"Stages" extracted from Herman Hesse's, The Glass Bead Game

As every flower fades and as all youth
Departs, so life at every stage,
So every virtue, so our grasp of truth,
Blooms in its day and may not last forever.
Since life may summon us at every age
Be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavor,
Be ready bravely and without remorse
To find new light that old ties cannot give.
In all beginnings dwells a magic force
For guarding us and helping us to live.

Serenely let us move to distant places
And let no sentiments of home detain us.
The Cosmic Spirit seeks not to retrain us
But lifts us stage by stage to wider spaces.
If we accept a home of our own making,
Familiar habit makes for indolence.
We must prepare for parting and leave-taking
Or else remain the slaves of permanence.

Even the hour of our death mat send
Us speeding on the fresh and newer spaces,
And life mat summon us to newer races.
So be it, heart: bid farewell without end.

Poems: January-April 1997 Dedicated to Professor D.W. Stout

Different Path, Same Road

Water buffalos grazed
by tractors coming home

We left the sun and labor

with Jesus on my back

Buddha holding your hand

Wise as a sage

with overall and boots

You sang me country

Bald as in eagle

with sandalwood breath

I made you green tea

Rub my belly for good-luck

I'll break a leg

I could be your Far East

and you my Wild West

Two Poems for Venerable Quoc Hung

1.

summer fades, the monsoon dies

summer dies, the monsoon pours

in my eyes, everything rises and falls

above mind is white

white disappears

when summer dies

do not think the monsoon is gone

just this morning

during my walk

a dew brushed my skin

2.

your intelligence, good-looks, and charm

your stupidity, ugliness, and shyness

they go six feet under

rich or poor

the noodles are going to boil

to live? before me, clouds drift

like a lazy dream

to die? behind me, hills are alive

with fresh valley echoes

vainly I question peace

yet I strive to live, listening to thunderous

roar

of war

Prelude: the beginning and end of meditation

Is a day to live more precious than a lifetime? What can we offer today that is worthy and fills the spirit with zeal and brightness? It all begins with a first breath. We breathe a million breaths but don't know that in this sacred bridge that holds life and death -- there is love and understanding. There is wisdom and compassion. There is insight into the nature of fear and what keeps us from living free of any obstacles and barriers. This breath that we take in is the universe -- millions of years of stillness and silence -- of eruptions and noise. It is the ground that connects every living being on this planet and every particle that extends beyond.

How can we forget all the suffering that has anchored our hearts in stagnation and pain? We cannot forget -- We can breath. We can accept. Only within our unwavering heart, can we embrace the harshest words and the most agonizing sorrow. There is really no way out but in.

But who is the one that wishes to see all this? It is too overwhelming and it takes tremendous energy and sensitivity. Breathng in life -- breath it in and let it carry you -- this is the spirit that will liberate you and guide you and show you the way through the darkness of night. There is no happiness without pain and no pain without happiness.

Breathing out means letting go. Have you lived in such a way that you can release and smile with serenity? Do we grasp our out breath and realize that it is the door that leads us into the unknown? What happens if you breathe out and never breathe in? In that space is eternity and nothing can take this away from you. It is your birth right to be free. Free from suffering. Free of fear. Free to love. Free to share genuine human relationship. Free to admire the sunset. Free to live.This is meditation. Don't be fooled by postures and teachers. They can share their experience but they can never give it to you. It is yours to take and yours to lose. Believe in yourself. Inside the grain there are leaves and roots and fruits. There is rain and fire and air. The whole universe is waiting to bloom through you.

Who am I?

(Vietnamese calligraphy by unknown zen monk)

From birth to death
And everything in between
From love to breath
Desires and dream

Pictures taken
In a frameless world
Wandering like madmen
Knowing not what to find

Possessed by anger and confusion
Cracking the mirror
Shattered to pieces of millions
I bleed and bleed like never before

Doesn't mean that I am alive
Freedom is the interogation of who am I
The stream behind me enters my ears and through my mind
I take a step and the earth trembles
It is only my heart beating

Awaken Sound is Silence, Round Moon Smiling Brightly

(calligraphy and painting by Dat Phan)

Sitting in your hut crossed legged and determined
To live like the old ways
What have I become? Traveling over mountains and oceans
What have I found? There are never answers -- just deep fundamental questions

To carry on and forget
To stop and remember

Hot steam boils from the kettle
The only thing you offered was a cup of tea and a smile

The years pass on
Today I watched the fire burning
Wood and smoke and ashes
Air and rain and wild grass

The pyre grew higher and higher
A cat mangled a rodent
Flesh burnt with a sting

Where is the body that fills the mind?

