The monks from a Texas Buddhist order walked through our Carolina piney woods lately. Eager to see this procession for peace I threw a recipe into our bread-machine and scurried off to witness this rare event. Nothing could have prepared me for what awaited there beyond the towns in forested country. All laws governing parking along national highways had been abrogated. On both shoulders, and into the medium of a divided highway, cars appeared from every which direction forming unbroken walls flanking the road as far as the eye could see, with late-comers jockeying for the last remaining spaces. This largely red (traditional) state, you might suspect, is not known for its inclination to meditation, mindfulness or monastic disciplines. Yet there they were, hundreds of my Tar Heel* neighbors standing reverently beside their vehicles, eyes cast westward in anticipation of the maroon-clad procession.
The monks paused for lunch beside nearby Jordan Lake and offered a message enjoining listeners to drink from wells of compassion, lovingkindness and positivity for everyday living, while gesturing to their companion dog, Aloka (‘Splendor’), as parable of their teaching. Though they made no reference to past troubles, it was hard to dismiss their counsel as mere nostrums, coming as it did from a spirituality that had survived Agent Orange and the agonies of war in Southeast Asia.
Then those weathered souls who had come 1000 miles, formed a single-file and, followed by a support retinue, set out afresh as southern sheriffs flashed a blue-light escort. As they passed along the way, hundreds clasped their hands in prayer. Some offered chrysanthemums. Children who were playing hooky held out bundles of candy. And the most earnest knelt on the gravel shoulders, their heads bowed, some in sorrow, nearly all in tears, the crowd in rapt silence. Here and there, the monks paused to touch the disabled in wheelchairs.
A last glimpse of the monks in these parts came as they set out midst lashing sleet, now alone on the highway, bound for America’s seat of political power. Whatever welcome they are accorded there, at least they know that the hinterland they crossed harbors a great yearning whose wisps cling to the folds of their robes: a yearning which will not be cowed, finessed or deflected.
The timer of my home bread-machine having buzzed in my absence, left me with a thoroughly desiccated loaf. (The monks, after all, must not be rushed.) So now we sit at breakfast recalling over French toast (!) that line of silent monks and the throngs who appeared in the back country to meet them. And what that told us about aspiration. About aching desire.
*A once derisory nickname given to poor laborers in the Carolina pine forests who produced pitch and tar required for shipbuilding. As often happens, this mocking name became a source of pride.
Thank y’all so much for this entry – I have been “following” the monks online and your view is inspiring.
Hello, Barbara! It’s inspiring to think that so many others – including you – know what it means to be footsore in the search for shared goodness.
A lovely description of a momentous day, brother. We too went to witness the longing for peace among the throng lining the roadside of Hyw 64, to join in the prayers, to be in community with neighbors. May our longings, and the actions for justice rising up against oppression, reach the ears of our Creator.
So, Gann, we were kin out there in the woods that day – as well as in so many other ways!
It was monks (and nuns) such as these that often made us wonder in Vietnam whether we were working with the wrong religious group!!
Yes, Pat, it is worth asking ourselves, how does that long walk translate into our own realities of family, of mortgages, of work, of schools and neighborhoods? I suppose it begins with each of us reckoning with the calling to a walk – a patient journey with a worthy destination.
Wonderful to read of this yatra. We need these moments of silent uplift in this country, where hate has become a government-subsidised industry. Those monks need to come home. We need them here in India. Ashoke Chatterjee
Namaste, Ashoke! How bracing to find your lines here! And to know that this yearning and search goes on in so many places. That we are unbeknownst kin as pilgrims on that road. Dhanyavad!
Jonathan and Mary Kay – yes this has been such an inspiration to me, especially during this time of unbelievable happenings in Minneapolis. I’m glad you had the opportunity to see them and walk with them.
Hi, Carol! You will never know how your city has inspired people around the globe! To see so many gathered: some in prayer, some in song, some with chants – appealing for humanity and dignity
Thank you for sharing these photos. I intended to go to Pittsboro but then was not able to make it.
Yes, Lori, we had a sense that we were standing there on the roadside not only for ourselves, but for many others who had joined us in heart.