Thích. Nhất Hạnh - Fragrant Palm Leaves: Journals, 1962-1966

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Table of Contents

PRAISE FOR THICH NHAT HANHS Living Buddha, Living Christ

A NATIONAL BESTSELLER
Named Among the Top Ten Titles for Well-Read Adults by
School Library Journal

He shows us the connection between personal, inner peace and peace on earth.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama

The message: Peace, love, and compassion are central to the teachings of Buddha and Christ, and people of both faiths should be tolerant of one another.

The Washington Post

Thich Nhat Hanh is a real poet.

Robert Lowell

Thich Nhat Hanh writes with the voice of the Buddha.

Sogyal Rinpoche

He has immense presence and both personal and Buddhist authority. If there is a candidate for Living Buddhaon earth today, it is Thich Nhat Hanh.

Richard Baker

Thich Nhat Hanh is more my brother than many who are nearer to me in race and nationality, because he and I see things the same exact way.

Thomas Merton

Important ... Nhat Hanhs clearest and strongest presentation to date of the relationship actual and possible between Christianity and Buddhism.

Publishers Weekly

Marked by the beauty and simplicity of Thichs mindful wisdom, his evocative prose, and his lucid insights. Highly recommended.

Library Journal

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Fragrant Palm Beaves

Phuong Boi (Fragrant Palm Leaves) is the name of the monastery founded by several of us in the highlands of central Vietnam, as part of our effort to renew Buddhism. Phuong means fragrant, rare, or precious. Boi is the kind of palm leaf (talipot palm) on which the teachings of the Buddha were written down in ancient times.

nhat hanh

Other Books by Thich Nhat Hanh

Be Still and Know
Being Peace
The Blooming of a Lotus
Breathe! You Are Alive
Call Me by My True Names
Cultivating the Mind of Love
The Diamond That Cuts Through Illusion
For a Future to Be Possible
Going Home
The Heart of the Buddhas Teaching
The Heart of Understanding
Hermitage Among the Clouds
Interbeing
Living Buddha, Living Christ
The Long Road Turns to Joy
Love in Action
The Miracle of Mindfulness
Old Path White Clouds
Our Appointment with Life
Peace Is Every Step
Plum Village Chanting and Recitation Book
Present Moment Wonderful Moment
Stepping into Freedom
The Stone Boy
The Sun My Heart
Sutra on the Eight Realizations of the Great Beings
A Taste of Earth
Teachings on Love
Thundering Silence
Touching Peace
Transformation and Healing
Zen Keys

United States 1962-1963

26 June 1962

Medford, New Jersey

I am in a cabin called Pomona in the woods of northern New Jersey. It was so dark the night I arrived that I was startled my first morning by the beauty and peacefulness here. Mornings here remind me of Phuong Boi, the monastery we built in the highlands of central Vietnam. Phuong Boi was a place for us to heal our wounds and look deeply at what happened to us and to our situation. Bird songs there filled the forest, while sunlight collected in great pools.

When I arrived in New York City earlier this year, I couldnt sleep at all. There is so much noise there, even at three in the morning. A friend gave me earplugs, but I found them too uncomfortable. After a few days, I began to sleep a little. Its a matter of familiarity. I know some people who cant sleep without a clock ticking loudly. When Cuong, the novelist, came to spend the night at Phuong Boi, he was so used to the sounds of Saigon traffic that the deep silence of Dai Lao Forest kept him awake.

I awoke to that same deep silence here in Pomona. Bird songs arent noise. They only deepen the sense of silence. I put on my monks robe, walked outside, and I knew I was in paradise. Pomona is on the shore of a lake that is larger than Lake Ho Xuan Huong, in Dalat. Its clear water sparkles in the morning light, and the tree-lined shore reveals leaves of every shape and color, announcing the waning of summer into autumn. I came here to escape the citys heat and to live in the forest for a few weeks before beginning the fall semester at Columbia.

That first morning, the faint sound of laughter teased my ears. I followed the sound even while I was buttoning my robe, and after a short while the path from my cabin opened onto a wide clearing dotted with cabins. There, I saw dozens of children brushing their teeth and washing their faces at an outdoor lavatory. It was Cherokee Village, an overnight camp for seven-to-ten-year-olds, one of the villages that make up Camp Ockanickon. That whole first day I played with the boys at Cherokee Village. They had found a golden-colored fawn with white spots named Datino, and were feeding her oatmeal mixed with fresh milk and tender cabbage leaves.

I only brought a few books with me, and I havent had time to read any of them. How can I read when the forest is so calm, the lake so blue, the bird songs so clear? Some mornings I stay in the woods all day, strolling leisurely beneath the trees and lying down on the carpet of soft moss, my arms folded, my eyes looking up to the sky. In those moments, Im a different person; it would probably be accurate to say that I am my true self. My perceptions, feelings, and thoughts arent the same as when I am in New York. Everything here appears brighter, I daresay miraculous! Yesterday I paddled a canoe more than a mile to the north end of the lake. I tarried among the water lilies and only turned back as dusk began to stain the sky violet. Then it grew dark quickly. If I had delayed a moment longer, I would not have found my way back to Pomonas landing.

The forest here doesnt have sim fruit like Phuong Boi, but it does have berries that are just as purple and sweet, called blueberries. Today I went with two eight-year-old boys to pick some, and we stuffed our mouths until they turned blue! The boys talked the whole time. One said he saw a bogeyman last night, a horned devil who thrust his hand into the tent and grabbed the sleeping boys. He said it with conviction, but it must have been one of the camp counselors checking in on them at night. I half-smiled and continued to pick blueberries when the boy stepped back and asked me loudly, You dont believe me, do you?

I do, but only a little, I answered.

why?

Because what you say is hard to believe. It requires great effort to believe even a little.

He looked crushed. That evening the two boys came to Pomona and both claimed that theyd seen the bogeyman. They spoke convincingly, and I was forced to concede.

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