Brief Description

In recent years, Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh has become one of the world's most respected spiritual leaders. But his journals of the early 1960s reveal a vulnerable and questioning young man. As a student at Princeton and Columbia Universities, he shares his reflections on the state of humanity as well as the many difficulties he faced at home in trying to make Buddhism relevant to his people's needs. We see Thich Nhat Hanh as he returns to Vietnam and establishes the movement known as "engaged Buddhism" -- starting self-help villages, a new university, a Buddhist order, and many other efforts for peace.

This wonderful book, regarded by Vietnamese readers as Thich Nhat Hanh's most endearing writing, offers us a glimpse into another time and into the mind of a great thinker and activist. It also offers us a model of how to live fully, with awareness, during a time of challenge and upheaval.

Sample Chapter

16 August 1962
Medford, New Jersey

Next Wednesday I'll leave here and return to New York. Autumn has arrived. Here they call it "fall," because so many leaves fall from the trees. They call the first season "spring," when young buds spring forth from the branches. Riverside Park must be beautiful now. Princeton is always beautiful in the fall. At Princeton, I always walked down a narrow path bordered by emerald green grass. It is so cool and crisp this time of year. At the slightest breeze, leaves fall from the trees and brush against your shoulders. Some are golden, some as red as lipstick. There are unimaginable varieties of hues. Leaf showers are a joy for the eyes. At home, I love the trees that change their colors, like the arjun. Dai Lao Forest is always green. Very few trees in Dai Lao Forest lose their leaves.

Princeton is beautiful, but it doesn't have the beauty of Phuong Boi. Fog never encircles the mountains, making you feel as though you are standing at the edge of the sea. The scent of chieu flowers does not waft through Princeton, nor do gibbons' cries echo there. Princeton is not untamed, like Phuong Boi.

I will never forget the nights when the moon shone over the forests of Phuong Boi. Nighttime in the forest is not like nighttime in the city or even on a farm. At night, the sacred forest declares its absolute authority. The curtain of darkness is thick and secretive. Sitting in the study at Phuong Boi, I heard many eerie cries coming from the forest. By eight o'clock it was already night, and the forest's dominance was restored. The whole universe sank into a profound silence that, at the same time, vibrated with life. I could almost hear the majestic steps of the mountain god as he leaped between the towering trees.

On full moon nights, none of us could sleep. One time, I was up late writing when Thanh Tue rose from his bed and stood quietly by the window to gaze at the moonlit forest. I blew out my candle with a whisper and stood beside him. When moon and forest were together, they created a profoundly marvelous and mysterious atmosphere, unlike any we had experienced before. The silence was total, yet we could hear moon and forest speaking to each other. They were no longer two, but had become one. If you took away the moon, the forest would cease to be. If you took away the forest, the moon would not be. We wouldn't be standing by the moonlit window if moon and forest ceased to be. We were mesmerized.

Some nights I stood gazing at the forest for hours. Just fifty meters away, the omnipotent forest pulled at me, with an irresistible force. It was wild and invigorating. I imagined seeing the shadowy form of a Montagnard tribesman from thousands of years ago, and I could feel the ancient tribesman in myself awakening. I felt the urge to leave civilization behind, throw away my bookish knowledge, tear off my clothes, and enter the forest naked. To do what? I didn't know. But I would enter the forest's depths. Even if wild animals devoured me, I knew I would feel no pain, terror, or regret. I might even enjoy being devoured. I stood at the window for a long time, struggling with the call of the forest and the moon.

The forest in Medford, by comparison, is tame and meek. I long for Phuong Boi. Sixteen moons have passed since I left Vietnam. The other day I wrote these lines:

On the pillow of forest's deep night
I dream of the sixteenth-day moon.
Sixteen moons have come and gone.

On the nights at Phuong Boi when there was no moon, I'd look up at the night sky and imagine the fullness of the sixteenth-day moon. Sixteen moons and the sixteenth-day moon are one, yet two.

On the first day of the rainy-retreat season, it stopped raining. Nhu Thong, Nhu Ngoc, and Thây Chau Toan arrived at nine in the morning with offerings for Phuong Boi. We filled a beautiful vase with wildflowers to offer to the Buddha. I remember vividly the bowls, plates, chopsticks, and food. Montagnard Hill was too overgrown for us to eat outdoors, so we ate in Montagnard House. Tue had arrived. Nguyen Hung and I were putting the final touches on the meditation hall. Toan went into Meditation Forest to pick flowers, and he was soon joined by Sister Dieu Am and Sister Luu Phuong. The two sisters gathered snow-white chieu flowers, and Toan picked a few peonies and many branches of sim blossoms. We filled many small vases, mostly with arrangements of sim branches. Toan had removed the leaves to make them look like peach blossoms. We filled the largest vase with chieu, peonies, and some flowers we didn't even know the names of. Toan cut a large pine branch and set it in a brown-glazed Montagnard vase in the meditation hall. Nhu Khoa and Thanh Gioi hiked over the hills into Phuong Boi and joined us. What a wonderful gathering! After a ceremony honoring the offerings, we gave everyone a tour of Phuong Boi.

