Dear Still Water Friends,
After our meditation period this Thursday evening we will recite the Five Mindfulness Trainings. Our program will explore the the Fourth Training, on cultivating loving speech and compassionate listening:
Aware of the suffering caused by unmindful speech and the inability to listen to others, I am committed to cultivating loving speech and deep listening in order to bring joy and happiness to others and relieve others of their suffering.
Knowing that words can create happiness or suffering, I am committed to learning to speak truthfully, with words that inspire self-confidence, joy, and hope. I will not spread news that I do not know to be certain and will not criticize or condemn things of which I am not sure. I will refrain from uttering words that can cause division or discord, or that can cause the family or the community to break. I will make all efforts to reconcile and resolve all conflicts, however small.
For me, the phrase “to speak truthfully, with words that inspire self-confidence, joy, and hope” is especially engaging. It focuses on the power of speech from a perspective that is very different from the one I grew up with.
The “speaking truthfully” part of the phrase, by itself, would have made sense to me when I was young. I grew up with a respect for honesty and truth, and also with a strong desire to be right. At school I won praise for being right (having the correct answer). At home, there were arguments were about who was right. My self-esteem rose when I was recognized as being right, fell when I was exposed as being wrong. I fumed when I thought I was right and no one recognized or admitted it.
However, as a young person, I would have been baffled by the “with words that inspire self-confidence, joy, and hope” part of the phrase. I don’t recall that anyone at either school or home ever even hinted that I should consider how my words affected others.
A turning point came for me about fifteen years ago. I was an assistant teacher at a weekend retreat and there were a number of retreatants who were going through painful transitions. Sometimes I talked with them about their lives and what the practice of mindfulness might offer to them. Sometimes the teacher talked with them. Sometimes we talked with them together. Sometimes the teacher and I talked about what we were saying to them. Over the course of the weekend I began to see that our ways of talking with the retreatants was subtly different. I was focused on being right and fixing their problems. My responses were in accord with mindfulness practice, as I understood it, and I offered concrete and practical suggestions. The lead teacher’s responses were more sympathetic, less directive, kinder. As well as being "correct," they nourished something deeper. Because of that retreat, I understand better what it means to inspire self-confidence, joy, and hope.
Most of us have moments like this in our lives, when we realize how narrow our perspectives have been. Often they come because we have the chance to see how differently others respond to the same stimulus. This Thursday evening, after our sitting and the recitation of the mindfulness trainings, we will begin by share the loving speech lessons we have learned, and the challenges we still face.
There are two excerpts below. The first, by Thich Nhat Hanh, encourages us to emulate Avalokiteshvara in our ways of speaking and listening. The second excerpt, by the martial artist Terry Dobson, is a story about an unexpected encounter with a living Avalokiteshvara on a Tokyo subway.
The Deep Practice of Mindful Speech
from For a Future to be Possible by Thich Nhat Hanh
If you are motivated by loving kindness and compassion, there are many ways to bring happiness to others right now, starting with kind speech. The way you speak to others can offer them joy, happiness, self-confidence, hope, trust, and enlightenment. Mindful speaking is a deep practice.
Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva is a person who has learned the art of listening and speaking deeply in order to help people let go of their fear, misery, and despair. He is the model of this practice, and the door he opens is called the "universal door.” If we practice listening and speaking according to Avalokitesvara, we too will be able to open the universal door and bring joy, peace, and happiness to many people and alleviate their suffering.
A Short Story by Terry Dobson
THE TRAIN CLANKED and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty – a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.
At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that she was unharmed.
Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that on of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.
I was young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight. "Aikido," my teacher had said again and again, "is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it."
I listened to his words. I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty. This is it! I said to myself, getting to my feet. People are in danger and if I don’t do something fast, they will probably get hurt.
Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. "Aha!" He roared. "A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!" I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss. "All right! He hollered. "You’re gonna get a lesson."
He gathered himself for a rush at me. A split second before he could move, someone shouted "Hey!" It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he suddenly stumbled upon it. "Hey!" I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share. "C’mere," the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. "C’mere and talk with me." He waved his hand lightly.
The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman, and roared above the clacking wheels, "Why the hell should I talk to you?" The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks. The old man continued to beam at the laborer. "What’cha been drinkin’?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. "I been drinkin’ sake," the laborer bellowed back, "and it’s none of your business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old man. "Ok, that’s wonderful," the old man said, "absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree had done better than I expected, though especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!"
He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling. As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. "Yeah," he said. "I love persimmons too…" His voice trailed off. "Yes," said the old man, smiling, "and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife." "No," replied the laborer. "My wife died."
Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. "I don’t got no wife, I don’t got no home, I don’t got no job. I am so ashamed of myself."
Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body. Now it was my turn. Standing there in well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.
Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. "My, my," he said, "that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it." I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.
As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.
Sun, September 24
Grasonville, MarylandIn-Person Mindful Walk on the Eastern Shore 9:30 am - 11:00 am
Mon, September 25
Tue, September 26
Wed, September 27
Online Zoom Meeting,Spanish-Speaking Online Practice 7:00 pm - 8:30 pm
Thu, September 28
Fri, September 29
Online Zoom Meeting,Afternoon Practice at Friends House Retirement Community 3:00 pm - 4:30 pm
|Sat, September 30|