of your tiny petals carries a dewdrop

imitating the sun, shining forth.

The forest doesn’t seem to know that you are there,

although you have already begun to sing that immortal song.

Your song sounds as if it has been there forever

in the solemn atmosphere of the deep forest.

The little deer is still trying to find what has been born,

but it doesn’t seem that something has been added,

that something is new.

It doesn’t seem that you have gotten lost in the deep jungle,

because your song gets along wonderfully and harmoniously

with the concert of a season called Spring.

That tiny flower seems to have been

with Mother Earth from the beginning.

The little bird turns its head to the left and right, to look at you,

letting forth a string of crystal clear jewels.

Everything is participating in the concert—

birds, flowers, trees, creeks.

No one stops to ask the question,

“How long have you been present among us?”

Your presence, O little flower in the deep rainforest!

You are part of this interbeing

that knows no beginning and no end.

You have not been born. You are just now manifested.

The jungle has finished putting on her new dress.

On the tenth day, two children appear.

We don’t know where they come from.

They run through the meadow and talk to each other like birds.

Then they stop at the entrance of the forest.

The sunshine is playing something like a violin.

“April has come,” the older boy murmurs

into the ear of the younger one,

as if he had just discovered something very important.

They hold hands and try to listen.

Yes, it is the eternal song of Spring.

They look at each other.

“April has come to the forest.”

This time, it is the younger boy

who whispers into the ear of the older.

The sunshine is so warm.

Suddenly the little deer appears at the entrance of the forest,

his feet touched with the fragrance

offered by the innumerable flowers in the heart of the jungle.

A band of butterflies, attracted by this,

approaches the little deer.

The sunshine continues to play the violin.

The creeks continue to penetrate softly into the meadow,

but the deer and the children have disappeared.

They are lost in the deep forest,

trying to find out the center of the music.

Suddenly there are terrible explosions.

A flock of iron birds has come.

Fires are spit on the meadow, creeks, and jungles.

Clouds disperse. Music is blown away.

The singing stops in all the trees.

Flowers fold up their petals. Perfumes are withdrawn.

The water stops reflecting the sky. Birds keep silent as if at night.

Finally, the iron birds are gone.

Peace is restored among the trees.

The forest is able to smile again,

and the concert resumes.

It does not seem to have been disrupted.

The good news is transmitted from leaf to leaf.

All voices are sweet.

The little deer and the children have discovered

the tiny violet flower.

(The flower has never stopped singing.)

The younger child takes the head of the deer in his arms

while the older caresses him.

Everything and everyone join in the everlasting song

of the ineffable presence.

Out there, the sunshine plays its violin.

April is whole in the forest.

Tiny streams of water penetrate

silently into the Earth,

and innumerable flowers appear

over the green meadow.

The Little Buffalo in Pursuit of the Sun

Somewhere among the Clouds

This time, the young novice truly did not know where his master had gone. He was certain of one thing: Early this morning, his master had gone far up the mountain to gather medicinal plants. Or maybe he was gathering a few strips of clouds hanging from the top of young pine saplings.

“Novice, why don’t you invite your visitor inside your hut and offer him a nice cup of hot tea?”

“Illustrious visitor, my master left for the mountain to gather some medicinal herbs. Perhaps he will soon return…”

“While waiting for your master to return, invite your visitor to have a cup of tea. Why have you left him at your door for such a long time? There is so much mist that his robe is already completely wet. Can’t you see it?”

“Sir, if this is urgent, let me go up the mountain to look for him. The clouds are thick, but if I cup my hands around my mouth, I can call to him: ‘Master, where are you? I’m looking for you. A visitor is waiting for you.’ ”

“Well, novice, don’t worry. If you allow me, I’ll make myself at home. I simply wish to sit here, drink a cup of tea, contemplate the mountain and the forest enveloped by mist. Don’t disturb your master. Let him return when he wishes. Waiting doesn’t bother me.”

Two giant pines marked the entrance to the path leading to the hut. The visitor was deep in thought: “Is this Cuu Lung Mountain of the Four Valleys? I told myself this morning that I wouldn’t climb all the way up to this hut to see the master, but start searching for myself instead. I am a stubborn child who has wandered for thousands of lives in the cycle of birth and death. Now, I wish to go back to my parents. Full of anger and self-pity, my heart has wept for so many lifetimes. This morning, dear novice, your eyes seem to give my heart some respite. I was hesitant, but your soft and courageous eyes have filled me with light.”

The visitor prostrated; his forehead touched the floor of the main sanctuary where the stone was cool.

“Here I am,” he said, “I have returned. I am no longer the prodigal son. I no longer want to cling to this world of struggles and hatred. Today, I am reborn. This is the day of my rebirth. The multitude of flowers and leaves are my witnesses. I have returned. I am profoundly grateful to you, for the infinite blessing of your love. There are many clouds here, but it is in this very place that I shall see your face and my own face.”

The hut hangs from the side of the mountain; behind it are many little paths. High up, nestled in the clouds, the peak has towered over the mountain since the beginning of time, guarding and protecting. Every afternoon, clouds come to crown the mountain top and wrap themselves warmly around its base. The hut sleeps in the heart of the clouds.

When the Flowers and Leaves Listen Attentively

Where is Phuong Boi, the Monastery of Fragrant Palm Leaves? Right here. Phuong Boi is a forest surrounded by tea plantations, which perfume the air from early morning. Five people are walking to the foot of the hill in order to taste a young tea plant, bitter and fragrant, sharp and refreshing. The little path is welcoming. On either side, the leaves listen attentively. Each leaf, each flower, is an ear. Crimson foxgloves stand tall to listen and understand. Each leaf is also a hand outstretched. What are you listening to so attentively? To these passersby who speak like poets? They express deep feelings that have remained unchanged for thousands of lifetimes.

The breeze that caresses the hill, the fresh grass of April, the murmur of the stream in summer, the halo of clouds around the mountain top, the twittering of birds, the song of the reeds, have they all shared the same language? The green reed and yellow flower are reflections of the soul. The moon half hidden in the white clouds is also a wonderful manifestation.

Dear friends, pay attention, listen. These passersby talk to themselves, just as you do, standing between earth and sky, in this sublime reality. Let us be their witness. There are five or six or nine people walking together. Sometimes, there is only one. They have passed by here, caressing us with their hands. Their eyes shone with a thousand sparks when they noticed our presence. We are not illusions in a dream: lavender, green; straight lines, curved lines; paths, near and far; masses of stars of five different colors; small bouquets of rosy sunshine; the long, pale pink fingers.

We have welcomed, greeted, and accepted them in our midst. We remain peacefully in the palms of their hands, that have cherished us and lavished so much attention and care on us. My dear older sister eucalyptus, stretch out your long branches loaded with leaves right to their tips. My dear little sister lily, young bud, smile! Life is full. Nothing is wasted, nothing is superfluous in the kingdom this morning. Our dear sun is still here. This afternoon, perhaps I will depart; tomorrow, my children will bloom. The flowers and leaves of tomorrow will forever be present, therefore I will always be present. Let us support them together. They have made the great vow. No sooner do I receive the message than I transmit it. It will pass from leaf to leaf, from branch to branch.

The Clouds on the Mountain Top

The message reached the mountain top, and the white clouds heard it. The branches and leaves high up on the mountain waved their hands. The great vow inscribed on a page of the great book of life changed into a script of moon and stars and unfurled into a magnificent cloud. Droplets of water flew up high. Who has the power to capture a net of dew pearls?

Tomorrow, the clouds will thicken and fall down as rain. The message will penetrate the five continents and the four oceans. This morning, it will touch its native land of Phuong Boi, the Monastery of Fragrant Palm Leaves, in the Dai Lao forest, the forest of the great age, and the little children playing in the tender green meadow; it will touch the Medford forest in a summer shower; the hermit’s well on Mount Na; the rock on Mount Yen Tu, where the great master of the Bamboo Forest still dwells; it will be everywhere.

A Twilight of Perfect Clarity

Is this twilight the only thing in existence of such awesome beauty? Here are the mist, the clouds, the rivers, the water, the maple at the river’s edge, the flickering light of an oil lamp on a fishing boat, yet I do not feel homesick for my country.

Lying down in the heart of my homeland, I watch the mountain through the clouds and the clouds through the mountain. Stretched out on the side of the hill, my gaze turns toward the West, through the lines of trees in the distance. The twilight is perfectly clear. Just like me, the sky and the earth are transforming in every instant. Each fraction of time is splendid, each fraction of time is sublime. I stretch out; my back rests against the soft pillow of the hill. I doze off. Life is singing, in this great reality, in each of her wonderful aspects. One thing embraces all things. The peak guards the peace of my slumber.

The clouds rendezvous on the mountain.

They are multiplying.

The past and future no longer exist.

The present expresses itself in its fullness.

I sit down again.

The sound of the hunting horn no longer oppresses us.

The scent of the grass is intoxicating.

Laurel Leaves

Do you remember, young novice? That morning, at the foot of the hill, I showed you a sturdy laurel, and you doubted that it was indeed a laurel. How did it manage to become so big? I pinched a little leaf and squeezed it between my fingers so you could smell its fragrance. Then you confirmed that it was indeed a laurel.

I told you how I love the flavor of laurel leaves, of thyme, coriander, mint, parsley, and other aromatic herbs found in abundance in our homeland. The leaves of the river-tea-tree and the guava tree have a unique taste and fragrance, which I like so much. Although tiny, the leaf of the guava tree is the immutable emissary of a particular and incomparable scent.

Dear novice, if, in the future, we are able to journey to faraway planets, the aroma of a single laurel leaf will remind us of how much we miss our own planet, our country, and our homeland.

How marvelous is the reality of the present moment! Each leaf is a universe of taste, scent, and memories. Each one is a unique world, both spiritual and temporal. A single leaf encompasses the entire universe. We tremble at this revelation that inspires great devotion. We bow in front of the miracle of this manifestation. We no longer dare neglect the smallest thing: leaf, stone, or fragrance.

Dearest friend, your voice is yours, unique. I remember in the past I used to listen to it on a tiny cassette tape; yet it opened up a vast and bright world for me, which was its very own, a realm of past, present, and future. One day, someone told me that you had telephoned, announcing that you would come and meet me at the foot of the mountain. How strange the telephone is, this invention of ours that aims to prolong the presence of the phenomenal world.

Certain wondrous phenomena respond to the human need to know the infinite, truth, beauty, goodness. Others, deliberately enigmatic, remain inaccessible to our brains and hearts. Humans are much too accustomed to penetrating the universe with a narrow and limited mind, ignoring the eighty-thousand doors that are always open, at our disposal.

That morning, dear novice, you watched me with sparkling eyes. Now I see your eyes again, wide open like a window, that offered me a vision of the splendor of the world, of reality as it is. My child, you are the key. You are the mouthpiece of the whole universe, of ultimate reality as it manifests in yellow flowers and violet bamboo. Looking at you, I see each stone, each leaf, the entire universe. I see my true home in a young laurel bud.

Duong Xuan Hill

The osmenthus is one of the most precious flowers of Duong Xuan (Springtime of Yang) Hill. The hill is mostly covered with rocks and stones. Our mother pagoda, the first pagoda built by the founding father of our lineage, was built there more than 150 years ago. The osmenthus there are scrawny; their trunks and branches are covered with whitish mold. Their fragrant white flowers cluster in little bunches, pressed between thin, angular, delicate branches.

At that time, I was as old as you, and every afternoon around three o’clock, I would pick two or three bouquets for Grandfather Monk Su-ong’s tea, for that is how we respectfully called the highest monk in our order. Few flowers bloomed at the same time, but they bloomed every season. The flowers that stayed on the branches dried up, turned yellow, and fell.

