If you’ve chanced upon the Plum Village Facebook page in the past few weeks, you may have noticed that mindfulness has a new face. I’ll save you the trouble of going to look:
His name is Ngo Khong, or Realization of Emptiness, otherwise known as the legendary Monkey King. His feats in this and prior lives are too numerable to mention, so I’ll just throw in a little quote from wikipedia:
Sun Wukong (Ngo Khong) possesses immense strength; he is able to lift his 17,550 lb staff with ease. He is also extremely fast, able to travel 13,468 mi in one somersault. (Note that this is more than half way around the world).
Note also, that this beast’s go-to mode of travel is by somersault.
Last week he was charged with a Journey to the Northeast, whereby we were to take some monks to the airport and then pick some different monks up from a much later flight. I agreed to accompany him for spiritual support, and created a detailed schedule for the dead time between the two flights. We were to wander on foot around Bordeaux, performing spiritual wonders and converting the land to the way of the Buddhadharma. Of course fate had something else in store.
After a successful 5am drop-off at the airport, a great whirlwind swept up our van and placed it in the quiet beach-side village of Cap Ferret. As the sun rose, Ngo Khong peacefully composed a new plan to fulfill our mandate of bringing the light of awakening into the world.
One contemplative nap later, all was decided. We would build a great temple on this very spot, and when the local people saw the radiance and splendor, they would come and learn the Dharma. Ngo Khong somersaulted to some place in the world rich with the finest of building materials, and with his supersimian strength somersaulted back with a tarp and some bamboo. After a few false starts, our temple was erected.
What followed literally defies description, so I won’t even try to tell you about the great feats that took place in the refreshing lotus-blossom shade of that tarp. I can give you a hint and say that our practice of eliminating worldly desires was so successful that we almost arrived on time to pick up our monastic brothers in Bordeaux.
Here are a couple of watercolor sketches that came out of the day, some land art from Ngo Khong and a picture of some of the bunkers left over on the beach from WWII. Take care everyone.
I’d like to share some spiritual insights I had from a recent trip to the Louvre. First of all, if you’ve never been to the Louvre, you need to know that it’s huge. Ridiculously huge. And having visited before and made myself sick trying to take it all in, this time I limited myself to a single wing: Greek Old Stuff.
I saw an ad for the self-guided tour as I passed the welcome desk, and thought, why not? You get headphones, and an interactive tour-guide on a rented… Nintendo DS? Alas! Have the evils of worldly entertainment invaded even that sacred houses of art? Driven by my fear of eternal damnation, I gave the rental booth a wide berth and decided that I’d be giving myself true self-guided tour.
The amazing thing about ancient art is that it’s one of the only ways we can get in touch with our distant ancestors. What were they like? And more importantly, how did they look? These relics are our only hints. Starting about six to eight thousand years ago, we can see from these representations that mankind was still in a primitive stage, before the development of arms, legs, and heads. My sketchy understanding of evolution leads me to conject that the direct ancestor of these early Greek men was either a worm or a violin.
Next up, a couple thousand years more recent, we see the first primitive arms and legs developing. The head comes onto the scene, but without the facial features, which follow shortly thereafter beginning with the nose. How did the ancient Greek tell friend from foe? By sense of smell, apparently.
A little bit later, man starts to develop some muscle forms on the body, moving slowly towards the evolutionary pinnacle attained by the body-builders of today. I think we can safely assume that these guys originally had heads, and that they were removed to protect the anonymity of the models.
And finally, the human being comes into her own as the beautiful Venus de Milo, who is perfectly developed in physical form, yet still demonstrates the relative simplicity of the ancient Greek, who was still at pains to fully dress herself.
To give her a little bit of credit, she did get halfway there. Fully clothed humans probably didn’t evolve until sometime in the past couple of hundred years.
And finally I’d like to give a shout out to Apollo, who after vanquishing a serpent, took the first selfie in history some 2500 years ago. And also to this random guy, who last week took the 500,000th selfie in history in front of this statue of Apollo.
I thought, this is too much. I have to get this once-in-a-lifetime photo. Not so. If you stand next to this statue of Apollo for fifteen minutes, you’ll have a dozen chances to take the same photo. Oh and by way of apology to art people, this is actually a renaissance statue. Forgive me.
After my inspiring day, I made a couple little sketches in watercolor and gouache.
For years, the gray skies of the Pacific Northwest offered only rain to the people below. A long night followed every desolate day and the people’s hope faltered. Even the Earth begged for some respite from eternal drizzle, but to no avail.
One day a man from that country sat on the edge of his soggy bed, with his soggy feet in his soggy socks, and in a moment of desperation he wished he could crawl into his own mouth to take refuge from the rain, for it was dryer in there than in his home. He decided he had had enough. He gathered a group of four friends and one world-class photojournalist, and together they made the vow to set things right, to seek out the hidden place where Spring was bound and to set her free.
They journeyed for a long time, and met many obstacles… but the cameraman had his mind on higher things, so we don’t have any documentation of that. Then they arrived at the mouth of a great cave ruled by apes, the Ape Cave. Ten thousand apes armed with every manner of weapon poured from the mouth of the cave, and our four heroes fought a heroic battle. And The cameraman fought so heroically, and so blindingly outshone his fellow combatants, that he missed for the second time his chance to take photos, so we have to trust in the historical record that has been passed down to us.
Then down, into the cave they went, where the darkness was so thick that they needed a flashlight to see a candle-flame. But one of our heroes brought the light of ages that outshines all other lights: the Coleman lantern. (Propane burning, not the liquid fuel variety.)
