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Misfits

It has been said that people who show up at AA meetings, Buddhist monasteries, and ex-Pat communities may not be the most well-adjusted people in the world. In my long life, I've done all three. And still I say...

Misfits are beautiful

Misfits are teachers

Misfits are often a pain in the ass

The nuns from Vietnam

One of my favorite nuns who were trained in Vietnam

I’ve found the Pure Land monks and nuns trained in Vietnam to be far more compassionate, more open and not at all concerned that they might pollute themselves by associating with Westerners. They are monks and nuns worth emulating and learning from. From within the ranks of the Plum Village Sangha, I haven’t yet met a Zen practitioner with their grace or kindness.

--Excerpt from EVERY BUDDHA, SAME PRICE

Brother Francis

Brother Francis, a close and humorous confidante at Plum Village

I lingered among the trees for a few minutes after people started to to leave, a tear in my eye about missing my children. A figure in a billowy golden robe approached out of the settling mist. It was Brother Francis, who has been such a gentle support to me since the day of his arrival from Thailand. He once said that I remind him of his mother, and then added hastily, “not that you look old enough to be my mother!”

--Excerpt from EVERY BUDDHA, SAME PRICE, page 203

Madie's Windmill House (Excerpt)

Madie's windmill house

Yesterday I had a long visit with a woman named Madie, who lives in a windmill house on the top of the windswept plateau near West Hamlet. When Sister Jina introduced me to her, we had an instant connection.

Madie is of medium height and her thin, wiry body is built of one hundred percent muscle. She has no car, so travels everywhere on an old dented bicycle. I often see her speeding along the dirt road, her bike loaded down with kindling gathered from the forest, or a basket full of muslin-wrapped fresh cheese, bread and produce from local farmers.

I can see Madie’s windmill silhouetted against the sky when I look out the second-floor window of my room at Lower Hamlet. It is about two miles away as the crow flies. A French architect gutted the ancient stone structure and built a three-story dwelling inside. The walls at ground level are four feet thick and get narrower towards the top. On the first floor are her kitchen and salon. Her bedroom and a library are on the windowless second floor, and on the third is a circular guest room with a spectacular view of Le Moulins and the vineyards below. Last winter a rare tornado blew a tree through Madie’s kitchen window and almost killed her. She seems to have been born under a lucky star.

--EVERY BUDDHA, SAME PRICE, page 283

Formal lunch

Formal lunches have become even more awkward for me 

during the Summer Retreat then they were during the

winter, when I was new and focused on mastering the

protocols. On these occasions, we get in line by dharma

age, fill our begging bowl with selections from the table,

and walk solemnly past the throng of lay practitioners. They

stand to one side, palms together, until the last of us has

passed by. Only then can they approach the lay table to

serve themselves.

Excerpt from EVERY BUDDHA SAME PRICE, page 344