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. 

ZITRONENMELISSE AND RAINER MARIA RILKE

One of the special teas sent by Sister Linh Bảo, my friend and student at Plum Village, is Zitronenmelisse, otherwise known by the equally soothing name, Lemon Balm.

I have taken to drinking a herbal tea every night - another favourite is Twinings Digest in the flavour of 'Spearmint, Apple and Rooibos with Baobab'. I think about my monastic friends and the mindful significance of brewing and then drinking a cup of tea, alone or together. Alone, we are still together. 

Last night, I wept after reading about the reality of American evacuations in Afghanistan, simultaneously thinking about the Ukrainians trying to decide whether to stay, fight or flee. Today, I spoke with my dear sister, who took her phone, and via the magic of zoom, showed me around the outside of Thây’s hermitage in Lower Hamlet, specially pointing out the Fragrant Stream in the middle of the Bamboo Forest. Then suddenly, by Thây’s favourite swing, three giant Ukrainian pine trees. Thây had brought them back to France to plant in his beloved space. The sight gave me so much comfort. The timing was so beautiful. 

Tonight I, like so many others, find my way to this poem of Rilke, translated by Joanna Macy...

Let This Darkness Be A Bell Tower

Quiet friend who has come so far,

feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

(from Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29)

Sofiis'ka Square, Bell Tower, Kiev © Michele Ursino

FRODO AND SAMWISE, DOG DAYS

Who am I? Where am I? What day is it?

There are hailstones flinging themselves against my window pane and the wind sounds more like a hurricane, tunnelling between trees and rushing down these village lanes. Storm Eunice is here. 

Sometimes Samwise and I stare down country lanes that lead into the unknown, but having had one experience of being ‘lost’ in a field, with no end in sight, I steer my little pooch away from mysterious scents that beg to be followed. We chase sunsets and friendly scarecrows instead... 

Mum and Dad celebrated their wedding anniversary at the end of January, and Mum had a birthday a few days ago. The house is full of flowers, scents of freesia and mimosa, vases rarely used had to be found. A freshly baked chocolate cake arrived the day before Ma's birthday, via our friend Joan, and Irfan sent mithai - from Gupta’s - gifts can arrive this way these days - Singapore to London to Cambridge…

    

                                   

                                           

Who am I? We have lived so many lives already. The bell of mindfulness on my Plum Village app sounds every fifteen minutes, bringing me back to my present moment, which is quiet and safe and peaceful enough. My book is out in the world and being read, and I am learning that it takes Time to approach another piece of work while your heart and mind are still engaged with your first. I am tired, there is no doubt of that. Pops has had many sleepless nights, and I have been his aide-de-camp in matters of tea and biscuits… posh ones, Cartwright and Butler…

My fourth booster must be organised soon, I have taken my pre-infusion covid test in preparation for tmorrow’s infusion… and so it goes… do your days and months have a pattern? Do you experience the funny swoop? The little flutter that reminds you these are still strange times, and we must take care of ourselves and each other. The bell of mindfulness sounds again.