Excerpt from Changing River

Life is both a long and short series of transitions, which beckons us into the eye of harmony and chaos. This unique journey consists of changes that live their duration until the next one comes into being. In the span of a lifetime, a human being falls in and out of love, embodies countless of roles, lives through a spectrum of emotions, accomplishes and fails in every way possible.


It was an early afternoon in a French city about fifty kilometers south of Lyon. As the custom called for a break between midday and two o’clock, the young man went home to eat lunch, take a sieste, and then it was back to work again. Rice Boy had been working for the local Asian supermarket for a year now and had become accustomed to the hard work expected of him from Mr. Lee: arranging heavy rice bags, attending to the customers’ needs, unloading the new merchandise, and most importantly, following the boss’ orders. Although in his late twenties, Rice Boy appeared small and frail and looked like an awkward teenager. Mr. Lee had hired him out of necessity rather than skill, for the old employee’s contract had expired, and he desperately needed to find another pair of hands to do the strenuous labor.
The debut of spring brought sunshine and blue skies. Fresh, rose-colored buds shot out on all the trees by the roadside. Young leaves reflected a tender green, with some still unfolding, exposed naked for the first time. The sparrows and pigeons flew about announcing this newfound joy. Unfortunately, in the fast-paced urban life, few cared or were too occupied to be concerned about the coming of a new season. It was another day in St. Etienne where time directed people, and people were forced to obey time—their schedule of making a living, moving up the social ladder, receiving an education, or just rebelling against the system.
Life’s daily repetition gave them a sense of monotonous comfort from experiencing the same feelings to reliving the same events: waking up, rushing to work, hurrying back home, finally doing the things that they yearned to but couldn’t during their hectic day, going to sleep, and doing it all over again the next morning. Once in a blue moon, Rice Boy would accidentally step out of this torrid stream and encounter a totally different scenario.
One day, a huge order of rice arrived in a sixteen-wheeler truck. Five hundred sacks of imported grain waited to be unloaded. Mr. Lee went out to help Rice Boy, but the young man insisted on doing the work himself. He quickly proved to his boss that Mr. Lee shouldn’t underestimate size. The Chinese-Cambodian store owner had never seen anyone move in such a frenzied manner. Rice Boy’s fingers bled and left stain marks on the twenty-five kilo bags. Sweat drenched his entire body, and his muscles trembled with every effort. The skinny Asian worked like a madman pressed by time and accomplished a day’s worth of labor in only three hours. From that day on, Mr. Lee gave him a bonus each month and didn’t watch over him again. He was impressed by the young man’s inner strength and sheer determination.
The beginning had been quite different. His first few months at the supermarket was a trial period and Mr. Lee watched over him like a prison guard to remind him not to waste precious money and time: “Hurry up and work! Never stand and wait for orders. There’s always a task to handle. Besides that, I’m paying you by the hour, and you’re earning money doing nothing!” Rice Boy would nod his head, quickly grab a fruit can to arrange, and look to see if anything else needed to be restocked. Mr. Lee continued rambling, “You know, when I was your age, I did twelve-hour work shifts. Never in my life have I been out of a job. In those days, no work, no eat!”
Before being employed with Mr. Lee, Rice Boy had gone to some of the Asian restaurants almost begging for a job. Sadly, he was rejected by all of them. His mince and tiny stature gave people the impression that he wasn’t born for hard work. The owners doubted his capabilities, and because he was only a foreigner without any work experience, no one risked giving him a break. Being an illegal immigrant didn’t help either. He realized starting from scratch was frustrating because his life depended on the decision-making of others.