Sometimes, deep inside the tiny corollas, dark yellow insects hid. They were as tiny as grains of sand. I, the novice Phung Xuan, tried to dislodge them by shaking the flowers over a sheet of white paper. Phung Xuan is my Dharma name, connecting me to my lineage. It means “Walk towards Spring.” I would then lay the little bouquets on the palm of my left hand and lift them to my nostrils to inhale their perfume. How delicious! Finally, I would put them inside the teapot with a few leaves of green tea and pour the boiling water over them.

Around twelve, venerable Grandfather Monk liked his tea to be brought to his table. He would drink a few drops, just enough to wet his tongue, then pour another small cup, which he gave to the novice respectfully standing back. The novice waited to serve the tea and drink with him. What joy for a student.

The afternoons were very peaceful in our mother pagoda. The shade of the great Dharma hall unfurled its freshness on the long row of water jars lined up beside the building that sheltered Grandfather Monk Su-ong’s room. The main entrance to the Lac Nghia (Joys of Friendship) room was always open. In the center of the courtyard, the carambola tree spread out the shade of its foliage on the pond and rocks. From time to time, a yellow leaf would fall and gently lie on the surface of the water. The ageless rocks were encrusted with moss. Big, heavy fruit hung from the tree. Everyone proclaimed that these carambolas were as sweet, if not sweeter, than the oranges from Kwang Chou. In fact, a carambola is a carambola, and an orange from Kwang Chou is an orange from Kwang Chou. Each one contains a wondrous universe. These carambolas are prized for their crunchiness. Their flesh, neither too soft nor too juicy, allows us to eat and savor them without staining our hands or clothes. Their sweet taste is unique and does not resemble an orange in the least. It is the sweet taste belonging only to the carambola. Doesn’t my dear friend, Phung Xuan the novice, make you smile?

At the Tu Quang (Light of Kindness) pagoda, there was a monk named Trong An (Deep Gratitude). He had a wonderful character, very friendly and kind. He was a poet. Several monks and nuns had learned his poems by heart. His pseudonym, Truc Diep, meant Bamboo Leaf. Each year, on New Year’s Day, he would go to the mother pagoda to see Grandfather Monk Su-ong and his novice Phung Xuan. In honor of the occasion, the venerable Grandfather Monk would offer him a carambola, placed on a white plate, with a little knife for peeling it and removing the two ends. One pulls off the quarters with one’s fingers and savors them. One never uses a knife to cut a star-shaped slice. Before the visitor took his leave, Phung Xuan often offered a second carambola adorned with a few leaves to decorate Trong An’s room at the Tu Quang pagoda.

One does not eat a carambola while drinking tea.

The Jambosa Tree

Towards three in the afternoon, the sun’s rays were still burning hot. In spite of the heat, mindful work had already resumed in the meditation hall, in the cassava field, in the meadow, on the cliff, and in the library. His head covered by a large conical hat made of palm leaves, Grandfather Monk Su-ong went down to the lake or up towards the pine-covered hill. He came to oversee the work, make suggestions, and everyone appreciated his refreshing presence. He always carried his bamboo stick. He would stop here and there, radiant with joy, for ten or fifteen minutes. Sometimes the novice Phung Xuan would accompany him on his visit to the bamboo groves. The young can-giao bamboo shoots taste good and strong.

The taste and smell of tea influenced the whole afternoon in the monastery. The novice would cut a few bamboo shoots that grew too thickly close to the ground. His arms loaded, he would bring them to Auntie Tu, who prepared them with soy sauce for dinner. On some mornings, especially after a rainy night, the novice went hunting for mushrooms with Grandfather Monk Su-ong.

My dear children, when you return to the mother pagoda, I promise I’ll take you everywhere: to the hill, to the garden, along all the paths, to the bamboo grove, to the well. Then you will learn to see with the eyes of Su-ong, your Grandfather Monk, and with mine, that is to say, with your own eyes.

All the nooks and crannies overflow with memories. The white-washed wall next to the Tang Thap stupa is where, many years ago, the novices Tam Man (Fullness of the Heart) and Phung Xuan used to roast can-giao bamboos and fresh mushrooms on a fire made of pine needles. The meal started with the bamboo shoots, cooked to perfection and placed on a fig leaf; their bright yellow flesh was tender and sweet-smelling. The novices enjoyed them. The meal ended with the mushrooms: morels, boletus mushrooms, chanterelles, blue-feet mushrooms, and others…Carefully washed in the river, they were then rubbed with salt, then washed again. Finally, they were wrapped in fig leaves and laid on the fire. The novices relished them. The mushrooms were flavored with bay leaves, thyme, parsley, and mint picked in the pagoda garden.

When we are adolescents, we have a great thirst, a thirst for intimacy, for the forbidden, for fun, for mischief, a thirst to act wild. When we remember those times, we miss the bonds of friendship that we made at that age.

My children, I will bring you with me to visit the jambosa tree in the willow garden north of the pagoda. This tree has a close connection with Tam Man. His eyes were as bright as yours today. The two novices used to play under this tree for hours. Tam Man often climbed up the tree and Phung Xuan stayed down below. Tam Man threw ripe jambosas down to Phung Xuan. The two brothers played like this in the willow garden, on scorching afternoons, while other members of the community rested in their rooms.

Tam Man was younger than Phung Xuan. When you arrive at the pagoda, you will naturally become Tam Man and Phung Xuan. Nothing will have passed, nothing will be lost.

Wind

The well was made of stone and its water was icy. It was so pleasant to shower with the cool water in the evening, under a bright moon, or on summer afternoons. Two arms’-lengths of rope were all it took for the bucket to reach the water.

In the summer, Phung Xuan washed himself with the water at least once a day, sometimes two or three times. The water from the well was so refreshing. It was reserved for washing, watering plants, and washing clothes. A hedge of privets surrounded the well. The pagoda was so quiet that you could hear the sound of the bucket and the water streaming on the edge of the well from more than ten yards away. If someone was already at the well, you had to wait until he or she left before going over yourself. Tam Man and Phung Xuan didn’t obey that rule. Tam Man would exclaim: “Let me come in and have my shower as well. We’ll have fun.”

Near the well, there was a stone basin to wash clothes in. It had a hole, as round and small as a toe, which could be stopped with a cork. It’s probably no longer used today, but it is still there. You can see Phung Xuan doing his wash there. Novices drew water only from the upper well for drinking, cooking, and making tea. It was situated high up and had a cover. A small jar with a wooden top and a little scoop was placed near the tea kitchen on the path leading to the Ancestors’ hall. Every morning, Phung Xuan went to the kitchen to start the fire to boil water and prepare tea for Su-ong and the monks. In winter, our limbs froze while we made the fire. Phung Xuan wished the fire would catch quickly so he could warm up his numbed hands. You could always find small bundles of pine sticks in the kitchen that Auntie Tu had bought at An Cuu market. We used these to light the fire quickly. The kitchen was tiny and was reserved for preparing the morning tea. Nothing else could be done there.

When you return, my child, I will take you to visit Auntie Tu’s tomb, the Dieu Nghiem pagoda, the Tang Thap and Lang Vien stupa, and the pagoda’s mausoleums. I remember one day, in Lang Vien, when I was working as a guide for a group of students from Huê University, a wind blew up suddenly and quickly gained strength. It was very cold, and I invited the students to seek shelter inside the mausoleum. There, we were protected from the wind, which was howling among the pines. Then, a terrifying sound filled the earth and sky. A real storm! We all longed to be somewhere out of the wind. Later, I led the whole group to the kitchen where we warmed up. We stayed in its warmth for a long time.

The Trai Bui Olives and the Almond Tree

For your first meal, the novices will probably offer you some trai bui olives, a variety of smooth, purple olives that are only found in tropical countries, which are marinated in soy sauce. You can peel off their flesh with your fingers, tear it into little pieces, and dip it in a bowl of soy sauce. A novice will probably have cooked some olives with a little salted and fermented soy. You will develop such an appetite that you will want to devour all the rice in the pagoda. There are many olive trees of this variety at our mother pagoda. Each year, at harvest time, the novices offer olives to the other pagodas in the area. The pagodas Tay Thien, Thuyen Ton, Tu Dam, Bao Quoc, Linh Mu, and Tuong Van each receive a gift of three to five hundred olives. Sometimes a pagoda that has

not received its gift sends a reminder. One day, the novice Phu met a monk from True Lam pagoda on a mountain lane. He could not help asking him, “Have you picked many olives this year? You haven’t visited us yet. It would be nice if you brought us some.” The trai bui olives are truly precious.

At that time, Phung Xuan often asked himself why the other pagodas hadn’t planted olive trees. Perhaps it took many decades for an olive tree to bear fruit. Our mother pagoda had about ten olive trees. The most fruitful tree was behind the West hall and the Ancestors’ hall. Its trunk was very straight, and it had beautiful foliage. There was also one near the Venerable Patriarch’s stupa, not far from the century-old magnolia tree. The one that grew near the stable, close to the nut tree, was also very tall.

I haven’t yet told you the story of this nut tree. During the war, sometimes we had no oil in the pagoda. The novices had to gather nuts from the tree. They broke the shells and crushed the pulp so they could make dishes requiring oil. The nuts are tasty when roasted and crushed, but if you eat too many, you get a stomachache.

Chu Chi Chu Chi, Little Abbot Chu Tri

In 1964, the novice Nhat Tri (Unique Wisdom), your older brother, was accompanying me on an expedition up the river Thu Bon to help the victims of the floods. At that time, the war was raging, making our mission dangerous. The two warring factions were present in the region. Your older sister, Chân Không (True Emptiness), also accompanied us on our journey. All the members of the group were dressed in thin brown robes and walked barefoot. They were walking in full awareness, on the hard soil of Ca Tang, Son Khuong, Khuong Binh, Son Thuan, and Tu Phu regions. On either side of the river, bullets whistled by. At one point, Nhat Tri jumped in the water. When your brother wrote letters, his handwriting strangely resembled mine. You would not be able to distinguish it from mine. He was very active in starting Pilot villages, which gave birth to Tu Nguyen village (Volunteers of the Great Vow), as well as in the movement of Youth for Social Service, from 1964 to 1974.

“I am going to the field and I see a buffalo…” These are the first words of a song that he composed for the children of Thao Dien village. He taught at the School of Nightingales in Cau Kinh village and helped create Thao Dien village. The children gave him the nickname “chu tri tru tri” (“the little priest Tri”), which became “chu chi chu chi” because they lisped. Your older brother was an exemplary social worker. He put all his heart into serving others. One day in a street in the capital, an American soldier spat on his head from the height of a military truck. That soldier, under the sway of propaganda, saw communists disguised as Buddhist monks everywhere. When your brother came home that evening, he cried. I held him in my arms for a long time. During a mission to help the people, he disappeared. His friends and I waited for him for fifteen years. Alas, he never came back. My child, call him by his name, for he is your older brother.

Sister Chân Không often came to our mother pagoda to see Su-ong, the venerable grandfather. She stayed there when she came to teach at the Faculty of Sciences in Huê. The novices were happy to offer her trai bui olives and cheese made from tofu. Grandfather Monk Su-ong also enjoyed her visits very much. She would often bring him a package of dates, a loaf of gluten ham, and a pot of honey. Once, she brought a microscope for the little novices. They all pressed their heads together to look inside. Hearing them talking and laughing out loud, Grandfather Monk Su-ong could not resist sitting next to them and looking inside the eyepiece. When he discovered a corn pistil as big as a rope, he burst out laughing like a young novice. Young and old had the same spark in their eyes. What a wondrous scene! How can the gap between such distant generations be as thin as a hair or a thread of silk?

