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Fred's Letters and Articles

  • 16 Jan 2018 10:09 AM | Anonymous member (Administrator)






    It wasn't easy for my father to age. To see his hair turn grey, his hairline recede and then gradually disappear, until only a few strands remained. To lose the energy of his youth and feel the weariness and discomfort of his aging body. He was both saddened and angered by this "unexpected" turn of events in his life, and mourned this loss of his body, the form he thought he'd always be.

    Unfortunately, old age was not the only infirmity my father was to endure in his golden years. Three years ago, he was diagnosed with the early stages of Alzheimer's, a degenerative disease of the brain. I watched as he first lost much of his short-term memory, and then his medium and long-term memory began to disappear as well. In other words, he began to lose his sense/memory of his past, a past. Then slowly his reasoning and cognitive functioning began to falter. His ability to think, to process information, to retain, to converse became impaired and impeded. To this loss, he responded with frustration, anger, and despair.

    As I watched the changes in my father, I realized I was viewing the disintegration of his self-concept. His idea of himself that he constructed over a lifetime, through a mental process that he had held together by imagining a permanent self that continued over time, moment to moment, year to year. A self that had accomplished this or done that, a self that could remember itself, a self that began here and went there, that was accomplished and productive. He could no longer find that self anywhere. He was lost. He was frightened. He no longer knew he was! Moreover, he had lost the ability to recreate a new self to solve this profound dilemma. He fell into a deep state of depression, alternating between despair, fear and anger. A common emotional state for people with Alzheimer's in our culture.

    As I lived with him, observed and listened, I began to realize that something else was beginning to occur. As my father began gradually (and painfully) to accept his condition, he unconsciously started to live more and more in the present moment. The whole apparatus of conceptualization through which he had always related to reality was no longer functioning, and he was just experiencing things directly. I would joke with him that he had attained what many meditators and seekers worked so hard for and he hadn't even tried! I also kept reinforcing that it was okay not to remember, that it was okay to spend a day doing nothing, accomplishing nothing. To spend a day looking, sitting, walking, eating was enough, that he was enough just as he was.

    And gradually my father began to change, to soften, to open, and to accept. A complicated man for much of his life, he became simpler and more direct. A man of some hardness and emotional distance became much softer and loving. He would constantly tell us, his family, how much he loved us, and he would ask us to love him. He would want to kiss us and to have us kiss him. A man who would always fall asleep when my mother would take him to a concert of classical music was now in love with music and dance. And every concert and performance he went to was always "the best one ever."

    I want to relate a little story that happened two years ago. My father would come to our meditations, sit and listen, and the people in our Dharma group got to know him. One day, one of the men in the group told me that when he had greeted my father before the sitting began, my father had said to him, "Lee, do you love me?" Lee, who is sixty-six, told me this anecdote with tears in his eyes and said that in his whole life, never had a man asked him that question, and it touched him deeply.

    I also watched as my father became a child again. All his higher cortical functioning, his social training, his adult self-consciousness fell away. He could now be impulsive, inappropriate, and spontaneous. A man who was never known for his sense of humor, and certainly never the clown, now delighted (sometimes mischievously) in making people laugh, in being a buffoon at times. Music would play, and he would just stand up and dance by himself, impervious to the judgment of others. Like a child, he thought he was just terrific!

    Paradoxically, on the one hand, as caregiver, I had to constantly reaffirm to my father that it was all right not to remember, not to think, analyze or judge, not to retain any information for more than a brief moment. And that just to be, to do nothing and accomplish nothing was totally acceptable. Yet, on the other hand, I had a very strong concept supported by fifty plus years of experience and memory, about who and what my father was, is and should be. I had to deal with my own judgments, valuations, self-consciousness and often embarrassment as I watched my familiar father disappear and become someone totally different from all my prior concepts about him. I had to learn to accept, to let go and to love my father in the most challenging and unusual way of my life.

    Then, unexpectedly, came death. My father, who had never had a heart problem, had a mild heart attack and was hospitalized in New York. My brother, sister and I came there to be with him and to aid my mother in making some decisions about a course of medical intervention for him. The doctors gave him six months to a year to live. There he lay in cardiac intensive care, hooked up to endless tubes and monitors, and all he wanted to do was "go home." "Just let me get up and I'll come right back," he would say. Then he died. One minute alive and then, all the vital signs disappeared one by one on the monitors. And then we were alone with him. Holding him, stroking him, kissing him. Expressing our gratitude to him for all he had given us and wishing him well on his journey.