Like Rice Boy, Mr. Lee had immigrated to France as a young adult. Now, as a divorced man in his late forties, he married a woman from Vietnam. The wedding was suddenly and meticulously arranged by his parents and took place in Saigon. Shortly after, he shipped his new wife to France to help run the store. The new culture frightened and attracted her all at the same time: People greeted each other with kisses, the cuisine was strange, and the language was alien to her. As weeks became months, she realized how much Vietnam was a living part of her. The new Mrs. Lee secretly wished to return to familiar, old stomping grounds and sink back into comfortable habits. Unfortunately, a year down the line, at the age of forty, she gave birth to a baby girl.
Parenthood could either be an imprisonment or a blessing. It was the former for Mrs. Lee because she had dreams to realize and desires to fulfill. With the baby, her wish to return to her homeland was shattered. She had unwillingly committed herself to decades of repression and responsibility. Alas, one day when the child grew up and fled the family nest, all the years of holding back would come flushing out of her mind. Her midlife crisis would appear later than that of the average person. The latter happened because sometimes a couple was ripe to have a child. They didn’t carry so much personal suffering to resolve and their careers had already been established. Like most sane people, they wanted a certain financial and emotional security before raising children.
Mr. Lee came to the country of liberté, égalité, et fraternité literally with a shirt on his back and duffle bag in his hand. The work ethic he displayed immediately frightened and intimidated all his former employees, who often watched him with astonishment. The Chinese-Cambodian laughed at the thirty-five-hour week law implemented by the Chirac-Jospin government. He declared it the most stupid law ever made. It didn’t make any sense to him, compared to the sixty-hour week he had done before in Thailand.
There wasn’t one single day when Mr. Lee didn’t dirty his hands. Taking a break was sacrilegious for him. His obsession for work could be closely compared to that of a religious fanatic, absorbed researcher, or self-worshipping artist; it made him lose touch with the world around him. As a dire consequence, he automatically thought and dreamt of future tasks whenever he was idle or sleeping. He became oblivious to other appointments. He even forgot his own wedding anniversary. The tragedy of it all was that he missed his child’s birth. This compulsion and his mind were tightly welded together. It was so much a part of him that if it were not present, he would consider himself as good as dead.
A widow of a famous spiritual teacher was once asked if her husband was a good spouse. She answered without remorse, “Good husband, no! Great teacher, yes!” Mr. Lee and the spiritual master had one thing in common: they were both prisoners of their own vices. These two men were incapable of living life as a whole, of dividing their energy to other spectrums of interest and duty, instead of being lost in a single ideal.
When he was twenty-one, Mr. Lee’s father had insisted he leave the house. “Son, go your way now. I have too many kids to raise, and you should try to make a living on your own.” The family lived in Cambodia at that time and the closest and most prosperous city for job opportunities was in Bangkok, Thailand. Mr. Lee spent four years there, beginning as a rice farmer. Eventually, he was granted residency in France, so off he went to Paris. After eight years of unloading cargo shipments at Charles de Gaulle Airport, he finally saved up enough money to start up his own business.
The Chinese-Cambodian migrated further south to St. Etienne, thinking a smaller city would be more appropriate to open his first supermarket, which was no bigger than a one-bedroom apartment. The town was neither too small nor too big and had the potential to attract the local Asian community. Known for its old coal mines and infamous soccer team, St. Etienne now thrived on transforming its industrial, rustic appearance into a more modernized one, which made it a perpetual construction site.
Mr. Lee sold whatever exotic food products and produce he could get his hands on; shark fin soup, bamboo, dried shrimp, shitake mushrooms and so on filled the store. Shelves of noodles—instant, egg, rice, and soy—were lined up against the wall. Every product the Asian clients needed, he had. As any witty Chinese owner would do, Mr. Lee made the most of the space in his store. He also had an array of other goods made in Asia that he thought had sales potential. He crammed them in the display window or behind the cashier. These items included teapots and Buddha statues, lanterns and vases, toys and dolls, balm and herbal medicine. It was a perfect haven for the local Asian who ached for a taste of home.
Mr. Lee was a man of many tongues. He spoke very easily to the customers in whichever language was more convenient for them. Rice Boy was very impressed by Mr. Lee’s culture. One minute he would turn to a man and speak in Thai or Cambodian to take an order; another moment he would tell a woman in Vietnamese or French where the soy sauce or frozen egg rolls were. He made it an obligation for Rice Boy to learn how to say hello in all the languages in order to please his customers.
Within a few years, as more and more Asian flocked into the city, a wave of restaurants were erected to cater to their gastronomical needs. Mr. Lee was the only source for the new owners to buy their special ingredients for making pad thai or pho. Business began to prosper. Little by little, bit by bit, he rose to the echelon of popularity and wealth. Pai Son became a household mantra in every Asian home. The name of the store was particularly poignant, coming from his Cambodian roots—Pai Son was one of the highest mountain in this country. His deepest aspiration was to match his level of success with the height of its snow-capped peak and grandeur.
Understandably, Mr. Lee didn’t have any choice; the endless work eventually merged with his personality and way of being and became one and the same. He was thrown into a situation unexpectedly by his father. Either he swam or he drowned. Even if he didn’t know how to doggy paddle, he would have to learn and very quickly—virtually while every fear and doubt appeared uninvitingly before him. It gave him no time to think, which was good and bad. Good because in thinking there was anxiety, bad because every action had its consequences. In life, most people reacted before thinking or they thought too long and never acted.