Our friends stayed until mid-afternoon, and we discussed future plans. Toan, Nhu Ngoc, and Nhu Thong were the first to leave. To return to Saigon, they had to cross the forest to Dai Ha Village, where they could catch a bus. Nhu Khoa and Thanh Gioi were the next to depart. Finally, Uncle Dai Ha's family left, as did Sister Dieu Am, Sister Luu Phuong, and Thanh Tue. Thanh Tue couldn't join us permanently. He still had a teaching job in Blao.

That evening, a tranquil emptiness returned to Phuong Boi. After bidding farewell to Sister Dieu Am and Tue, we entered the gateway to Meditation Forest, marked by a board nailed to a tree on which were painted the Chinese characters "Dai Lao Mountain, Phuong Boi Hermitage." Phuong Boi was a reality! It was not like anything we had known before. It was precious beyond words. We never thought we would come into contact with such a reality, yet it seemed like a cloud that could dissolve at any moment. I agreed with Hung's sentiment - we did not own Phuong Boi; Phuong Boi owned us. Later, Ly called Phuong Boi "the Pure Land." Wherever we traveled, we would always belong to that Pure Land.

We climbed Montagnard Hill that evening to look out in the four directions. Then we walked between the rows of tea bushes - the earth was so spongy - and along the edge of the forest and down into a dale. It was there that Hung saw the fresh footprints of a tiger leading in the direction of Plum Bridge. It was already dusk, and the forest was deserted. A little anxious, I suggested we return to Montagnard House. We crossed through the tea bushes to the top of Montagnard Hill. When we reached our quarters, we built a fire, as the night was growing chilly. Aunt Tam Hue was unable to stay that night, so Hung and I were the only ones there. Others planned to join us a few days later. We prepared a simple meal of rice and mustard green pickles with soy sauce, and then, sitting together by candlelight, shared our thoughts about what we might accomplish in the coming days. Before going to sleep, Hung and I celebrated a brief ceremony to express our gratitude.

When it was raining, mornings in Phuong Boi were exquisite - vital and bursting with life. On chilly mornings I didn't rise early, especially since I'd usually been up late writing. Hung and Tue knew that my health was still frail, so they were careful not to disturb me when they woke up. Aunt Tam Hue didn't need much sleep at all. By the time I woke up, she had tea steeping and after we practiced sitting meditation, a pot of rice-and-mung-bean porridge ready for us to eat. We sat in front of the warm stove drinking tea and eating breakfast in our cheerful kitchen.

The morning sun was bright, but not hot. So we warmed ourselves through physical labor. After just ten minutes of work, we felt comfortably warm. Hung and I were both handy with a hoe and a spade, but it still took several months to clear Montagnard Hill of brush and brambles. I don't know how many tables we managed to make from the rattan and wood we cleared. We also put up swings and hammocks, where visiting monks from Hue and Saigon would rock gently for hours. No matter how old they were, all the monks loved to swing and sit in hammocks.

Mornings at Phuong Boi were as pristine as a blank sheet of paper, pure white except for a pink blush along the edges. We awoke with the awareness that twenty-four brand new hours were before us, and we would not allow anyone or anything to violate this time of ours - no meetings, appointments, or waiting for buses. The whole day was for us. We would tend the tea bushes, clear the forest underbrush, plant fruit trees, write, study, or do whatever we wanted to do. We all worked hard at many things, yet we never tired, because everything we did, we did by choice. If one person didn't feel like weeding around the tea bushes, someone else usually did. If no one felt like clearing the forest, it would wait for another day. We did whatever we wanted. After breakfast, someone would suggest a morning project. By that time, the residents at Phuong Boi included Hung, Tue, Trieu Quang, Ly, Nam, Phu, Aunt Tam Hue, and myself. If Nguyen Hung suggested, "Let's clear underbrush on Montagnard Hill," two or three others would likely be interested in joining him. Or if Ly suggested, "Let's spend the morning making a path that winds down to the valley," there would always be someone willing to work with him. Consensus was easy to reach. If there was more than one proposal, we divided into teams, according to individual preferences. From time to time, instead of working, we went for a hike together. After preparing a picnic lunch, we walked through the forest, stopping along the way to rest by a stream. Hung and Trieu often returned home with exquisite orchids. At the end of a hiking day, we all slept soundly.