    There before my eyes, he had exited his body. He was gone. We stayed with him for several hours, his face serene, his body becoming colder and colder. For thirty years I've studied and practiced the Buddha's teaching, and yet never so clearly had the truth of impermanence, of death and deathlessness, of change and changelessness, birth and death been so directly and clearly pointed out. In that hospital room, with my father, mother, brother and sister, a palpable sacredness emerged, a profound experience of Dharma that brought my palms together in deepest gratitude.

    Several days later, my father was cremated. We took his ashes to his family plot in Queens, NY and dug a hole by the graves of his mother and father. Lighting incense and chanting the Heart Sutra, my mother, his children and grandchildren, each put a spoonful of his ashes in the hole, said goodbye, and wished for him a speedy and auspicious rebirth.

    Your body, cold to my touch,

    Your face, peacefully at rest

    The candle's wick, all burnt up

    Shakyamuni's Truths, totally revealed.

    With moist eyes, I receive your final teaching.

  • 12 Jan 2016 9:57 AM | Anonymous member (Administrator)

    Please enjoy Fred's sharing about his recent visit with Thich Nhat Hanh in San Francisco in December 2015.

    Completely out of the blue, in early November I received an email about the possibility of visiting Thay Nhat Hanh in San Francisco. He was being given rehabilitative treatment there for the debilitating effects from a stroke that occurred in 2014. As I had not been in contact with him and his monastics for several years, I was totally taken by surprise and joy at the invitation. My visit was facilitated by Br. Phap Linh, a wonderful monastic who was serving Thay as one of his attendants while  receiving treatment in SF. He suggested that I plan to stay for several days, as sometimes Thay’s health does not permit visits on certain days.

    I flew to SF the second week of December and stayed at a hotel about a ten minute walk from where Thay, Sr. Chan Khong and a large group of monastics were living.  My son, Ty, who has known Thay since childhood also joined me.  We arrived the first morning at the home where Thay and monastics were staying for 6:30 am meditation. There we found that Thay had gone to the hospital several days before due to digestive difficulties, but would hopefully return later that day. 

    After morning meditation, we joined Phap Linh for tea and was surprised to discover that he and my son had met nearly 15 years ago at Plum Village when Phap Linh was still a layman and they had had several quite involved discussions then, while being in the same family group.  My son was “blown away” when he was able to link this deeply composed, wise and peaceful (and hairless) monastic with the confused and opinionated young man he had interacted with 15 years ago. It was a meaningful reconnection for both of them.  I was also able to share with Phap Linh and Sr. Chan Khong the development of our Florida Community of Mindfulness and  photos of our Tampa practice center. Phap LInh was sincerely interested in our urban mindfulness practice center and saw it perhaps as a model for other such communities in the future.

    The next morning we again showed up a 6:30 am for meditation. It was still dark out and the monastics were using a large barely lit living room for their meditation hall. When we entered I saw a wheel chair ramp was in place and in front of the room the dark figure of someone in a wheelchair. Thay had returned!

    After meditation and chanting ended, Thay was wheeled over to us.  Paralyzed on half his body from the stroke and unable to speak, Thay communicates through movements of his head, his eyes, and left hand, but his comprehension seems fully intact. Sr. Chan Khong told him who we were and shared some stories from past experiences in our relationship with him and he seemed to remember and understand.  I was able to share a little bit about my gratitude to him personally and for the great benefit he has brought to untold sentient beings in this life and how happy it made me to see him again.  After, five minutes, his attendant rolled him away for his morning regimen to begin.

    Again, we had tea with Phap Linh and Sr. Chan Khong and I was so happy to deepen my connection to this monastic brother and to share news of our community and my personal family with the sister who has known Ty and Karuna since childhood. All of sudden everyone stood up as in rolled Thay with his attendant saying that Thay wanted to say goodbye to us before we left.  

    I was very moved by unexpectedly seeing him a second time and found myself spontaneously expressing deep gratitude to have encountered him in this life, my remorse at being such a poor student of his, and expressing my deepest aspiration to meet him early in the next life in order to serve him to the best of my ability. I also was able to share the video presentation about our sangha and mindfulness practice center with him which he seemed to enjoy. 

