A series of 7 talks given at a study retreat and a public meditation in San Miguel de Allende, México, in August 2014. The first 6 talks are in English and Spanish, the last talk is only in English.

Una serie de 7 lecciones dictadas en un refugio de estudio y una meditación pública en San Miguel de Allende, México, en agosto de 2014 Los primeros 6 conversaciones son en Inglés y Español, la última charla es sólo en Inglé

Talk #1

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Talk #2

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Talk #3

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Talk #4

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Talk #5

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Talk #6

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Talk #7

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Attached is an essay on Shariputra, it is in English only. (Se adjunta un ensayo sobre Shariputra, es sólo en Inglés.): The Life of Sariputta – Nyanaponika Thera

Also here are the poems read during the retreat. / También aquí están los poemas leídos durante el retiro.

 

ONE MORNING – Rosemerry Trommer

One morning
we will wake up
and forget to build
that wall we’ve been building,

the one between us
the one we’ve been building
for years, perhaps
out of some sense
of right and boundary,
perhaps out of habit.

One morning
we will wake up
and let our empty hands
hang empty at our sides.

Perhaps they will rise,
as empty things
sometimes do
when blown
by the wind.

Perhaps they simply
will not remember
how to grasp, how to rage.

We will wake up
that morning
and we will have
misplaced all our theories
about why and how
and who did what
to whom, we will have mislaid
all our timelines
of when and plans of what
and we will not scramble
to write the plans and theories anew.

On that morning,
not much else
will have changed.

Whatever is blooming
will still be in bloom.

Whatever is wilting
will wilt. There will be fields
to plow and trains
to load and children
to feed and work to do.

And in every moment,
in every action, we will
feel the urge to say thank you,
we will follow the urge to bow.

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

Chapter I

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost… I am hopeless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter II

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in this same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter III

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it there.
I still fall in… it’s a habit… but,
my eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

Chapter IV

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

Chapter V

I walk down another street.

-Portia Nelson from here’s a Hole in My Sidewalk: The Romance of Self-Discovery

Llámadme por mis verdaderos nombres – Thich Naht Hahn

No digas que partiré mañana
porque todavía estoy llegando.

Mira profundamente: llego a cada instante para ser el brote de una rama de primavera, para ser un pequeño pájaro de alas aún frágiles que aprende a cantar en su nuevo nido, para ser oruga en el corazón de una flor, para ser una piedra preciosa escondida en una roca.

Todavía estoy llegando para reír y llorar, para temer y esperar, pues el ritmo de mi corazón es el nacimiento y la muerte de todo lo que vive.

Soy el efímero insecto en metamorfosis sobre la superficie del rio, y soy el pájaro que cuando llega la primavera llega a tiempo para devorar este insecto.

Soy una rana que nada feliz en el agua clara de un estanque, y soy la culebra que se acerca sigilosa para alimentarse de la rana.

Soy el niño de Uganda, todo piel y huesos, con piernas delgadas como cañas de bambú, y soy el comerciante de armas que vende armas mortales a Uganda.

Soy la niña de 12 años refugiada en un pequeño bote, que se arroja al mar tras haber sido violada por un pirata, y soy el pirata cuyo corazón es incapaz de amar.

Soy el miembro del Politburó con todo el poder en mis manos, y soy el hombre que ha de pagar su deuda de sangre a mi pueblo, muriendo lentamente en un campo de concentración.

Mi alegría es como la primavera, tan cálida que abre las flores de toda la Tierra. mi dolor es como un rio de lágrimas, tan desbordante que llena todos los Océanos.

Llámame por mis verdaderos nombres para poder oír al mismo tiempo mis llantos y mis risas, para poder ver que mi dolor y mi alegría son la misma cosa.

Por favor, llámame por mis verdaderos nombres para que pueda despertar y quede abierta la puerta de mi corazón, la puerta de la compasión.

 

Call Me by My True Names – Thich Naht Hahn

Do not say that I’ll depart tomorrow because even today I still arrive.

Look deeply: I arrive in every second to be a bud on a spring branch, to be a tiny bird, with wings still fragile, learning to sing in my new nest, to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower, to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry, in order to fear and to hope. The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death of all that are alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river, and I am the bird which, when spring comes, arrives in time to eat the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily in the clear pond, and I am also the grass-snake who, approaching in silence, feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones, my legs as thin as bamboo sticks, and I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat, who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate, and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving.

I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my hands, and I am the man who has to pay his “debt of blood” to, my people, dying slowly in a forced labor camp.

My joy is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom in all walks of life. My pain if like a river of tears, so full it fills the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names, so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once, so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names, so I can wake up, and so the door of my heart can be left open, the door of compassion.

Notes from Thich Naht Hanh about “Call Me By My True Names”

In Plum Village, where I live in France, we receive many letters from the refugee camps in Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, and the Philippines, hundreds each week. It is very painful to read them, but we have to do it, we have to be in contact. We try our best to help, but the suffering is enormous, and sometimes we are discouraged. It is said that half the boat people die in the ocean. Only half arrive at the shores in Southeast Asia, and even then they may not be safe.

There are many young girls, boat people, who are raped by sea pirates. Even though the United Nations and many countries try to help the government of Thailand prevent that kind of piracy, sea pirates continue to inflict much suffering on the refugees. One day we received a letter telling us about a young girl on a small boat who was raped by a Thai pirate. She was only twelve, and she jumped into the ocean and drowned herself.

When you first learn of something like that, you get angry at the pirate. You naturally take the side of the girl. As you look more deeply you will see it differently. If you take the side of the little girl, then it is easy. You only have to take a gun and shoot the pirate. But we cannot do that. In my meditation I saw that if I had been born in the village of the pirate and raised in the same conditions as he was, there is a great likelihood that I would become a pirate. I saw that many babies are born along the Gulf of Siam, hundreds every day, and if we educators, social workers, politicians, and others do not do something about the situation, in twenty-five years a number of them will become sea pirates. That is certain. If you or I were born today in those fishing villages, we may become sea pirates in twenty-five years. If you take a gun and shoot the pirate, all of us are to some extent responsible for this state of affairs.

After a long meditation, I wrote this poem. In it, there are three people: the twelve-year-old girl, the pirate, and me. Can we look at each other and recognize ourselves in each other? The tide of the poem is “Please Call Me by My True Names,” because I have so many names. When I hear one of the of these names, I have to say, “Yes.”