Thich Nhat Hanh

Posted on September 28, 2004 in Citizenship Compassion Reading

I’ve been reading Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life by Thich Nhat Hanh for a book group. Hanh is a Vietnamese Buddhist monk now expatriate in France, one of a cluster of spiritual thinkers who, lacking fire and brimstone, tends to be patted on the head, given a mention, and promptly forgotten when the time comes for the pundits to talk about religion in politics.

He’s worth taking seriously, though I must hastily add that his way is hard, harder than the ones demanded by the just-call-yourself-good-and-raise-hell-against-the-evil schools which characterize most moral discourse in this country, including much of what you see on this blog. Reading through his book and applying it as a self-criticism, I see a mixed picture. In some ways, I already use his techniques, particularly when I hike in the adjacent wilderness and national forest. In other ways, I have much to accomplish and learn.

Consider this passage:

People in the peace movement can write very good protest letters, but they are no so skilled at writing love letters. We need to write letters to the Congress and the President that they will want to read, and not just throw away. The way we speak, the kind of understanding, the kind of language we use should not turn people off. The President is a person like any of us. [pp. 110-111]

Dammit, that’s hard. Very hard. There’s a certain euphoric effect that comes from being Jeremiah and speaking of fire from Heaven, etc. It’s addictive. It feels good like dropping a couple of incisors and a canine from the mouth of the school bully — as we dream it. Then there is the fear of isolation by our peers who load up their whirlwind guns for the attack on what is vile. Personally, when I am in Old Testament Prophet mode, I worry about what comes through me. I worry that people will stop when the object of defeating Bush is achieved and not continue to tear down what civilization he left. I worry that I become hateful.

Then there is the fear of the ridiculous. So I write a long letter to Richard Scaife about how a change in his attitude can be for the better for himself and for other people. What if he laughs me off as some kind of kook or concentrates on my typoes? It is all too easy to be written off when you are nice; even members of your own side can turn nasty or patronizing when they see you being conciliatory with the enemy or speaking to their own shortcomings.

But the monk tells us that we need to learn the way. If I look ridiculous, perhaps it is because I haven’t thought through the technique. I am still learning. I am always learning. The road is difficult, but the destination is reachable. There’s a lot of thinking to be done, experiments to be made. If I sound like a born-again Christian in the end, I will know that I have failed. The object is to sound humane and loving. I am great at storms, but poor at meadows.