After a series of earth-shattering selfies and non-selfies with the lantern, all evil forces in the cave were dispelled and the four moved onward towards their goal. But it was still dark in the cave, and very drippy (on account of all the rain above-ground) so our photographer again neglected his photography duties.
At last, in the very deepest recesses of the cave, they found a blinding beam of Spring sunlight, and knew that they had accomplished their end. All that remained was to break the bonds of the infernal prison. They saw the determination and purity of heart in one another, and with a series of thunderous high-fives, shattered the walls of the underground cell and set Spring free at last.
And that’s the story of how after years in the making, my brother and I finally made good on our promise to go see the Ape Caves. Cole, Lauren, and Emily came along and we made a great day of it. It’s a beautiful spot if you’re ever in the area.
On behalf of the entire cast and crew of the holiday blockbuster Weekend at Turtle’s, I would like to apologize to the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature for our most grievous oversight in the naming of our film. It has been now made known to us that Grumaster Turtle, played by Turtle Hopkins, is in fact a tortoise. We are very sorry for any contribution to public misinformation we may have caused.
And while I’m at it, why don’t I say what we are really up to in all these photos? They’re from a neighborhood barbecue we had in Escondido way back in 2013. I was in Deer Park for a few months to take care of visa paperwork and my parents came down to visit.
We had a potluck not too far from the monastery, and got to meet a lot of the neighbors. There was cotton candy, obviously, and a lot of good food.
I might also mention that it was one of the last times I got to spend with Thay Phap De, who passed away this year. He was a businessman, then a Catholic priest, and finally a Buddhist monk. Oh, and an avid rollerblader. His name means Young Brother, and he lived like one to the end. Now he’s rollerblading across the heavens somewhere. Take care bud.
And here’s a couple more for the gallery. I’m running out of archived photos, I better steal myself a camera and get back into the hard work of documenting life.
When billionaire Grumaster Turtle loses both his hearing and eyesight, two spinsters pose as his long-lost brothers to try to win over the neighborhood and make off with the colossal inheritance.
Helga Monkeynook and Diadora Phoop have lived in the neighborhood for years, working as the aging Mr. Turtle’s in-home assistants. But as the tycoon’s senses fail, Helga comes across certain documents while cleaning his study that suggest a turn of fate for the two maids.
Working in league with a stylist-turned-clown from the neighborhood, they develop a formula for the perfect cotton candy: addictively delicious and chemically identical to human hair.
The two crones plan a party for the whole neighborhood, introducing themselves as Turtle’s quirky and benevolent brothers.
Hilarity ensues as Helga and Diodora jump back and forth between their roles as the help at the party, and the two guests of honor. Everything goes according to plan, but when a long-lost nephew shows up seeking a tearful reunion with one of the brothers, all bets are off!
The neighbors are delighted by the touching family reunion, and stupefied by the delicious cotton candy, but when Mr. Turtle’s nephew gets a taste of Helga’s beard during an embrace of reconciliation, the sugar-spun scheme begins to unravel.
How will this heartwarming romp end? Who is this mysterious nephew? Why aren’t Mr. Turtle’s descendants actually turtles? Find out for yourselves, in Weekend at Turtle’s: coming soon to a theater near you.
P.S. Sisters Phu Nghiem and Man Nghiem, please don’t kill me.
Gather round, gorditas, and I’ll tell you a tale from the dusty Southwest. Of France. Back in those days, the French had only just crawled out from the primordial kitchens of the world, and the people of the land knew little more than rosée, brioche and confit de canard. But in a little hacienda called Plum Village, all that was about to change.
One night, with the dry, west wind at his back, a stranger came into town. He was a quiet man, whose actions spoke louder than his words: actions like remaining quiet, and occasionally sneezing. He had a face like a lunar eclipse, and hands the size of gloves. He wore a sweat-stained hat that said *OJAS*, and a white apron. And in a sombrero in his hands was a pile of tortillas, glistening white as if torn from the very fabric of the sun.
Five days he stayed there, and for five days he listened to the inhabitants of the village boast of their food. The finest cuisine in the world, they said. The only cuisine in the world. He ate their brioche and confit de canard, and he never said a thing. But on the sixth day, he began to cook.
He cooked alone, for the villagers mocked him. “That’s neither brioche, nor confit de canard,” they said. But he cooked on. And as the hours passed, an enchanting odor began to dance on the desert wind. Farmers put down their tools and picked up their guitars, and the fields were filled with song. Guitarists put down their guitars and picked up their wives, and the houses were filled with dance. Dancers took off their shoes and stood on their socks, and productions were postponed indefinitely. And still the stranger cooked on, and one by one the members of the village laid aside their judgements and began to lend a hand.
He cooked on and on, and the savory smell ranged ever wider on the wind, until people from all around the world set aside their daily doings and began walking in search of the source of the siren’s song. And when they finally arrived in Plum Village, there was the stranger, ready with a dish the likes of which they’d never before tasted.
They took a taco, each and every one of them, and with the first bite they saw into the interdependent origination of all phenomena. With the second bite, they were liberated from the five hindrances and the three poisons. And with the third bite, they realized that there was more to life than rosée, brioche, and confit de canard.
And like cactus flowers after a flash-flood, the little Southwest town blossomed with new culinary creations. The Italians discovered a dish they called “pizza”.
The Vietnamese brothers discovered deep-fat frying.
And Phap Cau discovered something he called, “caviar punch”.
They were thrilled about the world that had been opened to them, but when they went to find the stranger and show him their new dishes, all they found was an empty sombrero.
And so my little enchiladas, that’s the tale of how we had an open house here in Plum Village last Summer. And to this very day in the rugged southwest of France, if your heart is pure, you may still catch a whiff of those legendary tacos on the evening breeze.
Until next time, enjoy the gallery!