Living Deeply, Serving Joyfully

was there: the rain, the sun. Without saying
it directly, I showed them that they were not
alone.
For patients suffering from hemiplegia or
Parkinson’s disease, I taught walking meditation in the corridors—without ever mentioning
the word “meditation.” We walked slowly, in
silence. Whenever they had difficulty moving
forward—especially those with Parkinson’s—
we stopped, and I would ask, “What is your
favorite tree?” (They wanted to keep trying
to move, but I told them, “No, no—we must
practice stopping.”) If they said, “The cherry
tree,” then I would say, “Okay, let’s become
cherry trees in bloom, right here in the hospital corridor.” That released the feeling of
helplessness. It was a creative kind of stopping—beauty was there inside it—and they
loved it.
There are synapses in the brain—the
tiny spaces between nerves. For those with
Parkinson’s, even for young people, dopamine doesn’t flow easily; it becomes depleted.
When we practiced stopping, something
changed—we were no longer straining the
neurons, and the synaptic space could refill
until they were ready to walk again.
I didn’t do anything—I just helped. I transmitted bedside meditation, which was very
helpful during the changing of dressings for
bedsores—often a painful moment—and for
people losing their memory or no longer fully
aware of the world. I would visit them, ask
about the beautiful things in their lives, and
use that to counterbalance the pain.
I helped them practice stopping—seeing
and recognizing reality as it is—and then
gently “changing the record” as Thầy used
to say. Before the dressing change, when
they heard the cart approaching, they would
sigh, “Ah!” And I would say, “Yes, that’s the
dressing cart. Tell me about the flute your son
plays.” By the time they were lying down, we
could begin.
I never denied the truth. When the dressing was removed and the pain was intense,

I would say, “Yes, it hurts a lot. Come back
to your breathing and gently say, ‘It hurts a
lot,’ while breathing calmly.” Then I might add,
“There are also other places in your body—if I
place my hand here, is it cool or warm?”
I helped them shift their attention. And if
the pain was still too strong, mindful breathing
and presence made it bearable. The person
no longer screamed. I shared this with the
nursing staff—“You can do this, together, as a
team.” Otherwise, the person would struggle
terribly.
I also helped to “bring back to life” the
bodies of patients—the untouched parts
that had been completely forgotten. I taught
caregivers how to wash their patients with
mindfulness—to always announce what they
were doing: “Now I’m dipping the washcloth
in warm water” so the patient could smell the
soap and recognize the scent first, or “I’m
going to touch your arm, or your face. Can you
feel my hand? It’s soft.” Washing the body in
this way helped reawaken the body’s image
in the brain—stimulating forgotten areas that
had not been touched for a long time.
One day, the head of the department
called me in and said, “Madame, you’ve been
working this way for several months. I don’t
know exactly what it is you’re doing, but thank
you—it’s working. You have carte blanche to
continue.” (Of course, the results didn’t come
from me—they came from the practice!)

I explained to the department head why I
was working in this way, and that I belonged
to a meditation community. I told him that
walking like this is also meditating—that
when I enter a patient’s room and try to see
what they need, what’s right and what’s not,
it’s only possible with a completely empty
and clear mind.
For me, Buddhism is engaged in life itself.
Whatever our profession, we can always find
meditations that bring relief.
TN: Did you share with Thầy what you applied in the hospital?
GN: Whenever I began a new kind of meditation practice, I would write to Thầy: “Dear
Thầy, this is what I did today….” —though I
never received a reply.
One day, during a stay at Plum Village,
I skipped walking meditation. Sitting under
the linden tree in Upper Hamlet, I wrote to
Thầy about what I had been doing with my
patients. Thầy came by, very gently, and said,
“So, Sister Élisabeth.” He always called me
Sister Élisabeth. He didn’t say, “You didn’t
come to walking meditation.” No, he simply
asked what I was doing.
“Dear Thầy,” I said, “I’ve put your teachings into practice at the hospital, and they’re
bringing good results. I’m writing everything
down.”
He just said softly, “Each time you find a
new way to practice, send it to me.” So that’s
what I did. I used walking meditation a lot—
that’s important to emphasize. The results of
this Engaged Buddhism were so clear that
I began to have physiotherapy students ask
me to give classes at their school. Nurses and
caregivers also invited me to speak at the
Department of Rehabilitation Medicine.
They were so amazed by the results. Not
because of me, of course—once again, it was
the practice.
TN: After your experience sharing mindfulness in the hospital, how did Engaged
Buddhism continue to manifest in your daily
life?
GN: In my own family, I never imposed silent
sitting or stopping with the bell; I simply
Look into my eyes—
they’re overflowing with love—
you have chosen the most beautiful path.

