This Freedom

This Freedom
Richard Brady reflects on how Lamp Transmission
supported his healing and growth in freedom to share
mindfulness with others in person and in his writing.
Ted, my therapist, writes a few words on a pad, then tears the sheet off. “Here’s your assignment, Richard.” I look down; on the first line he’s written freedom from. Halfway down
the page he’s written freedom to. I suppress a sigh. Will this really lead me somewhere?
A few months earlier I received a message from Thích Nhất Hạnh inviting me to receive
Dharma Lamp Transmission to become a Dharma teacher in his tradition. The ceremony
would occur just before Christmas in Plum Village, France. I’m not a Dharma teacher, I
think. I’m a math teacher. I have begun bringing mindfulness into my high school classes,
hoping to help students learn this life skill that will increase their capacity to pay attention.
I’ve also been leading mindfulness retreats for fellow educators. These are ways of sharing
some of the precious gifts I’ve received from Thầy.
When I first heard this invitation might be coming, I felt excited, but I also began to
worry about the expectations of others. I don’t want to travel around the country offering
retreats and Days of Mindfulness like some Dharma teachers do. My focus is on sharing
mindfulness with students and teachers. Perhaps I can call my friend Anh-Huong, Thầy’s
niece, and ask her to discourage the invitation. But the invite arrives, and it’s too late for
anyone to intervene. I’m surely not worthy of this honor, but I defer to Thầy’s wisdom,
trusting that taking this step will help me grow. With that thought, I feel deeply and humbly grateful.

… an insight poem presented at a formal ceremony
before Thầy and the Plum Village community?
How could I possibly write that?
During the ceremony, I will be asked to present an “insight poem.” I’m not a poet.
I’ve written poems for Elisabeth on her birthday and our anniversary, but an insight poem
presented at a formal ceremony before Thầy and the Plum Village community? How
could I possibly write that? The poem I write for Thầy is supposed to express insight about
something. Hmm. What might that be? Remembering words from my study of Marshall
Rosenberg’s nonviolent communication, I ask myself, What is alive in me? What is my
vision? Since reading Thomas Wolfe in high school, I’ve been drawn to people who seem
to be free: Henry Miller, Ram Dass, the Grateful Dead, Thích Nhất Hạnh. Do I have my own
vision of freedom?
What does freedom mean? Where have I found
freedom in my life? Where should I be looking?
I’ve been reading alternative education texts and incorporating new methods into
my math teaching, yet moments of true freedom in my personal life are rare. Unresolved
issues dating back to childhood plague my relationships, including with myself. I’d like to
learn something fresh about freedom that might inspire me. So, I begin discussing this
with friends. No insight appears. Finally, a month before the ceremony in Plum Village,
I raise my questions with Ted. “What does freedom mean? Where have I found freedom
in my life? Where should I be looking?” Twenty minutes into the session, Ted interrupts
me to ask how I am. Confused, I reply, “I’ve been telling you how I am for the last twenty
minutes!”
“No, you haven’t,” he says. “You’ve been telling me about your family, your school,
and your spiritual community. How are you?”
I realize I don’t know how I am. My habit is to look outside myself to find out how I am.
Thoughts and feelings about others obscure my connection to myself and to my feeling
free. At the end of our conversation, Ted hands me the paper with the assignment. During
the days that follow, I write responses for both categories: freedom from and freedom
to. Nothing new shows up. Disappointed, I report my results to him at our next meeting.
Taking in my disappointment, Ted listens, remaining present with me.
I see that my knots—my habit energies—are a part
of me and that untying them is not a prerequisite
for freedom.

I wake up a few days later with a fresh understanding. I see that my knots—my habit
energies—are a part of me and that untying them is not a prerequisite for freedom. This
revelation manifests as the poem I respectfully offer at my Lamp Transmission ceremony:
This freedom—not freedom from,

from childhood habits,
from childhood fears;
not freedom to,
to open to the love enfolding me,
to know and live my truth.

This freedom—freedom with,
with habits, with fears,
with heart protected,
truth hidden deep inside.
This freedom—freedom with this moment,
just as it is. *
• • • • •
In the twenty-three years since, life has offered me significant opportunities to practice
with my insight of “freedom with.” My childhood fears, related to the unknown and the
unfamiliar, went untended. Had my loving parents been emotionally expressive, I might
have entrusted these fears to them. As it was, I was alone, ruminating on my fears and
planning in order to reduce my chances of negative experiences in the future. Rumination
and excessive planning became part of who I was, covering up my fear.
At the time I received Lamp Transmission from Thầy, I’d been living in the Washington,
DC area for thirty-five years. I’d been teaching high school math for thirty-one, married
for fifteen, and enjoying being a dad for fourteen. My life was familiar to me. I was mostly
occupied with doing. Conditions seldom watered my negative seeds. Attending Sangha
and being on retreats provided all the peaceful respite for being I seemed to need.
This practice helped me focus on what was present
in my life, rather than on what I had left behind.
Six years later, in 2007, I retired from high school teaching. The following year my
partner Elisabeth and I moved to Putney, a small town in rural Vermont, US. I left behind
my identity as a schoolteacher, my daily schedule of classes, my Sangha, my friends, my
home—all that had been familiar to me. Arriving in Putney, I hoped to offer mindfulness
to local schools, but that failed to materialize. I was adrift. It was time, I realized, to call on
“freedom with.” With that insight I adopted an attitude of curiosity. I began to write weekly
“Vermont Reflections,” which I sent to friends and family members. This practice helped
me focus on what was present in my life, rather than on what I had left behind. However, I

still had plenty of empty hours to worry about what the future might hold. My worries were
realized early in our second year in Vermont when I came down with an undiagnosed illness that laid me low. No Western or Eastern treatment helped. Weak and spending much
of my time in bed, I read and listened to music. I rested, letting myself just be. This was a
freedom I hadn’t experienced before, truly freedom with.
… my heart was softening and long-held tensions in
my body were beginning to release.
A year later, an acupuncturist introduced me to Chinese qigong practice, where I
learned to give and receive qi energy and to circulate it through my body. I began what
would become a twice-daily practice, accompanied by a recording of Plum Village monastics chanting to Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion. In their chant they
sent compassion to themselves, to a loved one, and then out to the world. I silently joined
them. All the while, my heart was softening and long-held tensions in my body were beginning to release. Without my conscious awareness, I was opening to the love surrounding
me, and I was developing a foundation for knowing and living my truth.

• The first portion of this article is adapted from Short Journey Home: Awakening to Freedom with
  Thích Nhất Hạnh by Richard Brady, Parallax Press, 2024.
  Richard Brady, True Dharma Bridge, leads
  retreats in the Plum Village tradition for
  educators, writes, and coordinates Wake Up
  Schools. He was ordained as a Dharma teacher
  by Thích Nhất Hạnh in 2001. He is the author of
  Walking the Teacher’s Path with Mindfulness:
  Stories for Reflection and Action and Short
  Journey Home: Awakening to Freedom with
  Thích Nhất Hạnh. Richard practices with the
  Mountains and Rivers Mindfulness Community
  and lives with his partner, Elisabeth, in Putney,
  Vermont, US.