When you arrive at the mother pagoda, you will see Grandfather Monk Su-ong, with his wide conical hat, coming and going along the path that leads to the pond shaped like a half-moon. Every time I returned from a long trip, he would open his eyes wide and look at me for a long time, to make sure of what he saw in front of him, before expressing his joy; a very pure joy, childlike and innocent. I feel so much gratitude for Sister Chân Không, who took care of him in my absence, during all those years of trips and difficult missions.

The Little Buffalo

During the late afternoon, while weeding, Phung Xuan could hear Tam Man chanting inside the great Dharma hall, his voice as clear and full as a bell.

When evening came, sitting at the edge of the pond, he would listen to the chanting attentively till night fell. He did not even move to go down to the half-moon pond to wash his hands. The atmosphere was strange, enchanting, and the moon was so brilliant over Duong Xuan Hill.

Everything had converged to make Phung Xuan a poet. But poetry is not just moonlight. Like me, you know that poetry is also the swampy stagnant water, outer-space fire storms, broken down huts on the river’s edge, rescue attempts, bold and dangerous acts, yellow flowers, violet bamboo, and ultimate reality, as it is.

His voice, as clear and deep as a bell, is imprinted in me forever. I live with it, in it. It lives in me. Tam Man is an adult now, and Phung Xuan, also. Nevertheless, my children, in the ultimate reality, you can meet each other as young novices in the mother pagoda. At that time, no one owned a tape recorder to record Tam Man’s wonderful voice. Yet his voice is not lost. It still exists, he still exists. Phung Xuan still exists, just because you are there.

Do you see, my friend? The three of us together, Tam Man, you, our friend, and me, Phung Xuan, are running after each other at full speed on the side of the hill. Tender grass and April pines grow all around us. In the distance, we glimpse the forest. The little river is snaking around the foot of the hill. Barefoot, with no sandals or shoes, we run as fast as we can. Look, there is a little buffalo; he has seen the three children. He also starts to run. He follows us towards the sun. Towards the sun…

Against the flaming sunset is the silhouette of three children…

True Source

Where will I find the Himalayan range?

In me there is a strong and graceful mountain peak,

stretching up, lost in mist and clouds.

Let us go together to climb that nameless mountain,

let us sit on the ageless blue-green stone,

quietly watching time weave the silken thread

that creates the dimension called space.

Where does the Amazon River flow?

In me a winding river makes its way.

I don’t know from the depths of which mountain

it pours out.

Night and day, its silvery water

winds toward no fixed destination.

Let us go together, putting a boat

on its fiercely flowing stream,

to find our way together

to the common goal of all beings in the cosmos.

Which galaxy shall I call Andromeda?

In me there is a river of stars moving silently

with millions of brilliant stars.

Let us fly up together, tearing the net of space,

opening a way on the path of the clouds.

The sound of your flapping wings will reach

even the most distant planet.

Which species shall I call Homo sapiens?

In me there is a little boy.

His left hand lifts up the curtain of night.

His right hand holds a sunflower, his torch.

The child’s two eyes are stars.

The child’s hair flies curling in the wind,

like clouds over the ancient jungle on a stormy afternoon.

Let us approach the child together and ask,

“What are you looking for? Where are you going?

Where is the true source? Where is the final destination?

And what are the ways home?”

The little boy just smiles.

The flower in his hand suddenly

becomes a bright red sun,

and the child goes on alone—

his path through the stars.

I wrote this poem in 1977. I set it to music after a retreat held in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, before flying back to Paris. I finished it on the plane.

Looking for Each Other

I have been looking for you, World Honored One,

since I was a little child.

With my first breath, I heard your call,

and began to look for you, Blessed One.

I’ve walked so many perilous paths,

confronted so many dangers,

endured despair, fear, hopes, and memories.

I’ve trekked to the farthest regions, immense and wild,

sailed the vast oceans,

traversed the highest summits, lost among the clouds.

I’ve lain dead, utterly alone,

on the sands of ancient deserts.

I’ve held in my heart so many tears of stone.

Blessed One, I’ve dreamed of drinking dewdrops

that sparkle with the light of far-off galaxies.

I’ve left footprints on celestial mountains

and screamed from the depths of Avici Hell, exhausted, crazed with despair

because I was so hungry, so thirsty.

For millions of lifetimes,

I’ve longed to see you,

but didn’t know where to look.

Yet, I’ve always felt your presence with a mysterious certainty.

I know that for thousands of lifetimes,

you and I have been one,

and the distance between us is only a flash of thought.

Just yesterday while walking alone,

I saw the old path strewn with Autumn leaves,

and the brilliant moon, hanging over the gate,

suddenly appeared like the image of an old friend.

And all the stars confirmed that you were there!

All night, the rain of compassion continued to fall,

while lightning flashed through my window

and a great storm arose,

as if Earth and Sky were in battle.

Finally in me the rain stopped, the clouds parted.

The moon returned,

shining peacefully, calming Earth and Sky.

Looking into the mirror of the moon, suddenly

I saw myself,

and I saw you smiling, Blessed One.

How strange!

The moon of freedom has returned to me,

everything I thought I had lost.

From that moment on,

and in each moment that followed,

I saw that nothing had gone.

There is nothing that should be restored.

Every flower, every stone, and every leaf recognize me.

Wherever I turn, I see you smiling

the smile of no-birth and no-death.

The smile I received while looking at the mirror of the moon.

I see you sitting there, solid as Mount Meru,

calm as my own breath,

sitting as though no raging fire storm ever occurred,

sitting in complete peace and in freedom.

At last I have found you, Blessed One,

and I have found myself.

There I sit.

The deep blue sky,

the snow-capped mountains painted against the horizon,

and the shining red sun sing with joy.

You, Blessed One, are my first love.

The love that is always present, always pure, and freshly new.

And I shall never need a love that will be called “last.”

You are the source of well-being flowing through numberless troubled lives,

the water from your spiritual stream always pure, as it was in the beginning.

You are the source of peace,

solidity, and inner freedom.

You are the Buddha, the Tathagata.

With my one-pointed mind

I vow to nourish your solidity and freedom in myself

so I can offer solidity and freedom to countless others,

now and forever.

You Set Out This Morning

You set out this morning

to give the silver space a future.

The phoenix spreads her wings

and takes to the immense sky.

The water clings to the feet of the bridge,

while the sunrise calls for young birds.

The very place that served as a refuge for you years ago

is now witness to your departure

for the rivers and oceans of your homeland.

Paris, 1966

Beckoning

This morning’s dawn

and I am here.

A cup of steaming tea,

a green lawn,

your sudden image from long ago,

your hands

or the wind

beckoning,

the shining of the tree’s new bud.

Flower, leaf, and pebble—

all are chanting the Lotus Sutra.

This poem was written in 1966 at a Catholic nunnery in Australia during a speaking tour. I was sitting alone on the green grass, contemplating the small buds, enjoying the lush vegetation, when a young nun brought me a cup of tea.

Then she went to the bell and said a prayer, holding the string silently for some time before ringing the bell. I saw her as the archetypal nun. After I wrote this poem, I offered it to her.

That Distant Autumn Morning

Seven years.

I can still feel the fragrance of sandalwood incense.

And your image, Mother,

is as vivid as ever.

It was an Autumn morning,

sunny but cold.

You decided to go back

to the place you had come from.

Shaking the bodice of your long, worn-out dress,

you put down the heavy burden

of pain and sorrow.

I did not cry.

The world looked so strange.

You left with your heart still bleeding.

My monk’s robe was caressed by the morning wind.

The sunshine was a golden color.

The sky was blue.

The hills were high.

And there was your small earthen grave, newly made.

When the few who had stayed behind with me left,

I talked to you alone about life.

My heart was broken,

but I was at peace.

You suffered, Mother,

and existence weighed too heavily on your shoulders.

Seven years.

Since then you have come back to me many times,

and each time so alive.

Today I shed a tear for you of remembrance and compassion.

I want to share your sorrow

with the heart of a child.

Existence still on my shoulders,

I go back to that Autumn morning,

that distant Autumn morning,

filled with the fragrance of sandalwood incense.

You see, I am now on that high hill,

embraced by the bright sunshine.

Do stay with me the whole day, Mother.

I do not know where the events of life will bring me tomorrow,

but I know you are truly here.

My true love,

I want to cry silently,

my head covered in my two arms,

every time I go back to the sweet motherland of childhood.

I wrote this poem seven years after my mother passed away. Three years before, I had had a dream in which I saw my motheryoung, vivid, joyful, and beautiful, with long black hair. Waking up at midnight, I went out to the moonlit garden and discovered that my mother had never died. This happened while I stayed at the Bao Loc Temple in the highlands of Central Vietnam.

Calm

Childhood—

sunny age of twelve—

what do you say?

Ancient river

old town

clouds call to a blue sky

calm

Disappearance

The leaf-tips bend

under the weight of dew.

Fruits are ripening

in Earth’s early morning.

Daffodils light up in the sun.

The curtain of cloud at the gateway

of the garden path begins to shift:

have pity for childhood,

the way of illusion.

Late at night,

the candle gutters.

In some distant desert,

a flower opens.

And somewhere else,

a cold aster

that never knew a cassava patch

or gardens of areca palms,

never knew the joy of life,

at that instant disappears—

man’s eternal yearning.

Written around 1966.

Drops of Emptiness

My heart is cooled

by drops of emptiness.

Suddenly I see

my boat has crossed the river

and reached the shore of non-yearning.

Soft sand, empty beach,

old promises…

Written around 1966.

Journey

Here are words written down—

footprints on the sand,

cloud formations.

Tomorrow

I’ll be gone.

Illusion Transformed

Horizon’s heavy eyelids,

mountains leaning,

seeking rest from Earth’s pillow—

at nightfall

grass and flowers perfume sleep.

Illusion shifts her veils.

Wind lifts up her hands.

Jade candles

shimmer in the silver river of the sky.

The hillside’s open doorway

frames a falling star that writes

the sacred words in fire.

Ten thousand lives are spinning,

circling dream’s illusion.

The moment of this night

reveals

this world’s reality.

Written in the Fontvannes hermitage, 1970.

Movement

My head pillowed on waves—

I drift with the flow—

broad river,

deep sky.

They float, they sink,

like bubbles,

like wings.

1966.

The Afternoon River and the Earth’s Soul

Trees by the river,

riverside streets,

blue sky,

blue leaves,

a high-roofed temple.

The soul of the tower

sleeps

on this calm,

Sunday afternoon.

From afar,

vaguely.

I hear

Earth’s soul—

lonely,

when the stars’ festival

is in full swing.

I wrote this in Paris in 1967, after walking along the Seine River on a Sunday afternoon.

The Virtuous Man

The two leaves of the pinewood gate fall shut.

A shimmering arrow leaves the bow,

speeds upward, splits the sky,

and explodes the sun.

The blossoms of the orange trees fall

until the courtyard is carpeted—

flickering reflection

of infinity.

Paris, 1967.

Padmapani

Flowers in the sky.

Flowers on Earth.

Lotuses bloom as Buddha’s eyelids.

Lotuses bloom in man’s heart.

Holding gracefully a lotus in his hand,

the bodhisattva brings forth a universe of art.

In the meadows of the sky, stars have sprung up.

The smiling, fresh moon is already up.

The jade-colored trunk of a coconut tree

reaches across the late-night sky.

My mind, traveling in utmost emptiness,

catches suchness on its way home.

