The Greatest Teacher I Never Met: Thich Nhat Hanh
By Jason Dilg
As we integrate the passing of Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh, I am reminded of my short time at his root temple, Tu Hieu, in 2019.
I arrived in Hue, Vietnam, on a hot, humid May day with a group of colleagues who teach mindfulness in the U.S. Our group also included a Vietnamese-American engineer and Buddhist youth teacher from San Diego; a professor and sculptor from Sacramento State University; and three native Vietnamese Buddhists.
I had come especially interested in the chance to experience Buddhism in a society where it has deep roots, not separated from its home continent by thousands of miles of ocean.
That opportunity indeed would come. We attended the colorful Vesak 2019 academic conference and celebrations at the massive Tam Chuc temple outside Hanoi where our group leader and guide Dr. Phe Bach presented. Then we set out to visit temples around Vietnam where Buddhism arrived about 2,000 years ago.
In Hue, we planned a visit to the Tu Hieu temple, where Thich Nhat Hanh (known as simply “Thay,” or “Teacher” by his followers) began his life as a monk in 1942 and returned in 2018 after nearly four decades in exile from his home country and root temple to convalesce and recover following a stroke.
We hoped to have an audience with Thay, to pay our respects and display our gratitude for his work as a peacemaker around the world. I think that it is safe to say that everyone in our group reveres him as a kind of hero, and the idea that we might actually meet the Venerable himself was very, very exciting to me. But I also knew that it was unusual for him to receive visitors.
Nonetheless, we all had seen that Phe’s dedicated engagement in the Buddhist community both in Vietnam and the U.S., along with his wonderfully positive demeanor, gave him what seemed, at least to me, uncommon access as a layperson to senior Buddhist leaders.
Late in the afternoon on the day we arrived in Hue, Phe told us at the hotel that because of the oppressive heat expected that afternoon, we wouldn’t visit the temple.
“No problem,” I thought. Our schedule had been rigorous, so I was grateful for some free time. I was also noticing my growing attachment to the idea that we might actually get to meet Thay, and it made me eager to practice the release of my attachment.
This was good practice. The professor and I left the comfort of our air-conditioned hotel to explore the bustling streets of Hue. We chatted with the owner of a restaurant displaying a photo in its front window of two more of our heroes, President Barack Obama and Anthony Bourdain, enjoying a cold beer and dishes of bún chả together in Hanoi.
We explored the beautiful, exotic fabrics at a custom dress store. We made some new friends with our bad Vietnamese and the help of Google Translate at a nearby coffee shop. Paying close attention to the experience of drinking iced tea with ginger, astragalus, lemongrass, and peaches on a hot day is a study in the conditions of happiness all its own!
And yet, my mind kept changing channels from the freshness of my new surroundings to the possibility that we still might visit Thay. Would we? What would it be like? I’d notice the heat of my own internal chatter, and think to myself “calm,” as I’d imagine these thoughts, and accompanying feelings of tightness and clinging, sailing away on my out-breath.
Later that evening, we rejoined the rest of our colleagues for a delicious dinner and a stroll along the Perfume River. We jumped into a circle of energetic young folks kicking a feathered shuttlecock around like a hacky-sack. I drank sweet cold passionfruit juice and ate tangy green mango with chili from a street cart as we enjoyed the public art along the river. The warm evening became a sultry night with the company of good friends.
Afterward, a few of us continued our exploration of Hue, enjoying the sights and sounds of the hostel district nightlife, alive with its western bars. A kind bánh mì street vendor happily accommodated my gluten intolerance by making me some delicious fried eggs in spicy fish sauce and fresh herbs served in the lid of an empty round of cheese.
Thoughts of Tu Hieu had quietly slipped below the surface of my consciousness. I had trimmed the tethers of my desire to only a thin thread connected to the memory of my anticipation. I was happy.
It was nearly midnight before I returned to the hotel and drifted off to sleep with pleasant memories from the day dancing in my head, along with emerging curiosity about what tomorrow would hold as we would travel further south to Quy Nhon.
But a knock on the hotel room door at 5:30 the next morning brought word from Phe that the cool early morning hours had revived our chances of being received at Tu Hieu. I raced to the waiting van with my colleagues — with no caffeine and not enough sleep to feel refreshed and alert for whatever the day would bring.
After a short drive, we arrived at the beautiful 300 year-old Tu Hieu temple, nested beneath tall trees and bathed in the sound of birdsong. Brown-robed monk’s brooms whisked fallen leaves to be collected in wheelbarrows and moved to compost to become tomorrow’s garden. I kept my rising anticipation at bay by bringing back the memory of how happy I was to have released it, and then returning to the sensory feast of the moment. I was peaceful.
It became clear that we would have a wait before we might be received, so I filled the time by paying respect and gratitude at the graves of the ancestors who created the conditions for Thay to become a monk. I stood at each grave, mimicking the bows I’d seen from Vietnamese monks and laypeople at the many temples that we visited that week.
Then we were invited onto the grounds of the monastic residences at the temple, and I could barely believe it when we were shown to a table with long benches in the gardens there. I sensed an air of anticipation from our group that had become electric.
I noticed that my mind had zeroed in on the fact that here we were, a few yards and a wall away from one of my greatest heroes, perhaps on the verge of meeting him. I felt like a dog waiting for his master to come home. I felt a complex of hot, crazy anticipation rising in me. Where had my peace gone so quickly?