Mr. Dubois was a Frenchman who lived near Pai Son. He would occasionally pass by half-drunk on early afternoons to do a short tour of the store. Mrs. Lee suspected he was a shoplifter because, strangely, he never bought a single product, even though he seemed quite curious. He always scrutinized the items marked in Chinese, Vietnamese, or English and asked Rice Boy what they meant. The young Asian usually pointed at the pictures printed on the label to show the man that mi goi meant instant noodles, and ghà was chicken. If all else failed, he simply showed him the label written in French. The drunkard’s last stop was usually the cash register. There he lingered, dazed and captivated, admiring Mr. Lee’s wife.
“Doc, noi ong ta di ve di,” she would command Rice Boy to ask the man to leave. Mrs. Lee called Rice Boy “Doc,” which wasn’t even his real name. When they had first met, he introduced himself coyly. She naturally misheard him because he spoke too softly. So every time after that, she told all the customers his name was “Doc.” Rice Boy didn’t seem to mind though and never corrected her. He thought that names were quite necessary if people wished to communicate to each other, label an object, plant, or animal. But outside this realm of practicality, a name basically had no other function. He imagined that long after his death, his name would be carried on as an image that varied according to people to people. A few generations down the line, and it would be sadly forgotten.
He understood how the world was usually perceived with filtered words and concepts. People labeled things beautiful or ugly and good or bad without realizing that clear vision would manifest as soon as the naming was dropped. This deep insight meant that when he admired a sunset, it wasn’t only the attractive colors and past identifications that defined and shaped the elegance of it but also the birds, trees, stars, air, lungs, eyes, and mind. Each phenomenon played an essential role for beauty to manifest. Therefore, in his mind, it was everything and nothing, but beautiful. This was his justification for never correcting Mrs. Lee. After a while, he even got used to his new name, which made him crack a smile.
Mr. Dubois purposely came at a specific hour, for he knew Mr. Lee was gone on errands and wouldn’t be back until later. He liked losing himself in Mrs. Lee’s face because she had a mysterious aura and exotic grace that wasn’t covered in French perfume and powder. A certain simplicity expressed itself in the way she moved and the way she dressed that completely mesmerized him. He found it neither complicated nor sophisticated but simple, like an open breeze or a tulip wavering in the field.
Mrs. Lee never hesitated to share openly to Rice Boy her notion of beauty, “Doc, I been here for three years now and you know what the difference is between occidental and oriental women?”
He listened to her discourse without saying a word, as she continued, “Oriental women have respect for their body. They never go ‘round flaunting their beauty and wealth. But these western women walking in store are not like us. They wear expensive clothes and smelly perfume. Their faces are smeared with makeup to hide their old age. On top of all that, they show off and drive luxurious cars. It’s far better to hide your money in the bank and live discretely. All that goes away and what’d you got left at the end of your life?”
Here she would pause waiting for Rice Boy to reply or at least try to. This was his favourite part as his voice would echo triumphantly in unison with hers, “A miserable illusion!”
Mr. Dubois revered Mrs. Lee’s well-defined face and slender body, but always from a distance. Although in her forties, she looked unexplainably years younger. When he saw beauty, he wanted to touch, grab, and hold it. If it brought him great pleasure, he would want to possess it, like imprisoning a bird in a cage or the wind in a box.
“You know what I like about Asian women?” he said with a loud and proud voice.
“Who’s he talking to?” wondered Rice Boy and Mrs. Lee to themselves, looking at each other bewilderedly.
It was as if he had burst into a monologue on an empty stage. Luckily, no customers were around to witness this.
“Asian women, I’m telling you, are the best. You know why don’t you? Because they obey their man. They never say a damn word—always silent and looking innocent,” Mr. Dubois continued ranting with his arms high up in the air.
Mrs. Lee asked Rice Boy what the poor man was saying. She couldn’t understand long and complicated French. She only knew the basics, such as Bonjour, Comment allez-vous? or Passez une bonne journée,
“Uh—he asked how much the noodles were.”
“It takes two minutes to say that?” she questioned with a perplexed tone.
Mr. Dubois rambled on, “You know what I do with a woman like you?” as Mrs. Lee flexed her ears, confused and concentrated, trying her best to pick up what he had said.
“I take her home and give her a French lesson,” he slithered with a thirsty voice.
Right at that moment, Mr. Lee walked through the door and the other three people leaned their attention in his direction. He immediately stared down Mr. Dubois with an intense violence and lashed out unpleasant words in Chinese to his wife. Next, he turned to Rice Boy and said, “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Mrs. Lee answered for him.
“Vous voulez quoi?” Mr. Lee demanded Mr. Dubois what he wanted.
“Your products are too damn expensive.”
A short pause highlighted the moment, while the men circled each other like two male lions in a brutal fight for territory. They were trying to intimidate each other with their unblinking eyes and bulging chest.
“You immigrants think you can come here and tell us what to do?” Mr. Dubois said suddenly, making his way toward the exit.
Before Mr. Lee could react, the Frenchman walked out the door like an angry customer.
“Bastard! I been here for twenty-five years. What d’you know about me? You freakin’ racist,” Mr. Lee yelled at the top of his lungs, then went immediately back to work; he had just wasted precious time that could have been devoted to Pai Son.
“And what do you know about him?” Rice Boy’s judgment burnt like a rash in his head.
“The next time he brings himself around here, I’ll show him what’s on my mind,” Mr. Lee said, stacking some rice bags across from the counter. “How often does this loser come here anyway?”
“It’s the third time this week and he’s really creeping me out,” Mrs. Lee answered.
“If he doesn’t buy anything next time, kick him out, Doc,” he ordered Rice Boy.