I wrote this poem after visiting the Ajanta Caves in India in 1976.

Lanka

The island has been lullabied for thousands of years by the ocean.

The sounds of the waves express the deepest love.

Water-buffalo boys walk the beach with their bare feet,

their skin smelling of the good smell of the ocean.

All the sails this morning are filled with wind.

Rows of coconut trees shelter and nourish the perfumed earth.

Bananas, jackfruits, mangoes, and papayas are as sweet as ever.

On the high pass over the mountain, it rains very hard.

The wind blows fiercely;

but the footprints of Lord Buddha remain intact.

The glorious morning comes, a festival day.

The sounds of a drum escort the music.

Young ladies of the countryside

celebrate the coming of the Buddha—

their richly decorated brown feet

touching the Earth with joyful, gracious dances.

Written in Sri Lanka, 1976.

Strange Shores

Attempts are made to catch space

and release it again.

Colors try to share light,

and a carpet of clouds unrolls under my feet.

Down a deserted path, I see through my soul

and the true face of former lives reveals itself

in the present moment.

Because the window of time is open,

the curtain of reminiscence floats in the wind,

in the sunshine, and in the green color.

I see a permanent Spring

atop the Himalayan range.

There is a meadow no one has seen,

where the grass is always fresh.

Here and there in the sky, stars appear

like little golden and violet flowers.

The man bites on his finger to concentrate.

My boat has just landed on a strange shore,

completely silent under the light of the stars.

A child is talking.

Is that a familiar world?

Listen.

My soul continues its flight.

Permission has not been granted.

The captain found his arms tightly bound by the string of time.

Suddenly I hear the murmur of the wind.

The great bird has just spread its immense wings.

Space is now entirely yours!

Where are you going?

A distant star is calling.

Although the planet feels at a loss,

the sky and the clouds still appear friendly.

The fog rises on the surface of the river.

Evening clouds gather.

Waiting for me over there

are my mother and younger brother.

At noontime,

the perfume of areca blossoms

and the sound of grinding hamoc

suggest that you need some lunch.

I remain in my seat and feel sleepy.

Out there, the moon is also leaning on a mountain.

Who are you, young man?

This morning it happened that we got to know each other.

Now he is leaning his head on a cushion.

The thinking is like a long thread.

The silkworm uses her silky substance

to build up a prison for herself.

The wind continues to murmur in my ears.

A small biscuit,

a tiny cup of coffee.

I found myself half-awakened.

The air hostess walks as if on a cloud.

Mind’s Moon

Excitedly, the sky celebrates a new sunset.

The bird with eyes reflecting the color of the sky

hops around branches

and leaves made of crystal.

Waking up from a long sleep,

I find dawn rising in me,

and in the pond of the mind, a peaceful moon reflecting itself.

The butterfly is out of its homeland.

The violet tía tô leaves

announce the ripening of Autumn.

Birds sing in the leaves.

Sky and clouds are peaceful.

This morning is peace.

The dove spreads her wings.

The child opens her arms

for a heartfelt welcoming.

The birds welcome drops of new sunshine.

Golden is the color of the lawn.

It has been ten years

since the butterfly wandered from its homeland.

Cao Phong

The news came yesterday from the warmth of the Earth.

At midnight, from the continent,

a source of fragrant milk suddenly springs forth in abundance.

The splendid moment arrives

when the sun makes its appearance

on the top of the high mountain.

Written for Cao Phong (“High Peak”) upon receiving the news of his birth.

Armfuls of Poetry, Drops of Sunshine

Sunshine rides on space and poetry on sunshine.

Poetry gives birth to sunshine, and sunshine to poetry.

Sun treasured in the heart of the bitter melon,

poetry made of steam rising from a bowl of soup in Winter.

The wind is lurking outside, swirling.

Poetry is back to haunt the old hills and prairies.

Yet the poor thatched hut remains on the river shore, waiting.

Spring carries poetry in its drizzle.

The fire sparkles poetry in its orange flame.

Sunshine stored in the heart of the fragrant wood,

warm smoke leading poetry back to the pages

of an unofficial history book.

Sunshine, though absent from space,

fills the now rose-colored stove.

Sunshine reaching out takes the color of smoke;

poetry in its stillness, the color of the misty air.

Spring rain holds poetry in its drops

which bend down to kiss the soil,

so that the seeds may sprout.

Following the rain, poetry comes to dwell on each leaf.

Sunshine has a green color, and poetry a pink one.

Bees deliver warmth to the flowers from the sunshine

they carry on their wings.

On sunshine footsteps to the deep forest,

poetry drinks the nectar with joy.

With the excitement of celebration,

butterflies and bees crowd the Earth.

Sunshine makes up the dance, and poetry the song.

Drops of sweat fall on the hard ground.

Poems fly along the furrows.

The hoe handily on my shoulder, poetry flows from the breath.

Sunshine wanes away down the river,

and the silhouette of the late afternoon lingers reluctantly.

Poetry is leaving for the horizon

where the King of Light is blanketing himself in clouds.

A green sun found in a basketful of fresh vegetables,

a tasty and well-cooked sun smells delicious in a bowl of rice.

Poetry looks with a child’s eyes.

Poetry feels with a weather-beaten face.

Poetry stays within each attentive look.

Poetry—the hands that work the poor and arid land somewhere

far away.

The smiling sun brightening up the sunflower;

the ripe and full sun hiding itself in an August peach;

poetry follows each meditative step,

poetry lines up the pages.

Discreetly,

within closed food packages,

poetry nurtures love.

This poem, translated from the Vietnamese by Hoang Thi Van, has a lot of interbeing in it. The sun is green, because you can recognize it in the vegetables. Poetry is born from the wood that is burning in the stove. Without it, I cannot write. The last lines of the poem speak about the work of helping hungry children. We have used this poem as a New Year’s greeting.

In the Forest

The community of trees—

thousands of bodies

with a human body among them.

Branches and leaves are waving.

Then the call of the creek,

and my eyes open to the sky of the great Mind.

A smile is seen

on every leaf.

The forest is here,

because the city is down there.

But Mind has gone with the trees

and put on a new green dress.

The sunshine is the leaves.

The leaves are the sunshine.

The sunshine is no different from the leaves.

The leaves are no different from the sunshine.

All other forms and sounds

are of the same nature.

Oneness

The moment I die,

I will try to come back to you

as quickly as possible.

I promise it will not take long.

Isn’t it true

I am already with you,

as I die each moment?

I come back to you

in every moment.

Just look,

feel my presence.

If you want to cry,

please cry.

And know

that I will cry with you.

The tears you shed

will heal us both.

Your tears are mine.

The earth I tread this morning

transcends history.

Spring and Winter are both present in the moment.

The young leaf and the dead leaf are really one.

My feet touch deathlessness,

and my feet are yours.

Walk with me now.

Let us enter the dimension of oneness

and see the cherry tree blossom in Winter.

Why should we talk about death?

I don’t need to die

to be back with you.

One Arrow, Two Illusions

The river winds its way to the sea.

Tomorrow, when it is time for you to depart,

I will ask you to sing aloud

your song of the new season.

The echo of your voice will soothe

and guide me on my way

at least for some distance.

In fact, I will never depart.

Even if I could, I would arrive nowhere.

The moment I depart, if there is such a thing,

there are moons, clouds, winds, and rivers.

And at the moment of arrival,

there will also be violet bamboos and yellow chrysanthemums.

A leaf,

a flower—

that is what you are.

That is why we have been together

since the no-beginning.

There is no way I could not be with you.

Still you don’t understand,

and you keep asking me about my departure.

This morning, as the moon and stars return

from their deep sleep,

Earth is pretending to weep.

She has shed so many tears.

You, too, should weep, my dear.

Your tears will be like crystals. (Weeping makes you beautiful.)

Your tears will transform the deserts into green gardens,

refreshing the Earth, ushering in buds of hope.

When we were children, I longed to weep

each time I saw you weeping.

The smile of the Earth,

our mother with green hair,

brings birds and butterflies to leaves and flowers.

We have never been born.

Look back at your true mind.

The day when I arose from the hidden dimension,

my image was revealed to you

through the five elements.

But that image will soon disappear,

and you will have to look for me

in what has not yet come

and cannot depart.

Looking for me,

looking for yourself,

will be a joy!

You will find yourself in the non-coming and non-going.

With one arrow,

you will bring down two illusions—

finding the non-coming and non-going amidst samsara,

water amidst waves.

My smile this morning

is to bring you the everlasting Spring.

Be the Tathagata.

Be one with the smile.

The day when you pierce through illusion,

you will also find that smile.

Nothing remains, and yet nothing will be lost.

This morning the birds and the springs beckon,

“Continue singing, my little flower.”

This poem is about you and your Dharma brother or sister, and about life and death. Your brother loves you so much that he is afraid of losing you. Thinking that you may disappear or die in the situation of war and social injustice as a compassionate worker, he asks you to leave something behind that he can hold onto as he continues down the path. This is the big brother’s answer: “I have never been born. I will never die. If you are able to see me in my nature of no-birth and no-death, then you can also see your own nature of no-birth and no-death. “With one arrow, you can bring down two illusions—his nonbeing and your nonbeing. This poem was banned by both the North and the South during the war. They thought that it was a plea for a neutral Vietnam, neither communist nor capitalist.

The Old Mendicant

Being rock, being gas, being mist, being Mind,

being the mesons traveling among the galaxies

at the speed of light,

you have come here, my beloved.

And your blue eyes shine, so beautiful, so deep.

You have taken the path traced for you

from the non-beginning and the never-ending.

You say that on your way here

you have gone through

many millions of births and deaths.

Innumerable times you have been transformed

into fire storms in outer space.

You have used your own body

to measure the age of the mountains and rivers.

You have manifested yourself

as trees, grass, butterflies, single-celled beings,

and as chrysanthemums.

But the eyes with which you look at me this morning

tell me that you have never died.

Your smile invites me into the game

whose beginning no one knows,

the game of hide-and-seek.

O green caterpillar, you are solemnly using your body

to measure the length of the rose branch that grew last Summer.

Everyone says that you, my beloved, were just born this Spring.

Tell me, how long have you been around?

Why wait until this moment to reveal yourself to me,

carrying with you that smile which is so silent and so deep?

O caterpillar, suns, moons, and stars flow out

each time I exhale.

Who knows that the infinitely large must be found

in your tiny body?

Upon each point on your body,

thousands of Buddha fields have been established.

With each stretch of your body, you measure time

from the non-beginning to the never-ending.

The great mendicant of old is still there on Vulture Peak,

contemplating the ever-splendid sunset.

Gautama, how strange!

Who said that the Udumbara flower blooms

only once every 3,000 years?

The sound of the rising tide—you cannot help hearing it

if you have an attentive ear.

This “love poem,” as Joanna Macy calls it, has to do with the original face. In Buddhism, when a teacher says to his student, “Show me your original face,” it is an invitation to discover one’s nature of interbeing. “My beloved, you have come from the mineral, the gas, the mist, and consciousness. You have gone through many galaxies at the speed of light. And no-beginning and no-ending have come together in order to trace your way. And now you are a caterpillar. I look into you and I recognize that. Although you look small, you have created a fire storm in outer space. And you have measured the age of river and mountains with your tiny body.” The infinitely small contains the infinitely large. Practicing meditation is like seeking your beloved. The old mendicant, Shakyamuni Buddha, is still sitting there. Don’t think that he has disappeared. He is still contemplating the beautiful sunset. His preaching is still strong, like the sound of the rising tide, if you have ears to hear it.