continued my life as before, but with more
and more awareness and presence. That,
too, was Engaged Buddhism.
I used to write little stories and read
them to my children—stories that carried the
teaching of non-fear and many other seeds of
understanding. When they asked questions,
I always answered in natural, simple ways,
to help them touch the deep teachings that
Thầy had given us. That’s something very
important to me.
Engaged Buddhism also means daring to
pick up a pen—to write to heads of state and
say, “This isn’t right,” but always with gentleness. During the war between Russia and
Ukraine, I wrote a kind letter to Mr. Putin, telling him that he was sending his own children
to die—that there was no difference between
the Ukrainian children, the young soldiers,
and his own Russian sons. These were poor
young men who would die, be mutilated, or
carry deep wounds in their hearts.
I told him that I knew he loved his family,
that he cherished his children. I wrote, “If
you want your name to be remembered with
beauty, you can stop the war now. You just
need to say, ‘That’s enough—we stop,’ and
withdraw your troops. You could become
famous for this beautiful act.” I sent the letter
in Russian, directly to the Kremlin—without
my address, out of respect for my sisters…
you never know.
I was also part of Amnesty International—
first writing letters, and later as a medical
secretary. For me, that too is Engaged
Buddhism: receiving a letter from Amnesty
International and responding, “Dear Mr.
President…” and signing my name with
mindfulness. Always polite, respectful, and
courteous, but clear and direct—leaving no
room to hide. I did that for years. We can be
engaged in so many ways.
In our sangha in Saint-Étienne, we also
cared for people experiencing homelessness.
Many came to us; we offered clothes, a place
to wash, haircuts if they wished, and beard
trims for the men. We prepared meals and
created joyful little moments. We listened
deeply and spoke with them with warmth
and understanding. Thầy knew about it; he
and Sister Chân Không protected us.
That continued for ten years while I was
there—and after I left, the others carried it on
for almost ten more.
There you are—very simple things.
... nothing can be done except together.
Together, we can do everything.
Together, we can rise above every difficulty.

TN: How do you and the community at
Maison de l’Inspir continue to share the
practice with families and young people?
GN: We are deeply engaged and continue
to welcome many young people, including
those from Wake Up. For many years, we
offered a half-day every other Saturday afternoon at Maison de l’Inspir to receive families.
We guided parents to learn how to trust
their children—even the very young ones—
who would lead walking meditation or the
tea ceremony, and invite the bell. During
walking meditation, the parents would close
their eyes and allow themselves to be guided
by a small child. Everyone was so present, so
full of mindfulness.
This, to me, is Engaged Buddhism in
action—transforming the lives of families.
Once a year, the parents would organize a
retreat of three to five days, where parents
and children practiced together.
TN: On the path of service, what were the
greatest challenges for you, dear sister? And
how did you overcome them?
GN: I think the greatest obstacle I encountered was wondering how others would
perceive what I was doing—it was so original!
That was my challenge: the fear that others
wouldn’t understand.
At that time, Buddhism was not well
known. Thầy’s first teaching in French was in
1984 or 1985, just before Christmas, I think.
So my fear was that this kind of engagement
would be misunderstood—seen as belonging
to a sect—and that I might be forbidden to
continue my work in the hospital—even when
I could see the positive results. But when the
head of the department said, “Madame, you
have carte blanche,” all my fears disappeared.
My obstacles came from within me, not from
the outside.
TN: You are a bodhisattva of deep listening,
a beautiful continuation of the Bodhisattva
Avalokita. Could you tell us what inspired
you to offer deep listening to friends at the
Maison de l’Inspir?
GN: It’s hereditary. My mother listened to
people a lot. Sometimes she would bring
unhoused people home—they could sleep,
wash, and rest before going on their way. That
was part of our home: listening. My grandfather did the same, and my grandmother too.
So, it’s in our family—in our genes. There's no
need for me to take credit for listening that
way.
But I can tell you how the sangha’s deep
listening once transformed someone. Would
you like to hear a beautiful story?
TN: Of course!
GN: One day, at the Maison de l’Inspir in
Noisy-le-Grand, a man arrived on his motorbike, with tattoos, wild hair, and a black
leather jacket—a true old-school rocker. At
that time, not everyone had tattoos yet! He
said, “My name is François.” He’s happy for
me to share his story—just François, no last
name.
He listened to the teachings, joined
the walking meditation, and shared during
Dharma discussion. I welcomed him as I
would any person without housing—that was
familiar to me. It didn’t scare me or impress
me; I had already spent time among people
living on the streets.
During the sharing, he told us his story—
abandoned as a child, living on the streets,
drinking by the age of ten or twelve, then
taking drugs. Even though he was still young,
his body was already badly damaged. You
could see he had lived too much—and lived
badly.
All of us—monastics and lay friends—
simply listened. We didn’t interrupt, we didn’t
comment, we just listened deeply. He said, “I
came to you today because I almost killed my
wife’s lover. I had a knife in my hand, ready

