Monday, December 9, we will meet online.
Dear friends,
This week, we will meet Monday evening, December 9th, from 7-8:30PM EST online; Wednesday morning, Dec 11th, from 7-8AM EST in person at our meditation space (3812 Northampton Street NW); and Friday, Dec 13th, 12-1PM EST online.
On Monday night, Magda will guide us in exploring how we can cultivate the seeds of hope, sharing her experiences at the European Institute of Applied Buddhism and the events that followed her visit.
Most people are afraid of suffering. But suffering is a kind of mud to help the lotus flower of happiness grow. There can be no lotus flower without the mud.
Thich Nhat Hanh, No Mud, No Lotus (2014)
Last month, I attended the No Mud, No Lotus class at the European Institute of Applied Buddhism (EIAB) in Waldbröl, Germany. The EIAB exemplifies Thich Nhat Hanh’s (Thay’s) transformative vision, turning a site once associated with Nazi atrocities into a sanctuary of peace, mindfulness, and reconciliation. Its work in interfaith dialogue and social justice demonstrates how suffering can be transformed into compassion.
While there, I explored the Healing Hearts Exhibit, which honors the psychiatric patients who lived in that building before they were murdered by the Nazi "euthanasia" program. Over 1,250 handmade hearts from around the world are displayed alongside Nazi-era mosaics, conveying a message of remembrance and reconciliation. The EIAB holds weekly ceremonies to send love to those who have suffered, embodying Thich Nhat Hanh’s vision of transforming suffering into understanding.
At the center of the first-floor entrance stands a Buddha before Thay’s calligraphy of the Circle of Interbeing. One morning, overwhelmed by the weight of history and my fears for the U.S., I contemplated the Buddha, reflecting on its presence here, in a place that embodies the struggle between hate and love. This encounter deepened my commitment to being a source of hope in turbulent times.
Thay’s Circle of Interbeing with Buddha at the center at the first floor entrance of the European Institute of Applied Buddhism (EIAB)
EIAB memorial honoring the psychiatric patients who lived at this site and were murdered and all of those who endure suffering.
EIAB’s stupa for inclusivity, built using pillars originally intended by the Nazis for a hotel on the same site
Remarkable Synchronicity
While traveling by train through Europe, I had an experience that brought the theme of transformation into sharp focus. After listening to the inspiring dharma talks of Thay Phap An and feeling deeply nourished by the transformative energy of the retreat, I decided to stay at the institute until the very last moment, changing my original departure plans. This meant I would arrive in Copenhagen at around 3:00 a.m. to catch my morning flight.
Initially, everything went smoothly—traveling from Waldbröl to Hennef, then Cologne, and on to Hamburg. I didn’t anticipate that the final leg of the trip might unfold very differently.
At Hamburg, I boarded a night train with dusty sleeping compartments, which immediately aggravated my allergies and left me ill at ease. The train felt eerie—dimly lit and claustrophobic. When I told one of the conductors that my flexible ticket didn’t include a reserved seat, I was directed to a compartment at the far end of the train. However, the conductor mistakenly sent me toward a seat that didn’t exist in that direction. Unable to locate compartment 30, I tried to settle in an empty space.
While I was there, a young woman entered to recharge her phone. Shortly afterward, another conductor approached me and I explained that I didn’t have a reserved seat and couldn’t find compartment 30. She informed me that it was on the opposite end of the train and that I would need to walk quite a distance through several cars.
As we navigated the narrow hallway, she asked to see my reservation and abruptly told me, “You’re on the wrong train, and you’ll need to get off.” My intended German train had been delayed, and in my confusion, I’d boarded the Swedish train instead, which was also heading to Copenhagen.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that Padborg, the border station in Denmark where I would be disembarking, was a desolate and freezing place at that hour of the night. I would have to wait there for many hours until the next train arrived. Worse, I would miss my flight from Copenhagen to Washington.
As I was preparing to sit in compartment 30, two young people who had followed me—the same woman who had been charging her phone nearby and a young man—came to my aid. With concerned expressions, they informed me about the conditions at Padborg, explaining that I would need to remain outdoors for about seven hours. The young man said, “I was standing close when I heard what the attendant told you. I couldn’t believe she didn’t warn you or try to help, knowing the conditions of that desolate place.”