    What can I say about my encounter with my teacher when he is wheelchair bound,  immobile and without the ability to speak words. Profound! To be in Thay's presence, I always felt his deep peace and total attention, but this time, for me, it was all about his eyes, his gaze. Words that come to mind are penetrating or piercing, as it being pierced to the core. Just being with him and feeling his direct gaze upon me was so powerful and liberating. 

    After Ty and I left their residence and we were walking in the  Presideo, I realized that it was just about forty years ago to month that I first met Thay in Paris.  Seeing him again in San Francisco was like a bookend for me in my relationship with him in this life. I have just heard that Thay has left SF to rejoin his monastic community in France.  Knowing how much he loves his community and they him, I am so happy that he has returned to their care and nourishment and the Plum Village land that he has walked mindfully and lovingly on for over thirty years. Before his beloved presence, I touch the earth deeply.

  • 30 Aug 2013 9:02 AM | Anonymous member (Administrator)
    Dear friends, please enjoy Fred's recollection of precious time he spent with Thich Nhat Hanh in Sceaux, France in 1975.

    The Parisian suburb of Sceaux, September, 1975

    In the early seventies, I was a committed practitioner of Zen, living full-time at the Rochester Zen Center and practicing under Philip Kapleau, one of the few American Zen teachers at that time and author of The Three Pillars of Zen. My life there was totally focused on meditative practice; sitting three to four hours daily and attending monthly week-long silent retreats that were intensely aimed towards having a “break-through” experience. In this context, someone mailed me a NY Times op-ed article on the Buddhist peace movement in Vietnam. It focused on non-violence, reconciliation, and emphasized the extreme suffering being inflicted on the ordinary Vietnamese as the two sides, locked in their violent war, continued their struggle for dominance. The author of this perceptive and compassionate article was a Zen monk named Thich Nhat Hanh, a name unknown to me. The fact that a Zen monk could be so deeply involved in a non-violent social movement to end the war resonated deeply within me. At that early stage of American Buddhist practice, I had found a decided lack of social awareness and community involvement in the Zen community. The teachings and practices were totally skewed in the direction of an “on the cushion” meditative life. I resolved to track this monk down!

    Through investigations within the Catholic peace movement and Fellowship of Reconciliation, the religious activist communities that knew Thay (Thich Nhat Hanh) at that time, I was able to locate him in Paris, and began a written communication with him and Cao Phuong (now Sister Chan Khong) that lasted for several years prior to our face to face meeting. I became involved with publicizing the activities of Vietnamese Buddhist Peace Delegation among the larger Buddhist community in the States and raising funds for their projects to alleviate the suffering of war refugees in Vietnam.

    In 1975, I was finally able to realize my deep desire to meet Thay and Sister Phuong (as many called her) by traveling to Paris. At that time, Thay was living in a small apartment in the Parisian suburb of Sceaux, assisted by an American secretary, Mobi Ho. Life there was focused on activities to publicize the movement for peace and reconciliation in Vietnam being conducted by the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam (UBC), as well as constantly fund raising and letter writing for the displaced and forgotten civilian Vietnamese, especially refugees and orphans. The days were long and the news from Vietnam was often heartbreaking. Yet there was always time for meditation, mindful outdoor walking on the tree-shaded streets of Sceaux to a nearby park, lively discussions on Dharma and Buddhist social work, tea drinking, singing, (especially after dinner, Sister Phuong’s voice was mesmerizing), poetry reciting, relaxed meal preparation, and fellowship while eating. I remember Phuong’s brother, a well-known singer in South Vietnam, was a constant visitor to their apartment. Though he was not involved in their Buddhist or political activities, they showed him respect and friendship, and we all enjoyed his energetic, humorous songs and guitar accompaniment.

    What are my recollections of Thay at that time? More than simply an exemplar of a Buddhist social activist and tireless proponent of non-violence (which he definitely was!), Thay was a very powerful Zen teacher for me. During this period of his life, he was in the West as a representative of the UBC and the leader of the Vietnamese Buddhist Peace Delegation and was not publically functioning or known as a Zen teacher. He had had limited (zero?) contact with the nascent developments of Zen Buddhism in the West. So in many ways, I believe that I was a source of interest and curiosity for him. Quite honestly, during the several weeks I lived with him in Sceaux, he let no opportunity pass without both subtly or forthrightly undermining and challenging most of my basic tenets of Zen practice that I tightly held to at that time.