to kill him—but I didn’t. I remembered seeing
a book with an address—Noisy-le-Grand, the
Maison de l’Inspir—so here I am.”
From that day on, every Thursday, he
came to our Day of Mindfulness—learning
to live, to be loved, to be recognized, to be
listened to, no matter what he said.
One day, he arrived and said, “This is my
daughter. I asked her to give me the most
beautiful gift possible for my birthday. She
asked, ‘What would make you happy, Dad?’
and I said, ‘Give me a day.’ She asked, ‘Which
day?’ and I said, ‘Thursday.’ So here we are—I
came to spend this day with her.”
Together, surrounded by the sangha, he
made a confession and asked his daughter
for forgiveness. Everyone was in tears. It was
deeply moving—especially knowing the life
he had lived. Later, he did the same with his
son, bringing him to the Maison so his son
could see the place where his father had
found refuge. Again, he made a confession
before his son—a young man of seventeen.
He changed completely.
One day, we were a very small group—just
five people—including a police officer who
came to learn about nonviolence and calm.
We never spoke of our professions, just our
names. When it was François’ turn to share,
he looked at me with sparkling eyes:
“You know what?”
“No,” I said, smiling, to encourage him.
“I looked for all the weapons I had in my
house.”
Right away, the police officer turned
pale—thinking, “Oh dear, where have I ended
up?”
François continued, “I took all my weapons and piled them in the middle of my living
room—a great mountain.” You could imagine
how much fear he had been carrying!
“So, what are you going to do with them,
François?” I asked.
“I have an idea, Sister Élisabeth. I have a
friend who’s a blacksmith. I’ll give them all to
him—he’ll make a statue of liberty. Not the
one over there, but the one we feel inside
when we’re truly free.”
He had stopped drinking, stopped taking
drugs, stopped stimulants. He was living
peacefully. He had melted down his weapons to create a statue of inner freedom.
“Excellent idea, François! You must do
that!” I said. Meanwhile, the police officer
looked even paler!
Then he looked at me seriously and said,
“I kept something.”
I smiled and said, “It’s already wonderful
that you could let go of all the rest. What did
you keep?”
“A hammer—with a long handle—for
when I’m on my motorbike, in case he comes
close.” You could see the old fear still there.
I said gently, “You’ve already made a
great sacrifice. If you still need that one for
now, keep it.” He was amazed.
The following Christmas, I was just
about to leave to visit my mother when I saw
him arrive.“Oh, how wonderful! If you’d come
five minutes later, you’d have missed me!” I
said. “Sister Élisabeth,” he said, “I have a gift
for you.”
He handed me something wrapped in a
red-and-white checkered napkin. It was the
hammer. He had given up his last weapon—
thanks to the sangha.
I told him, “You’ll wrap it again and place
it on the Buddha altar for five days, to purify
it. You’ll offer it yourself, saying, ‘This is my
last weapon, Lord Buddha.’”
I had told him the story of Aṅgulimāla—
and that’s what he did. Later, he became a
filmmaker. He made a film in which his son
played his younger self—and it was a success. He was so happy. Such a transformation—such a beautiful story.
There are so many like that: reconciliations between couples, between parents
and children, between human beings and
life itself.
It is truly the hand of Thầy reaching out
to those in need.

TN: What would you like to say to the young
members of the Order of Interbeing, to inspire them?
GN:  First thing: life is beautiful. For me, it
truly is.
Second thing: you have chosen the most
beautiful path. Look into my eyes—they’re
overflowing with love—you have chosen the
most beautiful path.
In the year 2000, the United Nations
Educational,
Scientific
and
Cultural
Organization (UNESCO) invited Thầy to propose something to change the world. Thầy
presented The Five Mindfulness Trainings
and said, “Here—with this, we can change
the world.”
UNESCO included six points in the final
manifesto, but the spirit of The Five Trainings
was completely within it. I heard that sixty
million people signed that manifesto.
Real change is possible. If we change our
attitude, everything will change.
And lastly, nothing can be done except
together. Together, we can do everything.
Together, we can rise above every difficulty.
Phương by Sister Chuẩn Nghiêm
Sister Chân Giác Nghiêm (True Adornment
with Awakening) is a dearly beloved elder sister
in the Plum Village community. She first met
Thầy in 1985, and his teachings soon became
a guiding light in her life. In 1999, at the age of
fifty-six—after years of marriage and a career
as a physiotherapist—she chose to follow the
monastic path. Thầy later entrusted her with
the role of abbess of Maison de l’Inspir, a Plum
Village practice center nestled in the peaceful
countryside near Paris, in Villeneuve-sur-Bellot.

Sister Từ Nghiêm (Sister Eleni) grew up in
Manhattan, NY and was a nurse before becoming
a nun in 1991. She is the 11th disciple of Thầy
and received the Transmission of the Lamp from
him in 1996. She loves people, animals, plants,
and
minerals—i.e.
Mother
Earth—especially
the beauty of nature surrounding us, and
the international sangha of monastic and lay
retreatants at Plum Village. Residing at the New
Hamlet, she gently guides her younger sisters and
the lay practitioners, in practices she has learned
from Thầy, and from her experience of living and
practicing in the sangha. Her kind presence and
compassionate listening are invaluable to the
community, both monastic and lay.

The Cauldron of
American Buddhism
Dharma teachers Fred Eppsteiner and Brother Pháp Lưu
enjoy a candid conversation on the past, present, and
future of the Order of Interbeing, Fred’s early days
with Thầy, and the role of Dharma teachers and
monastics in the community.