The workday finally came to an end. Rice Boy was at his usual point of exhaustion. He yearned to return home, take a hot shower, eat a nice meal, and rest his weary head on a soft pillow, cuddled underneath a cozy blanket. Happiness was quite simple for him. It was a matter of appreciating the everyday, bare necessities.
On the way home, the sun was a luminous crimson color, the sky fired in pink, and the evening’s violet blanket began to embrace the horizon as stars started to sparkle one by one. Rice Boy hopped on the tram and plunged devotedly into a seat with great relief. He looked around; tired faces reflected his own dull state: a teenage girl sat in naive content on her boyfriend’s lap, an old lady was angry at two young Arab men. They were smoking to publicly show their angst for society, and perhaps unknowingly, to express generations of inequality and discrimination.
Rice Boy remained indifferent to his surroundings and closed his eyes, effortlessly returning to a quiet space within him that had been calling him back the whole day. His breathing slowed down to a gentle rhythm, and a deep calm possessed his being. No longer bothered by the chatter of voices and machines, his face relaxed as he inhaled deeply and naturally.
He felt intimately the scattered words, laughter, and restlessness that accompanied the ride. Slowly the judgments running through his head about the Arabs, Mr. Lee, and the drunkard—“These young boys don’t respect anything. Lee, that penny-pinching workaholic. Dubois, what a pervert, he needs to get laid!”—dissolved away. In that sacred hearth, somewhere in the depth of his being, noise suddenly became silence and silence became noise. His breath seemed to have suspended and stopped as he heard the sound of the electric doors cracking. Rice Boy opened his eyes, got up, exhaled, and walked out into the young night. In that moment which ushered him into eternity, he had dwelled peacefully between the space of two breaths. The air smelled fresh, and the streetlights guided his way home.


