A Thousand Rivers of Moonlight

A Thousand Rivers
of Moonlight
Sister Hoa Nghiêm offers insights from exploring
Thầy’s lifetime of peace activism.

FO L LOWIN G IN T HẦY ’S FO OTS T EP S
Last autumn, Blue Cliff Monastery welcomed two
guests from Vietnam, Mr. Thanh and Mr. Huy. Mr.
Thanh, the director of a documentary about our
teacher, Zen Master Thích Nhất Hạnh (or Thầy),
had come to learn more about Thầy’s life in the
1960s, the crucial period when he came to the
United States to pursue a Master of Arts degree and
to advocate for peace in Vietnam.
Together, monastics and the documentary
film crew visited Princeton University, where Thầy
had studied. Dr. Brian Shetler gave us a guided tour
of the library, which displayed a wide variety of
materials both by and related to Thầy, and pointed
out Brown Hall, where Thầy had resided.
The path leaving the library was strewn with
gold and red leaves. Here, where Thầy had walked,
we practiced walking meditation. Pausing under a
rippling maple tree, we sat in a circle and listened
to a passage from Thầy’s memoir, Fragrant Palm
Leaves. As the wind scattered golden leaves from
swaying branches, beauty carved a path into my
memory.
Our next destination was the Pomona wood cabin
at Camp Ockanickon for Boys in Medford, New
Jersey. The cabin sits next to a large lake where
Thầy had once paddled on a small boat, playing
among the water lilies until evening. As it was
now Autumn, yellow leaves were falling from the
trees onto the surface of the lake. I imagined Thầy
as a young monk, sitting contemplatively and
reminiscing about his homeland, Phương Bối,
and the pain of war in his native country. I recalled
reading Fragrant Palm Leaves and tearing up at
two verses written as a farewell to Thầy by Ly, a
social activist. Even now, reading them again, my
emotions well up:
“On the day you return,
if the sky is torn asunder,
look for me in the depths of your heart.”1
We sat inside the cabin by a wood-burning
stove as Thọ, a lay practitioner and close friend of
Blue Cliff, collected leaves and dry wood for the fire,
which soon filled the room with warmth. It was in
this very cabin that Thầy had written a short book
titled A Rose for Your Pocket. Later, a musician took
a part of the prose and put it to music. Inspired by
the surroundings, Sister Noi Nghiêm invited us to
sing this song in memory of Thầy. Everyone joined
in, and it felt as if Thầy was sitting with us. I felt the
urge to sing to offer homage to Thầy and to those
present: “A light cloud pillows the mountain peak.
Listening to the fragrance of tea carried by the
wind, we continue to place trust in the faith that
we have. We happily continue our journey …” But
I suddenly felt my throat constrict and was unable
to continue. Thầy has gone far away. I heard again
the faith he gifted us: “Continue the path that Thầy
has traveled. Don’t give up, my child …” In my
heart I responded, “Yes, I will never give up!”
The next day, we continued our trip and visited
Union Theological Seminary in New York. We
began walking meditation at 306 West 109th
Street, the house where Thầy resided before
returning to Vietnam in 1964, and we continued to
Columbia University. The city was bustling with
people. Passing fruit stalls, I tried to put myself
in Thầy’s shoes: I imagined buying vegetables or
bread alone on these streets. There would have
been almost no other Buddhist monks around.
I know Thầy confronted internal conflicts and
feelings of loneliness in a new environment while
also carrying the intense sorrow of knowing war
was ravaging his homeland.
“If you want to cry, just cry. Don’t suppress it. There’s nothing shameful
about crying. Being aware that you are crying is enough.”

My eyes welled up with tears of compassion
for that young monk, my teacher, who shouldered
such a heavy burden. At first, I quickly wiped away
my tears, but then I remembered Thầy telling
me, “If you want to cry, just cry. Don’t suppress
it. There’s nothing shameful about crying. Being
aware that you are crying is enough.” As the sun of
awareness shines, light floods in, and I remember
that we don’t need to suppress emotions. Being
aware that I am crying, how can I continue crying?
At Columbia University, we explored the eleventh
floor of Butler Library and I marveled at walking
past the same bookshelves my teacher had perused. It was here, Thầy wrote, that he had opened
a book and found that two people had borrowed it
before him, on dates decades apart: “I was able to
encounter two people in space but not in time.”2
Now, in Butler Library, I felt that I too was meeting
Thầy in the space of my own consciousness, if not
in time.
In a small, secluded room of Burke Library,
we were shown pictures and documents from the
school’s founders and professors. I was surprised
to see a picture of Thầy in a glass case alongside
other renowned professors. Thầy, at thirty-six,
looked very young. When I saw the display of
his master’s thesis, The Problem of Knowledge
in Vijñānavāda Epistemology,3 I felt pride and
admiration for my teacher, a young monk who
had eloquently presented the epistemology of
Buddhist philosophy to a Western academic
environment long before Buddhism was familiar.
Mr. Thanh also wanted to visit Riverside Church,
where Thầy gave a talk on September 27, 2001,
after the Twin Towers were attacked on 9/11. When
we arrived, it was already quite dark. Initially, the
church didn’t want to receive us—they had closed.
But upon hearing that we were making a documentary about Thầy’s life, an elder in the church
told the security guards to let us in. The kind,
elderly man welcomed us and led us to the main
church, where he had been present when Thầy
had addressed over two thousand people.⁴
I remember September 2001. We were on our
way to Kim Sơn Monastery when we heard that
the Twin Towers had been attacked. Thầy asked
the driver to stop the bus and told us to join our
palms and recite the names of the Buddha and
bodhisattvas for those who had died. Afterward,
US Sanghas seeking an antidote to the fear and
aggression growing around them invited Thầy to
give a Dharma talk at Riverside Church. Some
of us who accompanied Thầy that evening, including me, were very worried—what if a bomb
exploded while Thầy was giving his talk!? But Thầy
was very calm as he walked into the church with
steady steps. Following his lead, each trailing monastic took mindful steps up to the podium. Sitting
behind Thầy, I breathed awareness into my fear
and accepted that anything could happen to me
at that moment. A bomb could go off. But the vow
of a bodhisattva is to not be afraid of suffering, to
think not only of oneself, to go to the places that
need help, and to dare to speak out and call for
peace in the world. Our society today, just like in
Thầy’s time, needs many bodhisattvas to speak up
together for world peace. One bodhisattva is not
enough; we need a Sangha, for only a Sangha can
create a mountain able to withstand the storms of
war. Remembering these teachings, I understood
Thầy’s fearlessness in giving the Dharma talk at
Riverside Church.
The day I asked Thầy to join the monastics, I wanted
to become a nun because life at Plum Village was so
fun. There was nothing to worry about. Every day,
I could do sitting and walking meditation with the
Sangha and eat in silence, and every week I could
listen to Thầy’s Dharma talk. I didn’t need to look
for a job or compete for an important position, nor
did I need to think about money. Life was simple
and happy. But over time, I saw that the path I was
on was not as simple as I thought. I began to have
work and responsibilities assigned to me by the