    When I would tell him about the many hours we would sit in meditation (zazen) at the Zen Center, he would minimize this activity by not showing much interest in it. Instead, he would inquire about the quality of the meditators daily lives and let me know that it was how we led our life that was most important to him. He would ask me, are these American Zen practitioners happy? Do they have good family relationships? Do they know how to love? These were the questions that most concerned him, rather than how many hours were spent on the sitting cushion. I remember him using math to make his point, e.g., if one sits three hours daily in meditation and spends the rest of one’s waking hours (fourteen hours) doing various activities, which part of one’s day is most important? If all one’s emphasis is on the quality of one’s three hour meditation life and not on the quality of one’s daily life, isn’t this an acutely imbalanced life?

    When I talked with Thay about the “seriousness” of our practice, such as there was no moving allowed during periods of sitting meditation or the continuous use by the meditation hall monitors of the kyasaku (wooden stick) on meditators’ shoulders to spur them to more focused and energetic meditation, I noticed that Thay visibly winced. In response, he talked to me about the Buddhist teachings of non-violence and that Buddhists should not only be non-violent and non-aggressive in relation to other people, but to our own bodies as well. When I would talk about the single-minded focus of our Zen retreats (sesshins) towards having a kensho (break-through) experience, he would regale me with Zen anecdotes about “do or die” practitioners who actually did die without experiencing an awakening. He would tell me other stories that showed the futility of that kind of aggressive practice mentality or how harmful it could be if these “do or die” encouragement talks were not delivered skillfully by an enlightened teacher.

    He clearly had a personal distaste for the stern, formalistic and martial-like quality of “samurai” Zen. Instead, he began to teach me about a more open, spacious and gentle practice that he had learned from his Vietnamese Zen teachers. Zen practice, he would say, is about a consistently cultivated wakefulness and ripening rather than a practice narrowly focused on intense periods of targeted meditative practice. Over and over he would tell that to be real and truly beneficial to the practitioner and society, transformation must occur in daily life and not just on the meditation cushion or at the meditation center. He explained to me how the Zen arts like flower arranging and tea ceremony are practiced in Vietnam in a very different aesthetic than the Japanese, i.e. less formal and rigid, with more emphasis on naturalness, joy and spontaneity. Especially for Thay, tea ceremony was a time of human relationship and enjoyment. Not only enjoyment of the tea, but of those drinking tea together.

    At the Zen Center where I practiced at that time nearly everyone who was “serious” about their practice would be given the koan “Mu” to be the focus of their meditative life. The tradition was to “work” on this koan until one had a kensho experience. One year, three years, five years, one stayed with this practice no matter what! Thay found this approach to be overly rigid and appeared to be a ‘cookie cutter’ (my words) approach to Zen practice. He believed that the meditative life should be a creative and experimental journey, and that one should participate in meditative practices that produce the necessary healing and transformation specific for one’s personal conditioning. Cookie-cutter approaches to spiritual practice (one practice fits all) he found stultifying and stated that meditation practices (including koan practice) were there simply to serve the practitioner in their awakening. The teacher should assign koans to their students in a manner that was a part of an experimental, flexible and creative process. His statement to me, “if you’re not getting good results from one practice, talk with your teacher and try another,” was a direct contradiction to the meditative mentorship that I had been receiving.

    It seemed no matter what belief I held to at the time, Thay took great delight in directly challenging it. He knew I was a strict vegetarian, but (to the best of my recollection) at that time, although Thay might not have partaken, Phuong and the others followed a traditional Vietnamese diet that might include from time to time small amounts of fish sauce, fish or meat at mealtime. I remember one lazy day, when the food being prepared clearly had some fish or meat in it; Thay, looking directly at me as we sat at the dining table, said (with a mischievous smile), “I know that Fred, being a good bodhisattva, would never refuse to eat food that someone especially prepared for him.” In the face of his continued onslaught against all my cherished beliefs about Zen practice, I was initially defensive, then confused, then somewhat distraught, but ultimately, liberated. After talking with him each day, I remember needing to take long walks to digest what he had just thrown at me. It was initially difficult for me to accept the intense shift in thinking and belief systems he was proposing and how radical and open his thinking was at that time compared to mine. Yet, he provided me a wonderful opportunity to become more balanced and to recover from the lop-sided practice that I had experienced for the past seven years.

