The Mindful Masters of Plum Village

In Buddhism, the most important practice is mindfulness, a continuous awareness of the Eightfold Path. Mindfulness has taken on a more secular meaning in modern times: awareness of the moment itself.

This is a difficult thing for us monkey-minded creatures. In the modern practice of mindfulness, we are to constantly remind ourselves to be aware of the world around us, of our breath, of the birds singing, the grass growing, the cars grumbling by on the frantic streets, and even the taste of the food we eat. Imagine being aware of our dinner as we eat it. It’s almost laughable. Oh, yes, we are aware in the first minute or so, then it’s just more of the same, and our mind, our internal monkey, leaps from that branch to another branch, and dinner becomes just so much material shoveled in.

Mindfulness of our mind is the most important. In practicing mindfulness we experience our life as it happens. Many books have been written on the subject. Thich Nat Hahn made a career of pulling us back to the now. He has written some of the best on the subject.

One day, I was painting at the edge of Plum Village, a little farming community established by this Vietnamese monk in exile. I was painting plein air in the newly harvested hay fields that surround the village in this very beautiful Bordeaux, France, countryside. There before me was a gorgeous rolled hay bale (right), absolutely glittering in the early morning sun. Perhaps because mindfulness emanated from Plum Village, I felt immersed in it, practicing it as I painted and filled with joy. This may be why this was one of my better paintings. Mindful of the privilege I had to be able to do this, mindful of the clear air, the sparkling dry hay, mindful that not far away were Buddhist monks, here in this French farmland. It was glorious.

Finishing the painting well before noon, I packed up my easel and wandered through the hay stubble and dirt clod field over to Plum Village, and into the compound which was bustling with carpentry, chores, and chimes. I still wore my big, wide-brimmed, cream-colored, woven hat, and carried my French easel, painting supply bag, and my wet painting. Dressed like Claude Monet, I’m sure I stood out. After a few minutes, a young woman came up to me. Rachel and I talked a bit, she curious, me too. Rachel, from Brooklyn. I was taking it all in, Rachel, pots and pans clanging in a kitchen, herbs simmering in the morning sun, little roadways leading between makeshift buildings. Here I am!, I thought, in Plum Village!

“You do know, don’t you”, Rachel said, “that you’re in the woman’s village?”. It’s funny how one can go from feeling wonderful and peaceful to feeling like a Suspicious Character, possibly even a Rapist!. She was fine with me being there but wondered if I would be more interested in seeing the men’s village. I had no idea that Plum Village had gotten so big that it had two locations, the men’s village being a mile or so down the road. She pointed the way and told me that everyone was preparing for the big event, a yearly retreat. There would soon be hundreds of meditators arriving, all of them ready to be mindful.

Just up the country road, up a turn in the road, and at the top of a hill with a view halfway to Bordeaux itself, was the men’s village. I drove through the gates and looked for a place to park, not far from the main buildings. Again I was mindful of the distant clanging of pots, the friendly sounds of a morning kitchen.

I started pulling out my easel and supplies, and then I saw him. A Vietnamese monk, dressed in grey and black robes and wearing sandals, came around the corner into the sandy parking lot pushing a wheelbarrow. He was bent over the barrow, very intent, pushing it with a fierce focus I can still recall. Then he spotted me. He stopped short, looked at me in surprise, and dropped the barrow. Then, in a very comical manner, he looked up into the sky with a puzzled look, then he looked all around, then back up in the sky, and then back at me, eyeing me up and down with a sly smile. “Where you come from?!”, he said. Then we both laughed.

We talked a bit and I think the conversation was as surprising as everything else had been though I can not remember exactly what we said. Except one thing. I asked him if I could have permission to paint there. Again, he comically looked around, up and down, then said “You see any guards?”. We laughed at the image of guards posted at the gates of Plum Village, rifles in hand. “Go to kitchen and get something to eat first.”, he said as he took up the wheelbarrow and disappeared. I’m in the capital of Mindfulness and forgiveness, I thought, on the very grounds where the Master himself walks in meditation. Of course, I can paint here.

Now, as I walked around the grounds, a thin, older monk, dressed all in black, wearing a Nón lá hat, emerged from the woods near an impressive building I took to be the Master’s. Was this the Master himself? I eyed him sideways not wanting to be too obvious. After all, he is Very Famous and probably doesn’t want his mindfulness to be disturbed. There was a bit of a garden and we walked around it on opposite sides, me trying to determine if it was Thich Nat Hahn or just a close ally. He seemed too unfriendly, almost glaring at me. Didn’t look like the friendly Master. Then I could see it didn’t matter. I could see that, compared to him, I was a bit of fluff in the wind.

This man was strongly set into the field he walked upon. The bright sun cast his face in the deep shade of the coolie hat. His eyes regarded me, neither friendly nor unfriendly. I was insubstantial, floating, barely attached to the earth. And I knew that the difference was the state of our minds. He was fully mindful of each second, and so he was fully “there”. On the other hand, I was not there, but in my thoughts, barely tethered to the earth. This man’s mindfulness was a powerful vessel, and I stood in his wake. Now, for that moment, I became fully raw with mindfulness and the reality of life was on me and I was on it.

Satisfied with my experience I left, never having visited the kitchen.

Mindfulness of this sort, or of any sort really, requires great practice, great discipline, a deep will and seriousness. Perhaps that is why I’ve always found it so hard, being by nature rather scattered and unsure, feeling windblown and lightweight. There is nothing to make mindfulness happen in my life but my own will power and nothing to prevent it but my own very weak discipline. I suspect I am not the only one like that.

The practice is simple, “This beautiful day.” and a moment later “The air I breathe.” and then “This sidewalk I walk on, and those who made it.” and “This food.” and so on. The practice is moment to moment. Now and every moment.