At Phuong Boi, there was no dress code. We could wear whatever kind of hat or boots we liked and tie any manner of belt around our waist. Sometimes, glancing in the mirror, I noticed that I looked like a hobo. Sometimes I didn't shave for a week, not out of laziness, but because there were other things I enjoyed doing more! When we went on our hikes, we wore garments of thick, rough cloth to protect ourselves from thorns. We tucked our pant legs into our rubber boots to discourage leeches. We slung sacks over our shoulders to carry our lunches, a hammock, or a first-aid kit, and each of us held a walking stick. If any of my students had seen me in my hobo garb, they would have been shocked. This was not the proper dress for a classroom discussion on classical poetry.

Living in the mountain forest, our strides and gestures grew bold and strong. Instead of joining palms and bowing to greet each other in the traditional manner, we raised one hand up high and waved. We didn't walk along the mountain paths with measured, stately steps. We walked fast, and often we even ran. We yelled to one another from one hill to the next. Nguyen Hung could yell louder than anyone, and his voice was as shrill as a train whistle. In fact, everyone who spent time at Phuong Boi loved to shout. Once Hung climbed a tall pine tree in Meditation Forest to cut a branch, and he let go a whoop so loud the whole forest reverberated. I was straightening the meditation hall, and his shout startled me so that I dropped my broom and ran outside to look. What is even funnier is that I shouted right back. The forest was so immense, we felt minuscule. I think we shouted to overcome our feeling of being utterly insignificant. It was also our way of compensating for the many social conventions forced upon us in the past. In the conventional world, we had to speak with restraint, guarding each word. Society dictates how we must eat, greet each other, walk, sit, and dress. When we came to Phuong Boi, we wanted to cast off all of these rules and conventions. We ran and yelled to shatter social restraints and prove to ourselves that we were free. Here in America, people greet each other by asking, "How are you?" Everyone agrees that the way it is asked is meaningless, but if you don't ask, others feel as though something is missing. It's especially odd when you visit a doctor. He asks, "How are you?" and you answer, "Fine, thank you." If you were fine, why would you be visiting the doctor?

What makes nature's voice so compelling? The call of moon and forest was irresistible. The storms of the monsoon season also called to me. Even as a young boy, I've always been enchanted by storms. Thunder rumbled, the black sky sank low, and the first raindrops, large and heavy, spattered on the roof tiles in our village. Gusts of wind banged against the window shutters. When I saw and heard those signs, I was transported to another realm. They were the prelude to a majestic symphony. After a crash of thunder that seemed loud enough to crumble the earth, the rain began to tumble like a waterfall. How could I sit still at such a moment? I ran to the window, threw back the curtains, and pressed my face against the glass. Areca palms bowed as earth and sky moaned and screeched. The universe shuddered. Large leaves whipped ferociously against the window. Rain pounded down and gushed in the gutters. Birds struggled against the wind that shook silver curtains of rain. In the symphony of the storm, I heard a call from the heart of the cosmos. I wanted to turn into an areca tree or become a branch bending in the wind. I wanted to be a bird testing the strength of its wings against the wind. I wanted to run outside in the rain and scream, dance, whirl around, laugh, and cry. But I didn't dare. I feared my mother's scolding. So instead I sang for all I was worth. No matter how loud I sang, my voice could not be heard above the roar and crash of the storm. As I sang, my eyes stayed glued to the drama taking place outside the window. My spirit was absorbed by the storm's majesty. I became one with the storm's powerful music, and I felt wonderful! I sang one song after another. When at last the storm subsided - it always seemed so abrupt - I stopped singing. The excitement in my body quieted, but I could feel a few tears still clinging to my eyelashes.

I still respond to the call of the cosmos, although the way I do so has changed. The call is as clear and compelling as it was those many years ago. When I hear it now, I pause, and, with all my body, with every atom of my being, every vein, gland, and nerve, I listen with awe and passion. Imagine someone whose mother has been dead for ten years. Suddenly one day he hears her voice calling to him. That is how I feel when I hear the call of sky and earth.

Just yesterday, I knelt by the window to listen to a symphony of rain, earth, forest, and wind. The window was open, and I didn't close it. I just knelt there, my head bowed in respect, and I let the rain drench my head, neck, and robe. I felt so at ease, so complete. Only when I began to shiver from the cold did I stand up and close the window. I changed out of my wet robe and lit a fire, while the forest of Medford billowed in the ecstasy of the raging storm.