Mr. Dubois had been born and raised in St. Etienne and spoke with a heavy Stephanois accent. His father had toiled in the coal mines and died from lung cancer at the age of fifty. At that time, Mr. Dubois was still a teenager. After his decease, he went through a period of questioning. He asked his mother and the local priest about death. They thought he was too young to understand, or perhaps didn’t have a clear answer themselves, so they gave him the typical lines: “You’re father is on the right hand of God” or “He’s in heaven with your ancestors.”
He thought about animals, insects, and people who didn’t believe in God. Did they go to the same place? Why did one have to be a Christian to go to heaven? Did Buddhist, Muslims, and Hindus have their own paradise? Did he just have to believe? It seemed all so suspiciously divided and not very different from the world he was living in. Everyone seemed to have an answer for everything.
With all his spiritual inquiries, he had no clue as to whom or what to have faith in anymore. He went to Sunday mass only to accompany his mother, who was a deeply religious woman. With her husband gone, she seemed to have voluntarily closed the door on the world and devoted herself whole heartedly to studying the Bible and listening to the pope’s discourse.
Even though he had never shared his true sentiments to her, this disturbed Mr. Dubois because she lost interest and concern for him, and her life slowly transformed into an uninteresting routine of darkness and prayer. She no longer lived in the present. Instead, she was always thinking about an ultimate future where pain didn’t exist. The idea of eternal happiness, thought Mr. Dubois, made her a foreverly sad woman.
At the church, the priest also seemed rather unhappy. His weekly sermons consisted of reciting from the New and Old Testaments like a tape recorder, giving advice to suffering people without genuine care, and walking in his robe like a midnight zombie. Mr. Dubois declared the religious zealot no different from a parrot saying the same trite lines over and over again to the devotees: “Confess your sins! Don’t lose faith! Do this and God will reward you with eternal happiness. Do that and you’ll be damned forever in hell!”
His mother rarely smiled because she had too much of her own pain and burden to reconcile. In fact, she slowly sank into depression with the repetition of her daily life, and the memories of her late husband haunted her in wake and dream. The loneliness in her desired to relive the moments of security, comfort, and love she had felt for her late husband. She had been with him for such a long time that she experienced an unwanted emptiness when he died, because she had completely but unconsciously identified herself with him. Losing certain ideologies, talents, and possessions had the same effect. She sought identification outwardly to fill an inner void.


Mr. Dubois ended up being a bartender. At the beginning, he wasn’t even a drinker. He would have an occasional glass of wine, as nearly all French people did. But outside of that context, he never took a sip. Unfortunately, he was in an environment where drinking was the norm. The first trace of Mr. Dubois’ habit started one evening at work when he thought about his parents. Every time he felt the sadness of his mother or the missing presence of his father, he turned to Jack Daniels for comfort. Thinking became less complicated. After another glass, there was lightness and clarity. Thinking fell into the background of pure sensation; then came a period of regression and regret, and thinking came back with a vengeance. The only thing that left a lasting impression on his mind was the relief the alcohol brought, and how it vanished away all his problems. At the end, he ultimately became what he was exposed to. Psychologists call this social conditioning; the Darwinists define it as environmental adaptation.
Mr. Dubois used it as an excuse for succumbing to his darker side. He no longer wanted to deal with all his unanswered, existential questions. He reached the breaking point where he pathetically drank in the mornings. What was once café sans sucre became Johnny Walker on the rocks. He eventually lost his job because he was downing glasses more than he was serving them. His confusion and loneliness made him seek out the misunderstood poisons of society: sex, drugs, and alcohol. Mr. Dubois chose drinking with a sprinkle of women but stayed away from the drugs.


