Seeds
Dedicated To Teachers, The Planters of Seeds and Kin to The Fishers of Men
Washington D.C. is a giant garden of vegetation grown from seeds. I have heard and felt common yearnings for peace within this city. Seeds of reconciliation are waiting to be watered.
There is no need to avert our eyes from the scarred flesh of “We The People.”
We have more in common than we realize. Yet, we consistently avert our eyes and in so doing we miss what we share in common.
Through listening, speaking words of encouragement, and showing respect, we honor each other’s humanity.
Telling one another something as basic as, “I appreciate you,” transforms, encourages, and waters seeds of hope, strength, and determination to do good.
Thich Nhat Hanh has patiently encouraged his students to try to look beyond labels to see with eyes of compassion and understanding.
I first learned of Thich Nhat Hanh (Thay) in the fall of 1992 when I was a student in a freshman college class titled “The Problem of God” in which Thich Nhat Hanh’s most famous work “The Miracle of Mindfulness” was required reading.
It was assigned by Father Ciani, S.J. who passed away years ago at a young age, but the seeds he planted remain with me and countless others.
Thich Nhat Hanh continued to write and I continued to read dozens of his books following that freshman year theology class.
There is no beginning or end to seeds. Seeds are koans and riddles that defy labeling.
Each time I hear Thay speak or I read one of his books, he waters those seeds.
This past winter, I drove for shared driving services. I carried people home, to boarded up areas, alleyways, churches, hospitals, restaurants, construction sites, schools, bars, and the Senate. I have picked up seeds fresh from the airport. No, not those seeds. ;)
People carry a wide variety of seeds with them; some planted years before they were born and others freshly planted. Some seeds I watered and others I chose not to water. Some are healing seeds and others are poisonous.
A note of my own I found:
I picked up three intoxicated passengers four nights ago, tasked with bringing them from one bar to the next destination. They were looking for women. More accurately, they were looking for bodies to sleep with.
Their words were crude and bitter. They laughed seeking common ground with me over broken seeds of hatred and confusion. They were puzzled why they were alone.
The bitterness hung in the air until the car grew silent. The words could no longer sustain themselves.
Driving late one morning I picked up a young mother and son from a primary school. They were looking for a new school for the young one.
Conflict between the boy and his classmates had caused a desire to seek out a safe space. In her voice, I could feel the mother’s wish to heal and feel her uncertainty of how to do so. I drove with conscious gentle intent not to ripple already troubled waters. Stillness was needed.
The young boy started to speak of how he was taught in school to use gentle hands and words. The boy told his mother these ideas of gentle words and hands were boring.
I spoke to him about Aikido and the power of gentle hands. I told him soft does not mean weak. He was quiet.
I did not always see the eyes of the passengers I carried, yet I often felt stillness and energy in voice and word. I have seen Buddha-nature / Divine nature in abundance. It is not scarce.
I have seen Buddha-nature in many wanting to help others.
I have witnessed collective hope among We The People.
Thich Nhat Hanh (Thay) writes of how words cause confusion by oversimplifying and labeling. He often uses the example of an object such as a bench, asking us to look past that five-letter alphabetic label.
There is so much more to a bench than the sound of the word or its five letters or what we characterize as a bench. Thay might ask us to imagine the birthplace of the tree from which the wood was taken. He might ask about the sun or soil that nurtured the forest where that tree grew or about the parents that worked to raise the farmer who may have planted the seedling tree.
This holds true for people.
It is a gift to have been placed in this city among people who have so many labels attached. The labels are designer, indicating to the observer where each person was manufactured, how they are to be treated, and what they can and cannot do.
Labels perpetuate confusion and illusion.
There is a massive expenditure of energy and confusion within a city that makes labeling seem necessary, yet countless conversations contradict labels revealing them to be untrue.
Labels show themselves for what they are — wildly inaccurate oversimplifications.
A system built of brute force labels has no other choice than to crumble upon itself simply by being too impossible to hold itself together.
The intentional design of labels unravels when too many labels coexist in the same space.
In the past few months I have spoken with parents, cousins, women, men, girls, boys, Muslims, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, Atheists, Africans, Asians, Greeks, Pakistanis, Sri Lankan’s, Russians, Israelis, Ecuadorians, Kashmiris, Californians, Turks, Nigerians, Germans, devout, Brazilians, Venezuelans, Romanians, Ghanaians, Monks, Saudis, undevouts, New Zealanders, West Virginians, New Yorkers, Iranians, Canadians, Kiwis, green eyed, brown skinned, white, black, brown, chocolate, Pacific Islanders, Latinos, Latinas, athletes, Afghani's, disabled, those in pain, those who cannot walk, billionaires, prostitutes, depressed, the lonely, the joyful, soldiers, rabbis, addicts, substance sellers, stockholders, socialites, controllers, controlled, executives who manufacture addictive drugs, CEO's who lead the manufacturing of drugs that cure, imams, journalists, monks, nuns, priests, farmers, truckers, boot-strapped, rebels, plumbers, incarcerated, lazy, judges, lawyers, survivors of the lost, abused, abusers, those about to die, mourners, divorced, separated, sisters, married, widowed, unwed, members of the Great Generation, Gen X’ers, Millennial's, Indigo Babies, Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, Independents, tree-cutters, tree planters, tree-huggers, mystics, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, gays, straights, transgenders, carpenters, authors, poets, bartenders, diplomats, police officers, marines, bankers, rebels, brothers, senators, congressman, entrepreneurs, Palestinians, nature lovers, singers, songwriters, software designers, football players, American football players, hopeful, strong, despairing, teachers, students, preachers, lay Buddhists, Tibetans, and Irish.
Labels in this quantity and proximity are meaningless. These labels cannot coexist in truth.
Despite what thoughts and external messages tell us, “We The People” are not divided. Many want to help one another. Many want peace. Many try and want to understand one another. Many are overworked, stressed, exhausted, and confused.
When one skillfully plants at the right moment, solid walls crumble. The skillful gardener knows when the conditions are right. She knows how to create space, and when silence is the best nutrient. Even on a short journey, garden walls can crumble letting light both exit and enter.
Thank you, Thay.
Thank you, Teachers.
There are many of you.
You are patient.
You are loving.
You are kind.
Pete Kimbis is writing his first novel about space and choice. He labels himself a proud papa, poet, lay practitioner of Buddhism, writer on behalf of nonprofit organizations, and thoroughly enjoyed driving for ride-sharing services in Washington D.C., Virginia, and Maryland.
He was first introduced to the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh in a freshman theology course in 1992.
He is fortunate to have local access to teachings in Vipassana Buddhist Meditation provided by Tara Brach, Jonathan Foust, and Shell Fisher of IMCW and the teachings from mystic, Afie Lattimer.
This article was written but not published with inspiration from a call for submissions from The Mindfulness Bell Magazine which coincided with a New Year’s Day workshop on intentions for the year 2020 facilitated by Ray Manyoky & Tara Cassidy of the Frederick Meditation Center in Frederick, MD.