    Thay was also extremely interested and curious about the cultural transmission of Zen to the West. He was surprised that at American Buddhist centers and temples, practitioners would chant Buddhist sutras and other prayers and texts in a language that they didn’t understand, e.g. Japanese, Tibetan, and Chinese. He continually stressed to me that Buddhism can only thrive in the West (as it did in Asia) when it adopts the cultural norms of the country it is entering. Buddhist texts and prayers have meaning, he would say, and need to be chanted in the native language of the person chanting. Buddhist rituals should be performed in English using forms and norms of American culture, and be denuded of the cultural accretions that were developed in the host Asian country. Over and over, he would tell me that American Buddhism must be American, and we must utilize the art forms and language of our own county if Buddhism is to truly take root.

    At that time, Thay did not wear monastic robes, but dressed in brown pants and shirts. In colder weather, he favored a type of brown jacket/overcoat favored by French worker priests. Actually, I believe his models at that time were Catholic priest activists like the Berrigan brothers in the States or the French worker priests. While still personally following the monastic commitments, these men lived outside the formal strictures of the monastery/church and actively participated in bettering the lives of their society. At this time in his life, Thay was on the ‘outs’ with the overseas Vietnamese community, as most were either actively pro-Saigon or pro-NLF. Of course, Thay was neither.

    I remember once going with Phuong to the Vietnamese temple in Paris to meet the monk residing there. I recall her telling me that this monk, although he respected Thay, could not openly receive him in the temple because of fear of parishioner backlash. Instead, he would meet with Thay privately (secretly) from time to time. When I returned from that visit to the temple, Thay asked me if I had seen the altar there dedicated to KuanYin, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. He described the central role KuanYin worship plays in Vietnamese Buddhism, and how she is traditionally worshipped with food offerings, prayers and chants. Still, with a chill, I remember him asking me, “Fred do you know the best offering to make to the Bodhisattva of Compassion?” He then held up his two hands and looking me directly in the eyes, “These are the true offerings to give her!”

    On a humorous note, everyday there would be some down-time from the refugee work that Thay and Phuong were focused on, and we would usually take a walk on the tree lined streets of Sceaux. We usually headed to a beautiful traditional French park perhaps a twenty minute walk from their apartment. As we spent most of the day within the apartment, the after lunch walks were our main opportunity for exercise and to get out into “France”. While Thay was deeply loved by all, not everyone wanted to take the afternoon walk with him. Due to his naturally slow paced mindful walking, Thay would rarely reach the park and usually never got much further than a few blocks from the apartment before having to turn back.

    Another highlight of my time with Thay was the arrival of Dan Berrigan, the radical Jesuit priest who was a close friend of Thay’s. Dan was recording his talks with Thay and these would become the basis of a future book, The Raft Is Not the Shore: Conversations Toward a Buddhist/Christian Awareness. Dan was a wonderful man, a great story teller, a man of true integrity who looked to Thay as a brother and mentor. For Dan, Thay was a fellow celibate monastic and non-violent activist, a fellow poet and writer, as well as a deeply committed contemplative. Dan was unable to find such mentors within his own tradition (Thomas Merton had died), and it was both inspiring and instructive for me to listen in (and sometimes participate) in their dialogues. I recall their conversations concerning the mistaken belief many social and political activists had at the time that there was a tension/conflict between the activist and meditative life. Actually, they both believed strongly that a contemplative/meditative discipline was almost essential for the maintenance of the emotional well being of the committed activist. Thay said that activities to better the world and end war were simply “love in action” and he based his Buddhist activism on a non-dual view of reality. Both men shared the tenet that those who believed strongly in non-violence and the contemplative life as the basis of societal transformation needed to establish what Thay called “communities of resistance.”

    We spent much time talking together about Buddhist social work, as Thay had been a founder of the School of Youth for Social Service in Vietnam and continued, although in exile, to be the spiritual father of this movement. It was interesting to me that Thay and Phuong were unacquainted with the century old history of social welfare and community development in the U.S. and Europe, and I did the best I could to share with them what history and ideas of the social work movement I knew. It appeared that this concept was a fairly recent development in Vietnamese history, and the idea that there could be a profession that worked for social betterment, e.g., social worker or community organizer, was unknown in their country until quite recently.

