GLOBAL EARTH HOLDERS’ RETREAT (PLUM VILLAGE)

I made it to Plum Village two years ago in early June for the 40th anniversary of Plum Village. Covid was spreading like a gossipy cliché and the nuns asked me to toddle off home because my complex auto-immunity would be a deeply troublesome obstacle to overcome for the sangha. I had no desire to tangle with French medics in limited French, all on my own, with no beloved Dr Dinakantha Kumararatne to be my local hero. So I toddled. And the twins were delighted to see my masked mouth and smiling eyes when they looked up from their lunch. Last year was a time of grieving with the return of Thây's ashes to his hermitage, but this time I felt his absence more keenly. He has many continuations, myself being one of them, but there will only ever be one Thich Nhat Hanh as he was.

The retreat was intense - the schedule more packed than ever to accommodate a second branch of practise - the global earth holders' community - and as you can imagine, there was a lot of emotion and anger and frustration at the lack of 'global' interest and concern in our shared planet, plants, animals and the welfare of each other. And also a lot of white privilege. or simply the privilege of having time and money to spend at a retreat deepening one's practise in gratitude, care and better communication. Plum Village is invariably a place of healing, but healing takes time, energy and wisdom. Most of us aren't particularly wise, yet. I think I make a difference to some lives when I travel, so I make the effort. A tribal elder told me he had a message for me from the ancestors - I must pay attention to the stories I tell myself. I am writing my own story, he told me. I believe him, in part. But I also believe that a writer feels the responsibility of being the medium through which many stories are told, past, present and hints of what may come to be. We are not new here. We have walked these paths and ways a thousand, thousand times before. The poet exists as reminder. As tolling bell, sometimes. And so she is ostracised as much as she is celebrated.  

I had fun too - morning tea and sticky rice lunch with the young nuns I have been teaching through the pandemic, an escape with friends to the local town for pizza and decompressed chatter, an extraordinary coincidental coffee and croissant meet up with my pal Freya, daughter of Mum's bestie Victoria - to whom I dedicated my poem 'The Year of Yes'. I hadn't seen Freya since before Christmas - so it was a joyful fascination that our paths crossed - hers cycling, mine meditating - at, of all places, Thénac, Aquitane, France. It would have made Thây smile. The most smiling part of the retreat was my new born friendship with Benedetta, my roomie, who read my poetry books cover to cover, and made me feel every inch The Poet. To this day, Benedetta’s wisdom and gentle ways stay with me, and she has visited us in Cambridge. Perhaps I will post separately the poem I wrote her inspired by a rather persistent and dramatic Toad!! 

 

PLUM VILLAGE, 40 YEARS

 

From the first seed planted by Sister Loc Uyen to each and every aligned step, it felt as though Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh himself was pulling one of his sparrows home, after ten years. The last time I was in Plum Village, Bordeaux, was for the 30th anniversary. Incredibly I ended up in the same bed, in the same gite in New Hamlet, Dieulivol, looking out on hay bales, far from the croaking of the lotus pond frogs, close to the moon and sunflower fields.

I traveled with friends, met up with the two young nuns I teach English to and made new friends. I wrote a single poem and kept two diaries for my twin nieces, who cried the night I left. ‘We’ll never see you again!’ I’ll cry too, I told them. At some point. And I did. My friend Anh said I had cried a cup full of tears by my last day. Why the tears? Because of the hot French sun, fatigue, the desire to keep up with a monastic schedule far beyond my body’s limits, gratitude to be taken care of by loving friends when I was sick, and gratitude to have a monastic sister guide me to leave early because covid cases were spreading. People had arrived from all over the world for this first in person opening up of Thây’s practise centre, so of course the virus came along for the ride.

On my last day, June 9th, I managed to attend the 40 years celebration in Upper Hamlet, got a calligraphic signature from Brother Phap Huu, the abbot who was Thây’s attendant for seventeen years, met my friend Shantum Seth after ten years, fan girled over the sculptor Paz Perlman, ate cake and generally arrived, at home, fully present. The next morning, I was driven to tiny Bergerac airport by Zoe, a friend who offered her car and company, and the next thing I was outside our front door, with the twins not quite believing I was really real… ‘but you didn’t even tell us you were coming home!!’ 

I am writing this at 11:30am. In France it is 12:30pm. The sangha of 800 lay and monastics, are going as a river in Lower Hamlet, led by Sister Chan Khong, spreading the last of Thây's ashes into the home he created for thousands. Refuge continued. In England, I visited Mary's grave, with flowers, for what would have been her 106th birthday. Death is just a game of hide and seek. 

UNMAKING A WAVE

It is silly for the wave
to long to be merged
with the big ocean
and the wide open sea.
She is the ocean.
She is the sea.
       
           Does that mean
           she can never be free
           of their tumults
           and their authority?
           Where, in all of 'their',
           is she?

Best to evaporate

           and nestle, a raindrop,
           on an old oak tree,
           sheltered from storms,
           cupped by leaf love,
           a sweet, refreshing
           mystery.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2016

Today is Thich Nhat Hanh's 90th birthday. I am remembering my week at Plum Village in the Dordogne, when I was part of a wonderful dharma group - here I am tucked under the wing of Sister An Nghiem (Sister Peace), an African-American nun who left Washington's mayoral office to actively work for peace and change. We need to concentrate on our change makers and our peace workers so we can remember the best of who we are. Thây has always been that for us. Happy Continuation Day to our beloved gentle monk!

PLACE DE LA RESISTANCE

Monks are very hard workers. At Plum Village there are acres of land to be tended beside tending to the cooking, washing, cleaning, and of course the nurturing of the spirit of the sangha. On one compassionate day a week, there is no work. This is Lazy Day! On my Lazy Day, I accompanied several other retreatants to the nearest town of Duras, not knowing anything about it. So when I came upon the signs for Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, I realised this was the place that Marguerite Duras adopted as her name.

This was La Place de la Resistance. Marguerite Duras, who was born in Saigon, French Indochina, led a fascinating life, becoming part of the French Resistance. I was thrilled when I saw a street named after her. And to think of the connections between Vietnam and France carrying back all those years.

Duras was sun soaked, geraniums bursting everywhere and history beckoning with crooked rusty fingers.

In a place so French, I am afraid I broke the vegan rule of the week and ate l'escargots, mes amies, and they were worth every scandalous bite. On Lazy Day, my fellow amigos were tucking into beautiful carafes of regional white wine and rosé. (Well, you would, wouldn't you?). And real French café "avec beaucoup du lait, s'il vous plaît!"

Before I could eat my first mouthful, a woman appeared hesitantly at my elbow. "Er, would you mind," she said. "I'd like to bring my grandchildren over to see The Snails." "Yes! Yes, of course!" I grinned, manically, as I watched her entire family troop over to observe me Eat Snails. "Can I take a photo?" asked a wee one, wielding a deadly digital camera. "Er... right, excellent," said I, hoovering up that first bite under the eyes of all sorts of strangers.

There was a beautiful statue dedicated to Duras A Ses Enfants, and later, as we trooped back to our Hamlet, I turned once, to breathe deeply the memory of my first French town since Verneuil-en-Halatte in 1996 when I lived with my French exchange family. Pour moi, c'etait bien sûr, la place de la resistance.