The Lee household was only a couple of minutes away from the store. They had the convenience of walking to work every day, a pleasure few had living in the city. Mr. Lee had bought and renovated two apartments next door to each other—one for his family and the other for his aging parents.
Late evening arrived and dinner had just begun. On this night, fish soup was served with Chinese herbs, and fried pork marinated with hoy sin sauce (accompanied with the usual hot and steamy white rice). Mr. Lee’s mother was an exceptional cook. The French pedestrians had the honor of smelling her fragrant dishes as they walked by the Lee’s kitchen window. She always made sure to leave it slightly open for extra ventilation, which was also a subtle and conscious gesture of her own pride.
The family ate without saying a word. It was one of those rare moments when nobody spoke. After the long day of customer service and work, everybody’s stomach growled of hunger. In that silence, they all concentrated pointedly on their meal, not savoring the taste but devouring it down like animals.
“Meimei, finish your rice!” ordered Mrs. Lee to her six-year-old daughter (Meimei, Celine’s nickname, means “little one” in Chinese).
“I’m not hungry anymore, Mom! Can I go watch cartoons!” Celine pleaded.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll become skinny and disappear,” Mrs. Lee said, trying to scare her.
“I’ve had enough and I’m not hungry!”
“For every grain of rice you leave in your bowl, I’m gonna slap you on the hands with this chopstick!”
Celine stood up and ran off into her room. Mrs. Lee followed closely behind and grabbed her daughter by the wrist, forcing the child’s palm open. She whipped Celine with the utensil that had once been used for eating but was now a deadly weapon. The sudden blow stung Celine’s hand, making it bright red, and she yelled at the top of her lungs. She didn’t want it to happen again, but then another slap came, and yet another scream—this time louder, with more tears rolling down her face.
“That was just for half of what’s left in your bowl. You want more?” Mrs. Lee threatened.
Celine was a stubborn yet wise child. She could easily distinguish between threats and bluffs.
“If my hand falls off, it’ll be all you fault! I’m gonna tell my teacher at school and they’ll send you off to prison for child abuse!” she said.
“You are hard-headed like your dad. One day, you’ll get into big trouble,” Mrs. Lee lectured her daughter.
Her husband heard what had been said and chuckled with a crazy, high-toned laugh, “It’s okay. What’s the big deal? She can eat the rest tomorrow.”
“Your daughter will grow up spoiled if you let that happen each time. Nobody can blame me because I’ve tried,” Mrs. Lee said, going into the kitchen.
Celine was a small and skinny girl for her age. She loved grapes and bean sprouts. Unfortunately, anything else her mother offered, she refused or pretended to like it. Mr. Lee came to the conclusion that if she ate a lot of grapes and bean sprouts, she would get sick and tired of them. Each time he came home from the store, he brought some for her. Once, they even tried to make her eat only grapes instead of dinner, hoping she would feel left out and give in. To their surprise, Celine filled her tummy with delight. She never wondered why she was eating something different from the rest of the family. Contrary to their hopes, she almost felt as if she were receiving special treatment.
The most captivating side of Celine, like almost all children, was her interest and curiosity for things adults either perceived as normal or didn’t perceive at all because they were too lost in thought about future ambitions or past memories. One time, she spent half an hour following an ant on the sidewalk to find out where it lived. Another time, she spoke to a frozen fish and asked it where its parents were. Her world was divided by a very thin line between reality and imagination. She enjoyed playing with Rice Boy whenever her grandmother would take her to the store. They often went in the storage room to climb the rice bags or play cat and mouse in the aisles. Those were the days Celine cherished the most.

To order ths book please visit: changingriver.com

Interview from Heather Froeschl

It is my pleasure to interview Dat Phan, author of “The Changing River: A Meditative Fiction.”

My review of this title can be seen here. This work of fiction depicts one man’s journey of life as he overcomes alcoholism, lives in poverty with purpose, and faces tigers to survive.

Dat Phan is a graduate of The University of Texas at Austin where he received a bachelor’s degree in science. Ordained as a Zen monk at Plum Village headed by Venerable Thich Nhat Hanh, he left the order after four years of practice. He now resides in France (Haute-Loire) with his wife and daughter, where he teaches English. He enjoys roaming in nature, and is passionate about playing music and basketball.

Feel free to visit changingriver.com and drop the author a line.
~*~
Heather: A traditional question here: Are any of the characters based upon yourself?

Dat: As any author draws from his life experiences to bring authenticity to his characters, I see myself a lot in Mr. Dubois and Rice Boy. But just as in a dream where we think that the people in it are outside of us, in reality, they are only aspects of ourselves, each character is a portrait and reflection of my own self.

Heather: This is very insightful and not something every author would readily admit. Thank you!
~*~
Heather: Have you faced your tigers?

Dat: My Chinese astrological sign is actually a tiger. I guess, if tigers represent fear, then I have seen its face and smelled its odor. The other week, I was driving on the highway in France near Lyon and a rock went straight into my windshield. It pierced a hole right through it like a bullet. Bits of glasses were everywhere on the driver and passenger seat. Some actually got into my eye. At that moment, panic arose. I became blind. But it’s strange how fear can quickly transform into courage when there is a little calm and clarity. I kept the steering wheel straight and guided the car into the emergency lane. That day, I had an appointment with death, the great tiger that awaits us all. I was really close, but I guess it wasn’t my time yet. Just after, I had this feeling of reverence that overwhelmed my heart. There was this deep appreciation for the most simple things. The more we touch our deepest fear, I think the more we’ll appreciate our time on earth.