I first visited Vulture Peak in 1968, and once in the early evening I saw myself contemplating the sunset with the eyes of the Buddha. When a group of us went there together in 1988, I felt the same thing again. This poem was written in 1970.

Apparition

Being young

is like sweet sunshine

flooding the Summer sky.

Quiet noon—

Years and months

are just the expressions of Earth.

Why take note

of the never-ending seasons?

Paris, 1966.

The Story of a River

Born on the top of a mountain, the little spring dances her way down. The stream of water sings as she travels. She wants to go fast. She is unable to go slowly. Running, rushing, is the only way, maybe even flying. She wants to arrive. Arrive where? Arrive at the ocean. She has heard of the deep, blue, beautiful ocean. To become one with the ocean, that is what she wants.

Coming down to the plains, she grows into a young river. Winding her way through the beautiful meadows, she has to slow down. “Why can’t I run the way I could when I was a creek? I want to reach the deep, blue ocean. If I continue this slowly, how will I ever arrive there at all?” As a creek, she was not happy with what she was. She really wanted to grow into a river. But, as a river, she does not feel happy either. She cannot bear to slow down.

Then, as she slows down, the young river begins to notice the beautiful clouds reflected in her water. They are of different colors and shapes floating in the sky, and they seem to be free to go anywhere they please. Wanting to be like a cloud, she begins to chase after the clouds, one after another. “I am not happy as a river. I want to be like you, or I shall suffer. Life is really not worth living.”

So the river begins to play the game. She chases after clouds. She learns to laugh and cry. But the clouds do not stay in one place for very long. “They reflect themselves in my water, but then they leave. No cloud seems to be faithful. Every cloud I know has left me. No cloud has ever brought me satisfaction or happiness. I hate their betrayal.” The excitement of chasing after clouds is not worth the suffering and despair.

One afternoon, a strong wind carried all the clouds away. The sky became desperately empty. There were no more clouds to chase after. Life became empty for the river. She was so lonely she didn’t want to live anymore. But how could a river die? From something you become nothing? From someone, you become no one? Is it possible?

During the night, the river went back to herself. She could not sleep. She listened to her own cries, the lapping of her water against the shore. This was the first time she had ever listened deeply to herself, and in doing so, she discovered something very important: her water was made of clouds. She had been chasing after clouds and she did not know that clouds were her own nature. The river realized that the object of her search was within her. She touched peace. Suddenly, she could stop. She no longer felt the need to run after something outside herself. She was already what she wanted to become. The peace she experienced was truly gratifying and brought her a deep rest, a deep sleep.

When the river woke up the next morning, she discovered something new and wonderful reflected in her water—the blue sky. “How deep it is, how calm. The sky is immense, stable, welcoming, and utterly free.” It seemed impossible to believe that this was the first time the river ever reflected the sky in her water. But that is true, because in the past, she was interested only in the clouds, and she never paid attention to the sky. No cloud could ever leave the sky. She knew that the clouds were there, hidden somewhere in the blue sky. The sky must contain within itself all the clouds and all the waters. Clouds seem impermanent, but the sky is always there as the faithful home of all the clouds.

Touching the sky, the river touched stability. She touched the ultimate. In the past, she had only touched the coming, going, being, and nonbeing of the clouds. Now she was able to touch the home of all coming, going, being, and nonbeing. No one could take the sky out of her water anymore. How wonderful it was to stop and touch! The stopping and touching brought her true stability and peace. She had arrived home.

That afternoon, the wind ceased to blow. The clouds came back one by one. The river had become wise. She was able to welcome each cloud with a smile. The clouds of many colors and shapes seemed to be the same, but then again they were no longer the same for the river. She did not feel the need to possess or chase after any particular cloud. She smiled to each cloud with equanimity and loving kindness. She enjoyed their reflections in her water. But when they drifted away, the river did not feel deserted. She waved to them, saying, “Good-bye. Have a nice journey.” She was no longer bound to any of the clouds.

The day was a happy one. That night, when the river calmly opened up her heart to the sky, she received the most wonderful image ever reflected in her water—a beautiful full moon, a moon so bright, refreshing, smiling.

The full moon of the Buddha travels

in the sky of utmost emptiness.

If the rivers of living beings are calm,

the refreshing moon will reflect

beautifully in their water.

All space seemed to be there for the enjoyment of the moon, and she looked utterly free. The river reflected the moon in her water and enjoyed the same freedom and happiness.

What a wonderful, festive night for everyone—the sky, clouds, moon, stars, and water. In the boundless space, sky, clouds, moon, stars, and water enjoyed walking in meditation together. They walked with no need to arrive anywhere, not even the ocean. They could just be happy in the present moment. The river did not need to arrive at the ocean to become water. She knew she was water by nature and at the same time a cloud, the moon, the sky, the stars, and the snow. Why should she run away from herself? Who speaks of a river as not flowing? A river does flow, yes. But she does not need to rush.

Interbeing

The sun has entered me.

The sun has entered me together with the cloud and the river.

I myself have entered the river,

and I have entered the sun

with the cloud and the river.

There has not been a moment

when we do not interpenetrate.

But before the sun entered me,

the sun was in me—

also the cloud and the river.

Before I entered the river,

I was already in it.

There has not been a moment

when we have not inter-been.

Therefore you know

that as long as you continue to breathe,

I continue to be in you.

Love Poem

Your eyes are made of the six elements—

earth, water, fire, air,

space, and consciousness.

They are made of these only,

but they are beautiful.

Should I make them mine?

Should I try to make them last for a long time?

Should I try to record them?

But I know that what I can record

would not be your true eyes.

Your voice is made of the six elements,

but it is truly lovely.

Should I try to make it mine?

Should I record it?

But I know that what I can hold on to or record

would not be your true voice.

What I get may only be a picture,

a magnetic tape,

a painting,

or a book.

Your smile is made of the six elements,

but it is truly wonderful.

Should I try to make it mine?

Should I try to make it last for a long time?

Should I try to own or record it?

But I know that what I can own or record

could not be your true smile.

It would only be some of the elements.

Your eyes are impermanent.

Your eyes are not you.

Yes, I have been told,

and I have seen it,

yet they are still beautiful.

Just because they are impermanent,

they are all the more beautiful.

The things that do not last long

are the most beautiful things—

a shooting star, a firework.

Just because they are without a self,

they are all the more beautiful.

What does a self have to do with beautiful eyes?

I want to contemplate your beautiful eyes,

even if I know

that they do not last

even if I know

they do not have a self.

Your eyes are beautiful.

I am aware that they are impermanent.

But what is wrong with impermanence?

Without impermanence, could anything exist at all?

Your eyes are beautiful.

I am told that they are not you, they have no self.

But what is wrong with the nature of nonself?

With self, could anything be there at all?

So although your eyes are only made of the six elements,

although they are impermanent,

although they are not you,

they are still beautiful,

and I want to contemplate them.

I want to enjoy looking at them as long as they are available.

Knowing your eyes are impermanent,

I enjoy them without trying to make them last forever,

without trying to hold on to or record them

or make them mine.

Loving your eyes, I remain free.

Loving your eyes,

I learn to love them deeply.

I see the six elements which they are,

the six wonderful elements.

These elements are so beautiful.

And I learn to love them too.

There are so many things I love—

your eyes, the blue sky,

your voice, the birds in the trees,

your smile, and the butterflies on the flowers.

I learn each moment

to be a better lover.

I learn each moment

to discover my true love.

Your eyes are beautiful.

So is your voice, your smile,

the sky,

the birds,

the butterflies.

I love them. I vow to protect them. Yes.

I know to love is to respect.

And reverence

is the nature of my love.

Interrelationship

You are me, and I am you.

Isn’t it obvious that we “inter-are”?

You cultivate the flower in yourself,

so that I will be beautiful.

I transform the garbage in myself,

so that you will not have to suffer.

I support you;

you support me.

I am in this world to offer you peace;

you are in this world to bring me joy.

1989. Written during a retreat for psychotherapists held in Colorado in response to Fritz Perls’ statement, “You are you, and I am me, and if by chance we meet, that’s wonderful. If not, it couldn’t be helped.”

You Are My Garden

A tree is dying in my garden.

You see it,

but you also see other trees

that are still vigorous and joyful.

And I am thankful.

I know a tree is dying in my garden,

but I do not see it

as the whole of my garden.

And I need you to remind me of that.

I am told to take care of the garden

left to me by my ancestors.

A garden always has beautiful trees

and others that are not so healthy.

That is the reason why

we have to take good care of it.

You are my garden,

and I know that I should practice as a gardener.

I have seen an old, untended garden,

where the cherry and peach trees

still bloom wonderfully

and always in time.

Defuse Me

If I were a bomb

ready to explode,

if I have become

dangerous to your life,

then you must take care of me.

You think you can get away from me,

but how?

I am here, right in your midst.

(You cannot remove me from your life.)

And I may explode

at any time.

I need your care.

I need your time.

I need you to defuse me.

You are responsible for me,

because you have made the vow (and I heard it)

to love and to care.

I know that to take care of me

you need much patience,

much coolness.

I realize that in you

there is also a bomb to be defused.

So why don’t we help each other?

I need you to listen to me.

No one has listened to me.

No one understands my suffering,

including the ones who say they love me.

The pain inside me

is suffocating me.

It is the TNT

that makes up the bomb.

There is no one else

who will listen to me.

That is why I need you.

But you seem to be getting away from me.

You want to run for your safety,

the kind of safety

that does not exist.

I have not created my own bomb.

It is you.

It is society.

It is family.

It is school.

It is tradition.

So please don’t blame me for it.

Come and help;

if not, I will explode.

This is not a threat.

It is only a plea for help.

I will also be of help

when it is your turn.

We Will Be Back Again

One will be three.

One will be four.

One will be a thousand.

We’ll be back again.

We’ll be back again.

Here is the rushing of the rain,

and the vast ocean of the Mind.

I am riding splendidly on this towering wave—

hills and mountains, hills and mountains,

oceans and rivers, oceans and rivers—

the wings of the albatross are playing with the morning sunlight.

Are snow and light the same thing?

Let the song be continued on the lips of the child!

Sometimes people become two (if they get married) or three (if they have a child). Usually we think that rebirth means one person will continue as one person. But one person may become several, just as one kernel of corn, when reborn, becomes an ear of corn with many kernels. The extraordinary thing is that I first met you as one person, but now when you come back, you are three or five. The most important thing is that joy and freedom be always there. I do not mind if you come back as a multitude. But be sure to come back with joy and freedom.

Full Moon Festival

What will happen when form collides with emptiness,

and what will happen when perception enters non-perception?

Come here with me, friend.

Let’s watch together.

Do you see the two clowns, life and death

setting up a play on a stage?

Here comes Autumn.

The leaves are ripe.

Let the leaves fly.

A festival of colors, yellow, red.

The branches have held on to the leaves

during Spring and Summer.

This morning they let them go.

Flags and lanterns are displayed.

Everyone is here at the Full Moon Festival.

Friend, what are you waiting for?

The bright moon shines above us.

There are no clouds tonight.

Why bother to ask about lamps and fire?

Why talk about cooking dinner?

Who is searching and who is finding?

Let us just enjoy the moon, all night.

This poem is written in response to Vietnamese Dhyana master Lieu Quan (1670–1742), whose poem of insight has this sentence: “If I had realized that the lamp is fire itself, the rice would have been cooked for a long time already!” The insight poem was presented to his teacher, Master Tu Dung, in 1708.

Non-Duality

The bell tolls at four in the morning.

I stand by the window,

barefoot on the cool floor.

The garden is still dark.

I wait for the mountains and rivers to reclaim their shapes.