Sangha. I became more worried about monastic
life, because at that time, Plum Village was not
as developed as it is now. I started thinking about
how to raise money for Plum Village so we would
have enough to live, and I became worried.
I asked Thầy for permission to raise bees to sell
honey. Plum Village has up to 1,250 plum trees;
every spring they bloom, and bees fill the garden. I
had other ideas, too: selling spring rolls at the market in Sainte Foy, for example. Thầy shook his head,
looked straight into my eyes, and said very strictly,
“Don’t worry, my child. Just keep practicing! If one
has virtue, one will not lack for food. Instead of
worrying, put Transformation and Healing on your
bedside table and read one chapter a day for me.”
Transformation and Healing, a commentary
Thầy had written about the Four Establishments
of Mindfulness, is very simple and easy to understand. Reading it, I felt like I had struck gold. A new
perspective opened up in front of me: my true
homeland, I realized, is right inside me, not somewhere far away.
Previously, when Thầy told me, “Out there,
people are suffering a lot. They really need our
help, so we should study and practice properly,” I
agreed, but my mind was blank. With time, and the
opportunity to come into contact with the cultures
and diverse lives of many people, I have come to
understand: regardless of nationality, race, skin
color, location, or class, people cannot avoid suffering in life.
Living in a wealthy country like the United
States, I thought there would be less suffering than
in poorer countries. But I was wrong. I have been
residing at Blue Cliff Monastery for nearly ten years
now and the suffering here is as full as the Atlantic
Ocean. I know a family whose son committed suicide. I listen to students with wounds from sexual
or physical abuse committed by their parents, to
people who feel lonely in their lives, and to young
people mired in addiction and debauchery. There
is also much mental illness in society. What must
we do to help our loved ones overcome emotional
storms and distress? Isn’t it too late to wait for
the storm to come before finding a solution? I see
now that the need for mindfulness practice is very

strong. I clearly see the reason for my presence and
my practice. I am not practicing only to achieve my
own personal goal of enlightenment. My existence
and practice are to help alleviate pain of all who
suffer.
Tonight, the bright moon outside the window
at Blue Cliff reminds me of the time I sat with Thầy
on a bench, watching the moon. He told me, “Only
when we are free can we see the bright moon.” Did
Thầy want to tell me that only when I am not busy
with family or social matters, only when my heart
is not filled with desires, wishes, and sorrows, will
I be able to truly be in touch with the bright moon?
As Thầy’s parallel verses in the Great Togetherness
Meditation Hall of Blue Cliff Monastery say:
The blue water is clear,
thousands of rivers have water,
thousands of rivers and moons appear.
Mountain Cliff is beautiful,
every time you look at it, it is brand new.
I would like to say to Thầy, “Dear Respected
Thầy, I am very happy. Every day I see our direction
clearly and know where I am going. The gratitude I
have for my teacher, for the patriarchs, for my spiritual family, for my parents, and for my blood family
will never run dry. I know that you are roaming
freely, and that you will be in our hearts forever.”
Thầy’s peace activism continues in me, and in the
Sangha.
November 30, 2023
Chân Hoa Nghiêm
1 Thích Nhất Hạnh, Fragrant Palm Leaves: Journals 19621966 (Berkeley: Parallax Press, 1998), p. 51.
2 Thích Nhất Hạnh, Fragrant Palm Leaves: Journals 19621966 (Berkeley: Parallax Press, 1998), p. 75.
3 Thích Nhất Hạnh’s thesis is available on Columbia
University’s website at https://academiccommons.
columbia.edu/doi/10.7916/efz6-7n73.
⁴ Sister True Dedication and Sư Cô Định Nghiêm, “Thich
Nhat Hanh: Extended Biography,” Plum Village. Accessed
May 9, 2024. https://plumvillage.org/about/thich-nhathanh/biography/thich-nhat-hanh-full-biography
Translated by Sister True Vow
Sister Hoa Nghiêm became a nun in 1991 and received
transmission to be a Dharma teacher in 1998 from
Thích Nhất Hạnh. She has lived at Plum Village in
France, Green Mountain Dharma Center in Vermont
and Deer Park Monastery in California, US, Tây Linh
Temple and Diệu Trạm Temple in Vietnam, and Plum
Village Thailand. Sister Hoa Nghiêm now lives at Blue
Cliff Monastery in New York, US, where she serves as
an eldest sister, Dharma teacher, and retreat organizer.