    Let me add that during my stay, there was a deep sadness developing in Thay and Sister Phuong. For many months, since the signing of the peace accords, they had been seeking a visa from the Vietnamese embassy in Paris to return to Vietnam. Both Thay and Phuong intensely wanted to return to their homeland, to see again their friends and family whom they loved and missed so dearly. Equally important, now that the war had ended, they wanted to return to participate in the rebuilding of their country from the social and economic devastation that had occurred. I recall Thay saying he wanted to work among the hill tribes of Vietnam, who had suffered greatly in past history from actions of the ruling Vietnamese. After being given an endless and frustrating run around for months by the NLF representatives in Paris, they had finally realized that they were never going to be given an entry visa by the new regime and their temporary exile in the West was now to become permanent. Their grief was palpable.

    On the last day of my visit to Sceaux, Thay and Sister Phuong drove us to the airport. Due to Parisian traffic, the journey took almost two hours. It was on that ride that Thay began to tell me the story and history of the Tiep Hien Order, and the underlying Buddhist teachings that supported its precepts and activities. I immediately asked him to ordain me right there in the car, I was so inspired. Thay cooled me down and stated that with the disruption caused by the war and his exile to France, there had been no ordinations since the original six members. At that point in time, he was unsure whether it would have a future either in Vietnam, much less the rest of the world. Yet he assured me that if the Order was ever resuscitated, he would not forget my aspiration.

    Fred Eppsteiner (Brother True Energy)
    St. Petersburg, FL October, 2010

    (Footnote to Thay’s interchange with me about eating meet)

    Reading this anecdote may be unsettling to some who know Thay’s current strong views against eating meat. I share the following anecdote from Jim Forest was a long-term Catholic peace activist and writer who was very close with Thay in the Seventies and Eighties:

    In correspondence with a friend not long ago, I was reminded of this one: I recall going with Nhat Hanh and Phuong to one of the Paris airports to pick up a volunteer who was arriving from America. On the way back, the volunteer stressed how dedicated a vegetarian she was and how good it was to be with people who were such committed vegetarians. Passing by the shop of a poultry butcher in Paris, Nhat Hanh asked Phuong to stop. He went inside and bought a chicken, which we ate that night for supper at our apartment in Sceaux. It’s the only time I know of when Nhat Hanh ate meat.
  • 14 Nov 2012 3:14 PM | Anonymous member (Administrator)
    We believe you may find Fred's letter, "On Eating Meat," to be meaningful and challenging. He wrote it in response to an experience a long-term student of Fred's, Andy Solis, had at the Thich Nhat Hanh retreat last year in Mississippi. Andy's letter to Fred describing his experience follows Fred's article. FCM members are invited to post comments.

    For fear of causing terror to living beings…Let the Bodhisattva who is disciplining him or herself to attain Compassion, refrain from eating flesh
    ~ Buddha

    Going vegetarian may be the most effective way to fight global warming. Buddhist practitioners have practiced vegetarianism over the last 2000 years. We are vegetarian with the intention to nourish our compassion towards the animals. Now we also know that we eat vegetarian in order to protect the earth.
    Thich Nhat Hanh

    I do not see any reason why animals should be slaughtered to serve as human diet when there are so many substitutes. After all, man can live without meat… In order to satisfy one human stomach, so many lives are taken away. We must promote vegetarianism. It is extremely important ~ H.H. the 14th Dalai Lama

    Dear friends,

    It was forty-five years ago that I stopped eating meat. At the time, I had friends who were vegetarians for purely health concerns and their ideas about a non-meat diet interested me. Following a bout of amoebic dysentery (I was travelling at the time) and not eating solid food for several weeks, I experimented with not eating meat when I resumed eating solid foods. Many people find the transition to non-meat eating difficult, but for me it was never problematic. Once I made the decision, I never turned back and never missed it. I was happy with my choice, physically and ethically. (Disclosure: My father’s business was wholesale meats, as was my grandfathers, great-grandfathers all the way back to butchers in Germany. I grew up eating choice cuts of meat daily and would spend school holidays among a men’s culture of butchers, sharpened knives, cow carcasses hanging from iron hooks in refrigerated rooms, sawdust on one’s shoes and animal fat and blood on one’s white apron. All this was normal to me.)

    When I entered the Buddhist path several years later, I was already a practicing vegetarian. My first Zen teacher, Phillip Kapleau, was a committed and passionate vegetarian for both health and ethical reasons. While not an article of faith for our Rochester Zen community, many members, perhaps most, followed a vegetarian diet. Meat, fish, poultry and alcohol were never served at the Rochester Zen Center or any social gatherings of the community.