There is no light in the deepest hours of the night.

Yet, I know you are there

in the depth of the night,

the immeasurable world of the mind.

You, the known, have been there

ever since the knower has been.

The dawn will come soon,

and you will see

that you and the rosy horizon

are within my two eyes.

It is for me that the horizon is rosy

and the sky blue.

Looking at your image in the clear stream,

you answer the question by your very presence.

Life is humming the song of the non-dual marvel.

I suddenly find myself smiling

in the presence of this immaculate night.

I know because I am here that you are there,

and your being has returned to show itself

in the wonder of tonight’s smile.

In the quiet stream,

I swim gently.

The murmur of the water lulls my heart.

A wave serves as a pillow.

I look up and see

a white cloud against the blue sky,

the sound of Autumn leaves,

the fragrance of hay—

each one a sign of eternity.

A bright star helps me find my way back to myself.

I know because you are there that I am here.

The stretching arm of cognition

in a lightning flash,

joining together a million eons of distance,

joining together birth and death,

joining together the known and the knower.

In the depth of the night,

as in the immeasurable realm of consciousness,

the garden of life and I

remain each other’s objects.

The flower of being is singing the song of emptiness.

The night is still immaculate,

but sounds and images from you

have returned and fill the pure night.

I feel their presence.

By the window, with my bare feet on the cool floor,

I know I am here

for you to be.

This poem was written in 1964 at the Bamboo Grove Temple (Truc Lam) in Go Vap, Gia Dinh. Upon returning to Vietnam, I set up the Institute of Higher Buddhist Studies; published a weekly, Hai Triêu Am (The Sound of the Rising Tide); and prepared the ground for founding the School of Youth for Social Service. I would go back to that temple very often to enjoy the calm and beautiful atmosphere there, because the Institute of Higher Buddhist Studies was in the center of the city.

One morning in my little hut, I woke up very early, around three o’clock. When I put my feet on the earthen floor, the coolness made me feel very awake. I remained in that position for about fifty minutes. I listened to the first bells of the morning, while I looked out into the darkness. Although I could not distinguish particular objects, I knew that the plum tree and the bamboo thicket were there. In the darkness of the night, I knew that you were there, because I was there. The subject of consciousness is, therefore the object of consciousness must be.

This poem is about an insight related to vijñanavada. It is a difficult poem, fit to be explained in a course on vijñanavada. You are there for me, and I am here for you. That is the teaching of interbeing. The term interbeing was not yet used at that time. Although we think of the Avatamsaka when we hear the term interbeing, the teaching of interbeing also has its roots in vijñanavada, because in vijñanavada, cognition always includes subject and object together. Consciousness is always consciousness of something.

Voyage

The wind is silent this noontime,

and four cypresses stand in line.

The wall shows its bones—

erosion, water of time.

The blue sky is calm.

I find myself here to discover the age

of the bricks and stones

that have patiently waited,

for millions of years.

My flesh and bones

in their journey through the desert

make a quick stop here

and leave a little warmth from the palm of my hand,

a bit of the rhythm of the heart.

The ancient image is far away,

but you are still here waiting.

Tell me,

did I stop here once during a previous existence?

I find myself looking for my footprints

left during one cycle of birth and death.

Which atoms will be dancing

in the small space of my palm

someday when the five elements of man

return to their source?

Whose dead body lies by this wall

this summer noontime

while the sky smiles its blue smile?

O bricks and stones,

who will go

and who will stay?

I would carry all of you with me

in the same voyage at the same speed.

You who have sought to find the going and coming—

tell me, where is the line of the horizon?

I can see now

that all of us

since the beginning of time

have been flowing at the same speed.

Give me enough time to call back

the starfruit and acacias of the ancient years.

Together with the four cypresses today,

we have stopped for a moment

to contemplate the wondrous trip.

Although this calm blue sky has been here a million eons,

it is only to me now that this blue sky has just been born.

I was alone on the French Riviera, working on my book on the myths of Vietnam, A Taste of Earth. I went to the beach and sat there without thinking or doing anything for a whole day, until ten o’clock at night. I allowed my five skandhas to be washed by the sound and sight of the waves. Then I went to Provence, where I found myself beside a very old wall and four cypresses standing in a line. And I saw my dead body lying by the old wall.

This poem is about a trip. All of us are on a journey, but we go at different speeds. From time to time, you may recognize something familiar in what you see for the first time. You know you are seeing that person or thing for the first time, but you have the distinct impression you have met before. My interpretation is that you have met already while orbiting the same star, but because you went too fast, you overtook the other person or thing, and now you meet again. Stones and bricks may go at a slower speed. When I climbed up to Heidelberg Castle in Germany, I had the impression that it was not for the first time. This moved me to write the poem, “The Song of No Coming and No Going.” Insight is something like the blue sky: it has always been there, but it looks as though it is just being born.

Stopping the Wheel

Who is going through samsara?

If we are to stop samsara,

whose samsara is to be stopped?

Afflictions and pains are going through samsara,

and we are to stop them from continuing the circle.

But who is the one who shoulders these afflictions and pains?

Afflictions do not need someone to shoulder them.

They go through samsara by themselves.

What will happen after samsara is stopped?

Samsara will happen again.

Why bother to stop it?

When the samsara wheel of ill-being stops,

the samsara wheel of well-being begins to turn.

The stopping of ill-being starts the beginning of well-being,

but well-being is still samsara.

Well-being needs to go through samsara,

because we always need it

in each moment of our life.

Why should you want the smile of the little boy to be absent?

Why should we ban the breeze of Spring?

Ending samsara

is transforming suffering,

and suffering is the substance

which makes up happiness.

Don’t worry too much, my friend.

Even suffering is needed in this world.

Moon Viewing

If there is no self,

there will be no samsara.

Why then do you have to dissolve the self?

Why do you have to stop samsara?

There is no self,

but there is the belief in a self.

There is no samsara,

but there is the idea of samsara.

Is the full moon tonight a self?

No, it is not a self.

Is the moon viewer a self?

No, he is not a self.

How then can the moon viewer enjoy the moon?

It is precisely because the moon has no self

and the moon viewer has no self

that both moon and moon viewer are wonderful,

and that moon viewing is a wonderful thing.

Moon viewing is our practice.

Sunflower

Come, dear, with your innocent eyes

and look at the clear, blue ocean of the Dharmakaya,

and look at the green color,

the manifestation of suchness.

Even if the world is shattered,

your smile will never vanish.

What did we possess yesterday,

and what will we lose today?

Come, dear, look right into existence,

adorned by illusion.

Since the sunflower is already there,

all flowers turn toward it and contemplate.

The sunflower is prajñaparamita, transcendent understanding.

[Untitled]

Listen to the call of the homeland.

Mountains and rivers are so beautiful.

Let us go back to our home to touch our roots.

Crossing the bridges of understanding and love,

we arrive at our true home.

Birth and Death

During many lifetimes, birth and death are present,

giving rise to birth and death.

The moment the notion of birth and death arises,

birth and death are there.

As soon as the notion of birth and death dies,

real life is born.

This poem was written in 1974, during a conference organized by the World Council of Churches in Sri Lanka. The original is a repetition of only two Chinese characters (sheng: life, or to be born, and si: death, or to die) arranged in such a way that they produce the meaning seen in the above translation.

sheng sheng sheng si sheng

si sheng sheng si sheng

si sheng sheng sheng si

si sheng si sheng sheng

The Great Lion’s Roar

White clouds float.

Tuong vi roses bloom.

The ones that float are clouds.

The ones that bloom are roses.

A tuong vi rose blooms,

and a white cloud floats.

There would be no cloud if there were no floating.

There would be no flower if there were no blooming.

The cloud is itself the floating,

and the flower the blooming.

Mental constructions and the formation of words,

figures, and concepts

have opened up the maze.

The point is only the meeting point

of two lines that seek each other.

A line is a point that moves.

I build the high with the low.

I establish the low with the high.

I establish the left with the right.

I divide the many with the one.

My hand has five fingers,

long ones and short ones.

They are branches carrying young leaves.

My thoughts grow like flower buds

blooming on the trees.

My body is a tree

of blood, flesh, bones, and saliva

cells and nerves,

figures and images,

food and waste.

Here are bones

that will remain tomorrow.

They are not mine.

They are not yours.

But, Oh, compassion,

they give the illusion of permanence and non-permanence,

making you cry silently from time to time

for the destiny of man.

My thoughts—

I send them off

in ten directions on the waves of communication.

You find ways to record them.

Words that I utter, waves of sound,

repeatedly transmit themselves.

You find ways to record them.

My images are projected.

My lips move when I speak.

My eyes smile.

You find ways to record them,

thinking that you can preserve them.

Along the line of time and space,

you try to find the marks

that replace the real.

I show you the film.

Your fingers touch the images on the screen.

Compassion,

compassion for whom?

At the British Museum that day,

a man lay on his left side,

with the marks of anxiety imprinted on his forehead.

Three thousand years before Christ,

three thousand after Christ—

what is the difference?

We say that the hot sand preserved him,

like that tape recorder.

What can the hot sand preserve

but a marvelous

message of pain?

My flesh is warm, tender.

The blood runs in my veins peacefully.

There are endocrine glands

that are not yet dried up.

There is sperm and saliva,

a fresh, lovely smile,

and desires, hopes, and projects.

I have at times embraced

life in my two arms—

a red balloon

in the arms of a young country boy.

Because the blood is not yet dried up,

because the sperm is not yet dried up,

to be, of course, is a marvelous thing.

Not to be is also a marvelous thing.

To be and not to be are in fact the same.

Only the illusion about it creates the sensation of pain.

To be or not to be is not truly the question.

My flesh is tender today.

My nerves vibrate—

the mattress on the bed of life, warm and soft.

I hear the sound of wailing.

O, superb colors and forms—

they are there, because my eyes are there.

O wondrous sounds—

they are there, because my ears are there.

Being superb and wondrous

is being superb and wondrous for this manas.

To have manas is a wondrous thing.

Not to have manas is also a wondrous thing.

Being wondrous is being wondrous.

Manas, O manas.

Being is the being of manas.

Nonbeing is the nonbeing of manas.

Being wondrous is being or nonbeing.

Is manas a being or a nonbeing?

Manas, O manas;

No-manas, O, no-manas.

Both manas and no-manas

are simply manas.

Both being and nonbeing have been invented.

Manas, let me laugh aloud.

I stamped my feet and cried

the moment mother died.

That morning was a beautiful rosy morning,

but at midnight the wind blew hard.

Tears ran silently down my cheeks.

The tears preserved in the glands

are enough for a whole Winter.

My mother smiling,

my mother not smiling—

Did mother exist or not?

I stamped my feet.

The soil gives way under my feet

and creates in my footprints a real emptiness.

Yesterday the sunshine was mild.

Mother grew a few beds of flowers.

She died at midnight.

Lush plants grow and flowers smile.

“Don’t smile, you naughty flowers.”

“My goodness! How funny this fellow is.”

Smiling or not smiling—

both have ended now.

Being ended or not being ended—

both have ended now.

You talk like a fool.

Your eyes, sister, are said to be

nothing but the four elements,

but they radiate love.

To be or not to be?

Why did you climb up the tree

in order to learn the fear of falling down?

Why ask the question

for confusion to be born

and life obstructed?

Your eyes, brother, are said to be

nothing but the four elements,

but they are flooded with the suffering of injustice.

My hands are here,

hoping that the water of compassion

will wash away that unjust mountain.

That gun is not to be blamed.

That hand is not to be blamed.

That bullet and that flower!