Gustav and May, who both lived in Sweden, began brainstorming ways to help me reach Copenhagen safely so I wouldn’t miss my flight. Gustav stood up and said he would ask the attendant if I could buy a ticket to stay on the train until Copenhagen.
Five minutes later, Gustav returned with a relieved expression. My new friends then helped me buy a ticket online, which cost around $30.
What I didn’t know was that a great synchronicity was about to unfold. I typically prefer quiet spaces, so after thanking the two profusely and bidding them farewell, I went to sit in an empty compartment nearby. However, as more people entered, privacy quickly disappeared, so I returned to Gustav and May and we began to talk.
When May told me she had grown up in Vietnam, I shared my recent journey to Vietnam and spoke about my teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh. She replied that she watched his videos on YouTube. This sparked the curiosity of Gustav, a PhD student in medical engineering, who said, “I’ve been interested in Buddhism and meditation for the last few years, but who is Thich Nhat Hanh?” I began sharing what I could about Thay, describing EIAB and Plum Village, and discussing the book that Thay had inspired me to write. The two expressed a great deal of interest, and I am sure they will visit one of the monasteries one day.
Torches Through the Night
After our conversation ended, the two retired to their compartments. It turned out, though, that the eventful night wasn’t over. Around twelve o’clock, the train lost electricity and came to a halt for about two hours. I had never been in a place that felt so much like the catacombs—cold and gloomy. The only sound I could hear, every so often, was the whoosh of fast trains passing by. With sunrise hours away, I felt as though I was deep in some surreal abyss.
I remembered similar experiences, like when my tour group in Japan was led through a gloomy tunnel, where I felt a profound sense of isolation that was only relieved when we finally saw the light. As I was in Northern Europe, I also thought of how light is used to illuminate the long nights there.
Moreover, I remembered Thay’s practice of inviting the bell seven times during the night of Tet, amid the despair of war; and the thousands of flashing lights spreading hope through the night. I thought of how cold and dim it sometimes felt at the EIAB, but thought too of the consolation offered by the Buddha’s shining face. I saw the bright faces of Gustav and May, like torches in the night, warming and guiding me with their light.
Going Home
I am writing this from the plane to Washington, D.C. I left the USA one day after the recent election, gaining some relief from the challenging emotions it inspired. I place great importance on not letting such emotions dominate me. I remember one last thing Gustav told me: “I could not believe how peaceful you were when you heard the conductor’s words.”
It’s remarkable how quickly we can fall into muddy waters, and remarkable too how the same waters can give rise to the lotus. Through mindfulness, we can transform every emotion into a lotus flower.
May visited my compartment again about half an hour before we reached Copenhagen. She made sure I was okay and suggested ways I could reach my hotel from the train station. As May hugged me goodbye, I told her that the serendipity was too great to ignore. If I hadn’t boarded the wrong train, if I had known German or understood the system better, if I had double-checked with someone who spoke English, or if the first conductor hadn’t misdirected me, I would have never met these two. I would have never shared with these Bodhisattvas the enriching lessons I have learned from Thay. This encounter made all the trouble worthwhile.
In my bleak moments, I will think of the Buddha that stands in front of the Circle of Interbeing at the EIAB. I will also remember those two young people and the hope they inspired in me. I will carry this hope forward, nourished by the embrace of my guardian angels.
Some Questions to Explore:
During these times of change and upheaval, can you perceive patterns in your own life where difficulties were transformed into an awakened awareness of the teaching of No Mud, No Lotus? I offer these questions for your contemplation:
How does Thay’s phrase No Mud, No Lotus manifest in my life?
How do I cultivate the positive seeds in my life, watering mindfulness, kindness, and gratitude to bring them to full bloom?
How do I embrace the mud—the challenges, pain, and difficulties—as the fertile ground for growth, understanding, and transformation?
How do I transform suffering into compassion, resilience, and joy?
Who have been the torches in the nights of my life, lighting the way when the path felt lost?
How have I been a torch for others?