    Ahimsa or doing no harm to living beings was the foundation for ethical behavior taught by the Buddha during his lifetime and remains so to this day. Obviously, taking the life of someone is the most violent or harmful act one can do to another sentient being. Since each of us wish not to suffer in this life and to live unmolested by the harmful actions of others, how can we not understand that this same wish or instinct to preserve one’s life is common to all forms of life?

    We know that animals fear death. They run from being herded towards the slaughterer, flee from hunters and struggle to escape from the hook or net. They do anything they can to preserve their life when it is threatened. Animals care for their offspring. Cows (red meat) and pigs (white meat) carry their young in utero, produce milk and suckle their children like human mothers, and engage in many caring and protective behaviors towards their young. Poultry and birds spend much time caring and protecting their eggs and engage in many feeding and caretaking behaviors towards their young until they are able to feed themselves.

    The practice of compassion (karuna) implies both an empathic or sympathetic relationship towards the suffering of another, as well as an active intention to alleviate that perceived or felt suffering. Compassion can also be actively proactive in the sense that it desires to prevent suffering from arising and protecting beings from experiencing suffering. In our personal lives most of us try not to intentionally cause suffering to another being. As the first mindfulness training says, I vow not to kill but to protect all life.

    To survive, human beings must eat. So the question arises, since we live in conditions where we have choices about what we eat, how do we make choices that are congruent with our ethical/moral stance not to kill, do the least harm, and protect life? How do I ensure that my need to survive and nurture my body causes as little harm to other beings as possible and practical? One might wonder if eating the flesh or organs of other living beings is necessary to one’s physical well-being. One might also ask: is it just to demand that other forms of life give up their lives for my survival, especially when there are healthy and easily accessible alternatives?

    The traditional ethical approach to not eating meat arose in relationship to the harm it causes mammals, birds and fish. These days, there are also many other extremely cogent arguments for a vegetarian or vegan diet. One reason is the pollution of the natural environment that often occurs as a byproduct of the ways animals are currently raised for slaughter, while another is the significant contribution the methane gases produced by cattle make to global warming and climate change. Globally, a very substantial amount of available farmland is devoted to growing crops to support the feeding of livestock, which removes much agricultural productivity needed to feed our hungry planet. Finally, there is much research that supports the health benefits of a vegetarian or vegan diet, or conversely that demon-strates the negative effects of meat eating. As followers of a path of understanding and compassion, it is important that we look deeply into our actions of body, speech and mind to both assess our motivation and intention and to see the effects of our actions. Often the short, medium and long term effects of our actions are not readily apparent to us without this type of reflection and introspection. This also implies a willingness to educate ourselves to begin to see cause and effect operating within a greater inter-connected and inter-penetrating web of life, rather than a linear model of existence.

    The Fifth Mindfulness Training says, “Aware of the suffering caused by unmindful consumption, I am committed to cultivating good health, both physical and mental, for myself, my family, and my society by practicing mindful eating, drinking, and consuming... I will contemplate interbeing and consume in a way that preserves peace, joy, and wellbeing in my body and consciousness, and in the collective body and consciousness of my family, my society and the Earth.” I invite you to reflect deeply on the points raised in this email and come to your own conclusions. (Please see below for additional reference material).

    In the Dharma, Fred

    To aid you in your research, I recommend the following resources, but there are many more available that you could discover on your own.

    1. An excellent website on Buddhism and vegetarianism with many diverse resources and links is http://www.shabkar.org/.
    2. A letter by Thich Nhat Hanh on a vegetarian diet and its relation to many global issues can be found at http://vancouverbpf.wordpress.com/2007/12/04/letter-from-thich-nhat-hanh/.
    3. An excellent documentary (available on Netflix) to get you thinking is, Forks Over Knives, which approaches vegetarianism primarily from the health perspective.
    4. Several books relating to Buddhism and vegetarianism are:
      To Cherish All Life: A Buddhist Case For Becoming Vegetarian by Philip Kapleau
      Food of Bodhisattvas: Buddhist Teachings on Abstaining from Meat by Shabkar
      The Great Compassion: Buddhism and Animal Rights by Norm Phelps
      Being the Focus of TNH's Attention by Andy Solis
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