The plants are nurtured so that flowers bloom.

There are thorns to hurt you.

There are caterpillars that eat up the young stems,

caterpillars the color of emerald.

Your crystal clear tears

are of the same nature

as the drops of muddy water

on the roots of these plants.

What can I say?

Laughing sounds dumb.

Crying also sounds dumb.

Not laughing and not crying still sound dumb.

Laughing, laughing, crying, crying

more flowers should bloom for life.

In the world of men,

flowers are authentically flowers.

The flowers of thoughts

embrace time and space,

transcend the two extremes,

transcend matter and speed,

transcend matter and transformation.

O the smile of awakening

O the smile of strangeness

O the smile of persuasion

O the smile of great compassion.

In 1966, I toured Europe to speak out for peace in Vietnam. One afternoon in London, I visited the British Museum. I was impressed to see a fossilized body from the time of 3,000 years before Christ. The body was lying on its left side with its knees folded up against its chest. The whole body was intacthair, nails—because the hot sand had preserved it. I was with a nine-year-old British girl, who was horrified to see the preserved body. She pulled on my sleeve and asked, “Will that happen to me?” I said, “No. It will not happen to you.” I lied about something that Channa, the Buddha’s charioteer, did not lie about to Siddhartha.

A few weeks later, in Paris, I woke up one night feeling my body to see whether I had been transformed into stone. It was two o’clock in the morning, and I sat up. After sitting for an hour, I felt like water raining on a mountain, washing, washing. I enjoyed sitting another hour in that position. Finally, I got up and wrote this poem in one stroke. The feeling and the images flowed so vigorously that they had a hard time coming out, like a big container overturned, with the water pushing its way out.

Getting into the Stream

Each monk has a corner of the mat,

a place to sit

for meditation.

There, monk, sit still on it.

The spinning Earth carries us along.

The place you sit on is like a second-class seat on a train.

The monk will eventually get off at his station,

and his place will be dusted for someone else.

How long is the monk to sit

on his corner of the mat?

Sit still on it anyway.

Don’t sit as if you will never give it up,

as if there is no station to arrive at.

The engine with its flames

will carry you along.

Each monk will sit in the lotus position

on the corner of the mat.

The monk will sit like an ancient, enormous mountain.

The mountain is there, completely still,

but like the monk it is on the turning Earth.

Unslowed by our fear,

this train of ours,

this fire-filled engine,

is hurrying ahead.

This morning,

the monk sits as usual

on his corner of the mat.

But he smiles.

“I will not sit here forever,” he tells himself.

“When the train arrives at the station,

I will be elsewhere.

A corner of the mat

or an armful of grass—

I am sitting down

just one more time.”

The fruits of the spiritual life, or meditation, are of four kinds. If you enter the stream, you know that soon you will arrive, because the stream is going to the ocean. You are called a “Stream Enterer.” The second fruit is called “Once-Returner.” You only have to return one more time. The third fruit is “Never-Returner.” You will attain liberation in this life. The fourth fruit is “Arhat.” You are completely liberated from the cycle of birth and death.

In Buddhist monasteries, twice a month novices recite a text by Master Qui Shan called Exhortation to Practitioners. The monks are urged to practice diligently, because life is short and we cannot get hold of time. Each evening during our recitation, we chant, “Today has passed. Life has diminished. It’s like a fish finding the level of water lower and lower. The community should work hard for deliverance.”

There are a few monks who thought that this poem was an attack on them. That is not true. This was written with great pain and compassion.

“An armful of grass” is what the Buddha needed before his enlightenment. He had tried many ascetic methods but didn’t succeed. Asceticism is not the way. It is an extreme, like other extremes. The Buddha decided to break his fast. He drank some milk and ate some rice and felt fresh again. He had the impression that he only needed to make a final effort to have a breakthrough. He cut some fresh, green kusha grass, prepared his seat, and told himself with much determination, “I will sit down one more time. Until I ‘get it,’ I will not stand up.” And he got enlightened.

I Will Say I Want It All

If you ask how much do I want,

I’ll tell you that I want it all.

This morning, you and I

and all men

are flowing into the marvelous stream

of oneness.

Small pieces of imagination as we are,

we have come a long way to find ourselves

and for ourselves, in the dark, the illusion of emancipation.

This morning, my brother is back from his long adventure.

He kneels before the altar,

his eyes full of tears.

His soul is longing for a shore to set anchor at

(a yearning I once had).

Let him kneel there and weep.

Let him cry his heart out.

Let him have his refuge there for a thousand years,

enough to dry all his tears.

One night, I will come

and set fire to his shelter, the small cottage on the hill.

My fire will destroy everything

and remove his only life raft after a shipwreck.

In the utmost anguish of his soul,

the shell will break.

The light of the burning hut will witness

his glorious deliverance.

I will wait for him

beside the burning cottage.

Tears will run down my cheeks.

I will be there to contemplate his new being.

And as I hold his hands in mine

and ask him how much he wants,

he will smile and say that he wants it all—just as I did.

This is an old poem, written back in 1954. Someone who suffers a great deal might need to hide himself for a while. It is fine to hide oneself for some time for healing. But there are people who want to hide themselves for a long time, like those practitioners who hide themselves in the sitting. They need someone to come and burn down their hiding places.

Zen Corners

There is only one zen center,

but there may be many zen corners.

Never mind.

A corner is a center,

and a center is not other than a corner.

Everywhere we chant, “Form is emptiness.

Form is not other than emptiness.”

Froglessness

The first fruition of the practice

is the attainment of froglessness.

When a frog is put

on the center of a plate,

she will jump out of the plate

after just a few seconds.

If you put the frog back again

on the center of the plate,

she will again jump out.

You have so many plans.

There is something you want to become.

Therefore you always want to make a leap,

a leap forward.

It is difficult

to keep the frog still

on the center of the plate.

You and I

both have Buddha Nature in us.

This is encouraging,

but you and I

both have Frog Nature in us.

That is why

the first attainment

of the practice—

froglessness is its name.

Going in Circles

O you who are going in circles,

please stop.

What are you doing it for?

“I cannot be without going,

because I don’t know where to go.

That’s why I go in circles.”

O you who are going in circles,

please stop.

“But if I stop going,

I will stop being.”

O my friend who is going in circles,

you are not one with

this crazy business of going in circles.

You may enjoy going,

but not going in circles.

“Where can I go?”

Go where you can find your beloved,

where you can find yourself.

Twenty-Four Brand-New Hours

Waking up this morning, I see the blue sky.

I join my hands in thanks

for the many wonders of life;

for having twenty-four brand-new hours before me.

The sun is rising.

The forest becomes my awareness

bathed in the sunshine.

I walk across a field of sunflowers.

Tens of thousands of flowers are turned toward the bright east.

My awareness is like the sun.

My hands are sowing seeds for the next harvest.

My ear is filled with the sound of the rising tide.

In the magnificent sky, clouds are approaching

with joy from many directions.

I can see the fragrant lotus ponds of my homeland.

I can see coconut trees along the rivers.

I can see rice fields stretching, stretching,

laughing at the sun and rain.

Mother Earth gives us coriander, basil, celery, and mint.

Tomorrow the hills and mountains of the country

will be green again.

Tomorrow the buds of life will spring up quickly.

Folk poetry will be as sweet as the songs of children.

This is a song I wrote in Tokyo in 1970. It was meant to be included in the first edition of The Miracle of Mindfulness as “My Awareness, the Sunshine.” Sister Chân Không sings this on the tape Songs of Vietnam.

Renaissance

This morning, at sunrise, a new bud appeared on the tree. It was born around midnight. The bark, the skin of the tree, split open under the incessant movement of its sap to make room for another life. However, the tree was not listening, was not feeling those movements, that pain. All it did was listen attentively to the whispering of the flowers and grasses that surrounded it. The fragrance of the night was pure and wondrous. The tree had no idea of passing time, of birth and death. It was there, as present as the sky and the earth.

This morning at dawn, I understand that this new day does not resemble any other, that this morning is unique. We often think that we store away certain mornings for later. But it is impossible. Each morning is special, unique. My friend, how do you find this morning? Is it here for the first time in our lives? Is it the repetition of a past morning? My friend, when we are not present, mornings repeat themselves. If we are present in front of life, each morning is a new space, a new time. The sun shines over different vistas, at different moments. Your full awareness is like the moon that bathes in the heart of hundreds of rivers: the river flows, the water sings, the moon travels under the immense dome of the blue sky. Look at that blue color, smile, and let your awareness spring up like the transparent, pure sunlight that caresses the branches and leaves in the early morning.

A morning is not a page that you cover with words and turn over at any moment. A book is a path where one can come and go. A morning is not a path, not even a path followed by a bird that flies away without leaving a trace. A morning is a symphony; for it to be there or not depends on your presence.

The new bud on the tree is not even a year old. It is the bud of mindfulness and deep looking that, at each moment, in perpetual motion, opens up to life. If you see the new bud, you will be able to go beyond the limits of time, for true life is beyond months, beyond years.

Your eyes are the immense sky, the high mountain, the deep ocean. Your life does not know borders. All the delicious fruit and magnificent flowers belong to you. Accept them…

The Rainbow Children

I was awake,

yet the dream continued.

Fascinated, I saw myself inside a museum

where all the memories of my childhood were on display.

The moon of a wild land

filtering through the bamboo bars of the window

plunged the young man into a deep sleep,

where the dream continued,

the thread of water

on a serene autumn lake.

My friend, why offer a poem to a singing bird,

to a pebble in a clear stream,

to a fish swimming freely?

What a magnificent morning

on this clear, blue planet!

At this very moment when the multitude of stars

melts into the celestial dome,

children,

children by the thousands,

children of all colors,

climb up the mountain

and look down below, with utmost attention.

They are watching me.

But I keep on sleeping.

Without opening my eyes,

I stretch my body peacefully

and wait for the surprise to arrive!

Why offer a poem

to the little hut

hidden in the bamboo thicket,

to the sunflower unfurled against the wall,

to the sleeping dog curled in a ball in the courtyard

to the cat dancing with sunbeams

high upon the haystack?

Daybreak

does not resemble a new page in a book.

It is a symphony to rebirth,

with its full array of sounds and colors.

Each dawn is an ode

to twenty-four brand-new hours.

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Clouds softly pillow the mountain peak.

The breeze is fragrant with tea blossoms.

The joy of meditation remains unshakable.

The forest offers floral perfumes.

One morning we awaken,

fog wrapped around the roof.

With fresh laughter, we bid farewell.

The musical clamor of birds

sends us back on the ten thousand paths,

to watch a dream as generous as the sea.

A flicker of fire from the familiar stove

warms the evening shadows as they fall.

Impermanent, self-emptied life,

filled with impostors whose sweet speech

hides a wicked heart.

My confidence intact,

I bid farewell with a peaceful heart.

The affairs of this world are merely a dream.

Don’t forget that days and months race by

as quickly as a young horse.

The stream of birth and death dissolves,

but our friendship never disappears.

Our True Heritage

The cosmos is filled with precious gems.

I want to offer a handful of them to you this morning.

Each moment you are alive is a gem,

shining through and containing earth and sky,

water and clouds.

It needs you to breathe gently

for the miracles to be displayed.

Suddenly you hear the birds singing,

the pines chanting,

see the flowers blooming,

the blue sky,

the white clouds,

the smile and the marvelous look

of your beloved.

You, the richest person on Earth,

who have been going around begging for a living,

stop being the destitute child.

Come back and claim your heritage.

We should enjoy our happiness

and offer it to everyone.

Cherish this very moment.

Let go of the stream of distress

and embrace life fully in your arms.