Heather: What a scary and intense gift you were given!
~*~
Heather: Will there be other books that follow Rice Boy and his family or Mr. Lee and his family?

Dat: I’m in the middle of writing “An Autobiography of a Hermit.” It’s the story of the wise man in the tree and what he did before he was on it. I really liked writing this one because it helped me look at my monastic path in another light. I kind of based the story on a dear monk that was a teacher, a big brother, and a true friend of mine. He has now passed away, but his spirit lives on with me each day.

Heather: It sounds like it will be wonderful to read.
~*~
Heather: Are you a student of meditation? Zen practices?

Dat: I have practiced both in the Tantric yoga and Zen tradition; about 10 years of formal training. But now, I just consider myself a student of life. I think any form of meditation should eventually free us from the form itself, like using a match to burn a fire, then the fire ultimately consumed the match. Some of us burn the fire but still hold on to the match.

Heather: I deeply agree.
~*~
Heather: Have you other books in the works? Others published?

Dat: I have one that I am writing with another author called “Chronicles of the Wanderer.” It’s a story of some persons traveling but you don’t know how many or who. Most of the passages I wrote are in France and all the different towns and cities. I wanted to write and show how each one is so different, and also touch on different topics that relate to living life with all its surprises and learning to accept death. The other author explores other themes based in the US and also in a Buddhist monastery. This will hopefully be published next year by Linh Son Literature, books written for the “spiritually inclined and unconditioned mind.”

Heather: I’ll be watching for it!~*~Heather: Have you been writing long?

Dat: I’ve been writing for about four years now, so I am still learning the ropes.

Heather: The ropes change course, so we are all in the same position.
~*~
Heather: What is the greatest message you wish readers to gain from The Changing River?

Dat: That meditation, freedom, and love is accessible for anyone. It isn’t a sacred thing chosen for the few, but it is the foundation for being a compassionate human being capable of looking beyond the form as one day, one moment we would have to let go of everything that we know, might as well try do it now and see what happens!
~*~

The Meditative Mind

Be careful, because you don't have to sit in zazen to meditate -- meditation is like swimming in the ocean. On the surface, there is a lot of agitation and even beauty. The realm of form and colors are abundant. As you dive deeper, the thrashing stops and there is a strong current every now and then that will stir your memory and emotions. Going deeper still, you stop comparing and stop measuring yourself and your life. Because at this level, there is nothing to compare yourself to -- all that is made by the mind that is limited and traps itself in its own concepts, which can either be collective or individual.

Then finally, you are in complete stillness -- there is absolutely no movement whatsoever -- there is peace for peace is not the opposite of war. It is a state where violence ends because it is understood and totally accepted inwardly. Coming from this stillness, you enter back into the world and see it as you were born again -- in complete reverence and awe. Everything is interesting -- from the movement of your very own body to the wind blowing the grass in the field. People laughing. People crying. People fighting. Everything becomes a part of you. This is the act of changing the world without even knowing.

Be very careful of the one who knows and the one who thinks he doesn't know. Have no concerns for these people and start diving!

Linh Son Literature - For the spiritual inclined and unconditioned mind

There comes a time where everything goes wrong in your life -- or not everything -- but one event that turns you upside-down. Some people panic and find the fastest way to become normal again. Others may go insane and depressed about it for a long, long time. There are the few who will begin to question their lives. For me, this deep questioning is everyday. Meditation is like learning to die -- bit by bit -- we learn to let go of things that once seemed utterly important but now is no longer worth a lick.

Why is it so hard for people to change? For an individual to leave behind everything they know and step into something new -- a new way of being, not worn down by mechanical habits and thoughts? Do we want to change? That's the scary question that I sometimes ask myself.

This blog is then dedicated to the inquiry of change and if it is even possible to let it blossom in our life and become such a natural part of us that it becomes second-nature, like the body breathing or the eyes looking or ears hearing.

Be aware of the man who tells you he is awakened. He will probably say all the things you want to hear and move your spirit in ways you have never expereinced before. But he can become a dangerous man, because he is the one you project as the upholder of truth. There is no one that can give truth to you and you cannot take it from anyone.

If you sit and meditate -- understand what it means to die. To die to your dearest thought and beliefs. To die to all those yesterdays -- the happiness and the suffering. Only then -- each inhale becomes a first breath and each exhale a last.