I left our group to practice mindful walking in a garden ornamented with Thay’s calligraphy; the same place Thay walked as a novice, I imagined. My sense of wonder returned. This was a precious moment.
Soon after, we were received by the gracious Su Co Thoai Nghiem, a senior nun. We warmly exchanged introductions. Sister Nghiem had graduated with a degree in computer science 30 years ago from the same university that the professor from our group teaches at now. As the conversation continued in the shade of the garden, we uncovered more things we shared in common.
Su Co Thoai Nghiem then shared that Thay might, or might not, come out of his cabin; that it was up to him and how he was feeling in the moment. If he did, we were welcome to walk with him.
Then, she left. I noticed another wave of nervous anxiety arising about what I could do to fill the time as I pondered this wait ahead with no known outcome. How long would we wait? Would this be how I would spend my time here, anxiously waiting? Was that the only thing I could do now? How could I best use these precious moments in such a sacred place?
I looked up to the trees towering above me. Greenery was everywhere. The morning air still had a touch of cool to it. I found a stool at a table alone in the forest, sat down, and rested my attention on the sounds of birds and monks and construction filling the air, enveloping Thay, the monks, my friends, and the strangers arriving, also hoping for a glimpse of the Master and to bow in respect.
I remembered that in a public interview, Thay once said that when he dies, it would be best to remember that he continues through those who carry his message of kindness and compassion, cultivated by the regular practice of working with our mind — and not to get too hung up the loss one might feel after his inevitable death. That it’s not about him, but the work of practicing mindfulness and making peace in ourselves and the world.
When this idea took root in my mind, I was inspired to leave the patio outside the monastic quarters and practice mindful walking around a beautiful pond in the public area of the temple grounds.
My mind was still trying to anticipate our meeting, clinging to the beauty of the moment in the ancient garden. Thinking even that maybe I was a little special because of the privilege that brought me to that moment.
As my thinking mind created these images and stories, I just noticed, and returned to my practice again and again — feeling my feet on the ground, hearing the sounds in the air, sensing the beauty around me, and feeling warmth arise in my heart. These were beautiful moments.
I exchanged bows with the monks I encountered as I walked, hoping my smile and bow would convey my sense of gratitude for being able to practice here. Some were walking the same shady path. Some shared a blanket and mangos alongside a serene pond. Some were resting on the cool forest floor and chatting peacefully and happily.
My ears were full of the sounds of the morning continuing to unfold; my eyes with the beauty of the people, water, fish, plants, trees, ants, butterflies, centipedes; and my mind with the peaceful intention of the place.
My monkey mind would keep trying to break in with commentary about my experience, moment-to-moment. So the part of my mind holding my own intention countered this distraction with snippets of his texts I’ve read and other pieces of advice of Thay’s that I’d heard in his recorded talks or interviews. I could hear his voice in my mind.
With this, the thought arose, “Now I am walking with Thay.”
Then, I realized my wife was also with me as I remembered the many quiet walks we have taken together in the forest, allowing it to envelop our senses.
One of my dearest friends was there, too — the one to suggest I read Thay’s “Understanding Our Mind” and “The Heart of the Buddha’s Teachings,” which would become central to my understanding of the core of Buddhist philosophy. As I came upon a dry stone canal crossing under the path and leading to a clear, rushing stream of water, I remembered his special gift for ingenious designs of elements that interact with water and the land. He was indeed with me here too.
My colleagues waiting to see Thay were with me though the shared experience of our trip and our intention to use mindfulness to bring peace and happiness to our communities.
My sense of connection to them, the monks, Thay, my wife, my family, my friends, all of nature’s creatures, the breeze, the Sun and the Earth filled me with a joy so big I felt too small to hold it.
I rounded the lake. A knowing arose in me that we would have to leave here soon. I noticed a gentle sadness came along with this idea. I was enjoying my practice so much! I soothed myself thinking of how grateful I was to have this moment.
Just then, I heard a woman yelling to me: “Hey! Hey! Mister! Your family! They are seeing Thay! Go!”
Smiling, I peacefully continued to the monastic quarter’s gate, where a colleague hurried to meet me and let me in.
I arrived to see the rest of my colleagues gathered around Su Co Thoai Nghiem, exchanging farewells. It turned out that Thay would not be coming out that morning, but a few in our group had simply caught a glimpse of him moving about inside his cabin. Others had not.
“We were worried about you,” one said as I approached.
I was shocked. “Why?!”
“… you missed seeing the monk dude,” her son quipped.
“It’s ok — I walked with him around the lake!” I said, with a sly grin.
As everyone else in my group turned to head back to the van, I turned to Su Co Thoai Nghiem and asked if she would be open to giving me some advice. With her approval I asked: “How do you teach mindfulness …” I paused, looking for the right words. “… with soul?”
“You do it by living the example,” she said, without hesitation. “It’s great that we have neuroscience showing that mindfulness does this-and-that to the brain, but where it matters is in your life.”
That morning, two roads opened in front of me. Down one, I could have walked in ego, anticipation, and clinging, vulnerable to disappointment and regret. To travel the other, I simply needed to be guided by a connection to the beauty, intention, and opportunity surrounding me in the moment. I simply needed to live the example.
In the end I was rewarded with a morning of deep practice in the footsteps of the greatest teacher I never met.