These are the words of a song written during the Winter 1990 retreat at Plum Village, inspired by the parable of the destitute son in the Lotus Sutra and also the idea of generosity in the Diamond Sutra.

The Good News

They don’t publish

the good news.

The good news is published

by us.

We have a special edition every moment,

and we need you to read it.

The good news is that you are alive,

and the linden tree is still there,

standing firm in the harsh Winter.

The good news is that you have wonderful eyes

to touch the blue sky.

The good news is that your child is there before you,

and your arms are available:

hugging is possible.

They only print what is wrong.

Look at each of our special editions.

We always offer the things that are not wrong.

We want you to benefit from them

and help protect them.

The dandelion is there by the sidewalk,

smiling its wondrous smile,

singing the song of eternity.

Listen! You have ears that can hear it.

Bow your head.

Listen to it.

Leave behind the world of sorrow

and preoccupation

and get free.

The latest good news

is that you can do it.

Plum Village, March 1992.

Bhumisparsha

Death comes

with his impressive scythe

and says,

“You should be afraid of me.”

I look up and ask,

“Why should I be afraid of you?”

“Because I will make you dead.

I will make you nonexistent.”

“How can you make me nonexistent?”

Death does not answer.

He swings his impressive scythe.

I say, “I come and I go. Then I come again. And I go again.

I always come back. You can neither make me exist nor nonexist.”

“How do you know that you will come again?” Death asks.

“I know because I have done that countless times,” I say.

“How do I know that you are telling the truth?

Who can be the witness?” Death frowns.

I touch the Earth and say,

“Earth is the witness. She is my mother.”

Suddenly, Death hears the music.

Suddenly, Death hears the birds singing from all directions.

Suddenly, Death sees the trees blossoming.

Earth makes herself apparent to Death

and smiles lovingly to him.

Death melts in the loving gaze of Earth.

O my beloved,

touch Earth every time you get scared.

Touch her deeply,

and your sorrow will melt away.

Touch her deeply,

and you will touch the Deathless.

Refuge Prayer

At the foot of the Bodhi tree,

beautifully seated, peaceful and smiling,

the living source of understanding and compassion,

to the Buddha I go for refuge.

The path of mindful living,

leading to healing, joy, and enlightenment,

the way of peace,

to the Dharma I go for refuge.

The loving and supportive community of practice,

realizing harmony, awareness, and liberation,

to the Sangha I go for refuge.

I am aware that the Three Gems are within my heart.

I vow to realize them.

I vow to practice mindful breathing and smiling,

looking deeply into things.

I vow to understand living beings and their suffering,

to cultivate compassion and loving kindness,

and to practice joy and equanimity.

I vow to offer joy to one person in the morning

and to help relieve the grief of one person in the afternoon.

I vow to live simply and sanely,

content with just a few possessions,

and to keep my body healthy.

I vow to let go of all worry and anxiety

in order to be light and free.

I am aware that I owe so much to my parents, teachers, friends, and

all beings.

I vow to be worthy of their trust,

to practice wholeheartedly,

so that understanding and compassion will flower,

and I can help living beings

be free from their suffering.

May the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha support my efforts.

Taking Refuge

Breathing in, I go back

to the island within myself.

There are beautiful trees

within the island.

There are clear streams of water.

There are birds,

sunshine,

and fresh air.

Breathing out,

I feel safe.

I enjoy going back to my island.

Breathing in mindfully,

I meet the Buddha within myself.

Buddha is mindfulness.

His torch is always there

illuminating my path,

the path of coming,

the path of going,

the path of my mind,

the path of my life.

Breathing out mindfully,

I see my path clearly,

far or near.

Breathing in,

I find the Dharma in my breath.

The breathing protects me,

protects my body,

protects my spirit.

Breathing out,

I keep the breath alive

for my continual protection.

Breathing in,

I recognize the five skandhas

as my Sangha.

The breathing establishes harmony.

The breathing generates peace.

Breathing out,

I enjoy the Oneness

of my being.

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Walking joyfully in the ultimate dimension,

walk with your feet,

not with your head.

If you walk with your head, you’ll get lost.

Teaching the Dharma in the ultimate dimension,

falling leaves fill the sky.

The path is covered with autumn moonlight.

The Dharma is neither full nor empty.

Discussing the Dharma in the ultimate dimension,

we look at each other and smile.

You are me, don’t you see?

Speaking and listening are one.

Enjoying lunch in the historical dimension,

I feed all generations of ancestors

and all future generations.

Together, we will find our way.

Getting angry in the historical dimension,

we close our eyes and look deeply.

Where will we be in three hundred years?

We open our eyes and hug.

Resting in the ultimate dimension,

using snowy mountains as a pillow

and pink clouds as blankets,

we become sky and earth.

Meditating in the ultimate dimension,

Every moment is a realization.

Every tree is a Bodhi tree.

Every seat is Prabhutaratna’s lion seat.

Walking Meditation

Take my hand.

We will walk.

We will only walk.

We will enjoy our walk

without thinking of arriving anywhere.

Walk peacefully.

Walk happily.

Our walk is a peace walk.

Our walk is a happiness walk.

Then we learn

that there is no peace walk;

that peace is the walk;

that there is no happiness walk;

that happiness is the walk.

We walk for ourselves.

We walk for everyone

always hand in hand.

Walk and touch peace every moment.

Walk and touch happiness every moment.

Each step brings a fresh breeze.

Each step makes a flower bloom under our feet.

Kiss the Earth with your feet.

Print on Earth your love and happiness.

Earth will be safe

when we feel in us enough safety.

Each Step

Through the deserted gate,

full of ripened leaves,

I follow the small path.

Earth is as red as a child’s lips.

Suddenly

l am aware

of each step

I make.

Cuckoo Telephone

The cuckoos have not missed their appointment.

Rolling hills are growing warm.

The telephone is ringing loudly from hill to hill.

The gentle Spring rain permeates the soil of my consciousness.

A seed that has lain deeply in the Earth for many years

just smiles.

You just came for a visit.

Your travel bag is half full of moonlight.

The spinach leaf is calling for the seed of basilicum.

There is more green than red now.

The vegetation is luxurious.

The bell is calling.

Our feet kiss the Earth.

Our eyes embrace the Sky.

We walk in mindfulness.

Ten thousand lives can be seen in a single instant.

This is still Springtime,

when everything is manifesting itself

so rapidly.

The snow is green.

And the sunshine is falling like the rain.

Every time I leave Plum Village for a Spring teaching tour, I remind my friends that when Spring comes, the sound of the cuckoos is my telephone call. And as we always practice telephone meditation in Plum Village, practicing conscious breathing when the telephone bell rings, my friends always stop and breathe deeply when they hear the cuckoos.

A friend who visits you without some moonlight in his or her traveling bag is too busy. When you see such a friend, ask him or her, “Do you have enough moonlight in your bag?” That would be a bell of mindfulness.

As you look at the luxurious vegetation in Spring, you know the snow that fell in the Winter is part of what you see. You can see the snow that wears a green coat. It was the sunshine that helped bring the ocean water up to the sky in the form of clouds, so the sunshine can be seen in the rain or the snow that is falling. Since the snow is falling, you see the sunshine fall as well.

Earth Touching

Here is the foot of a tree.

Here is an empty, quiet place.

Here is a cushion.

Brother, why don’t you sit down?

Sit upright.

Sit with solidity.

Sit in peace.

Don’t let your thoughts lift you up into the air.

Sit so that you can really touch the Earth

and be one with her.

You may like to smile, brother.

Earth will transmit to you her solidity,

her peace, and her joy.

With your mindful breathing,

with your peaceful smile,

you sustain the mudra of Earth Touching.

There were times when you didn’t do well.

Sitting on Earth, but it was as if you were floating in the air,

you who used to go in circles in the triple world

and be drawn into the ocean of illusion.

But Earth is always patient

and one-hearted.

Earth is still waiting for you

because Earth has been waiting for you

during the last trillion lives.

That is why she can wait for you for any other length of time.

She knows that finally you will come back to her one day.

She will welcome you

always fresh and green, exactly like the first time,

because love never says, “This is the last”;

because Earth is a loving mother.

She will never stop waiting for you.

Do go back to her, brother.

You will be like that tree.

The leaves, the branches, and the flowers of your soul

will be fresh and green

once you enter the mudra of Earth Touching.

The empty path welcomes you, sister,

fragrant with grass and little flowers,

the path paved with paddy fields

still bearing the marks of your childhood

and the fragrance of mother’s hand.

Walk leisurely, peacefully.

Your feet should deeply touch the Earth.

Don’t let your thoughts lift you up into the air, sister.

Go back to the path every moment.

The path is your dearest friend.

She will transmit to you

her solidity,

her peace.

With your deep breathing,

you sustain the mudra of Earth Touching.

Walk as if you were kissing the Earth with your feet,

as if you were massaging the Earth.

The marks left by your feet

will be like the marks of an emperor’s seal

calling for Now to go back to Here;

so that life will be present;

so that the blood will bring the color of love to your face;

so that the wonders of life will be manifested,

and all afflictions will be transformed into

peace and joy.

There were times when you did not succeed, sister.

Walking on the empty path, but you were floating in the air,

because you used to get lost in samsara

and drawn into the world of illusion.

But the beautiful path is always patient.

It is always waiting for you to come back,

that path which is so familiar to you,

that path which is so faithful.

It knows deeply that you will come back one day.

It will be joyful to welcome you back.

It will be as fresh and as beautiful as the first time.

Love never says, “This is the last.”

That path is you, sister.

That is why it will never be tired of waiting.

Whether it is covered now with red dust

or with Autumn leaves

or icy snow—

do go back to the path, sister,

because I know

you will be like that tree,

the leaves, the trunk, the branches,

and the blossoms of your soul

will be fresh and beautiful,

once you enter the mudra of Earth Touching.

Breathing

Breathing in,

I see myself as a flower.

I am the freshness

of a dewdrop.

Breathing out,

my eyes have become flowers.

Please look at me.

l am looking

with the eyes of love.

Breathing in,

I am a mountain,

imperturbable,

still,

alive,

vigorous.

Breathing out,

I feel solid.

The waves of emotion

can never carry me away.

Breathing in,

I am still water.

I reflect the sky

faithfully.

Look, I have a full moon

within my heart,

the refreshing moon of the bodhisattva.

Breathing out,

I offer the perfect reflection

of my mirror-mind.

Breathing in,

I have become space

without boundaries.

I have no plans left.

I have no luggage.

Breathing out,

I am the moon

that is sailing through the sky of utmost emptiness.

I am freedom.

Open the Road Wider

Hair which is the color of precious wood

is now offered as incense.

Beauty becomes eternity.

How wonderful the awareness of impermanence!

Since everything is as a dream,

the true mind is determined to lead the way.

After listening to the voice of the rising tide,

steps are made in the direction of the unconditioned.

The winds chant this morning on the slope of Gridhrakuta.

The mind is no longer bound to anything.

The song now is that of the lovely teaching;

its fragrance is the essence of truth.

In times past, it was with boket water

that her hair was washed,

then dried in the fragrant breeze of the late afternoon.

This morning it is the bodhi nectar that she receives

for the mind of enlightenment to appear in its wholeness.

For twenty-five years

she has made daily offerings

of loving kindness with her hands.

Compassion has never ceased to grow in her heart.

This morning her hair is shed,

and the Way becomes wide open.

Suffering and illusion, though limitless,

are entirely ended.

A heart can touch the ten directions.

This poem was written for Sister Chân Không the day she shed her hair on the Gridhrakuta Mountain to become a nun.