Monastic Life / Living Deeply, Serving Joyfully

Sister Giác Nghiêm: It is precisely that which brought me to Thầy. I could have chosen a contemplative religious path, but the life of Thầy and Sister Chân Không, whom I met in 1985, led me to choose this way. Thầy was giving his first teaching in French in Lyon. When I encountered Thầy’s Dharma, I said to myself, “I have to apply it right away—not just for myself.” That’s what “engaged” means to me.

At that time, I was working in a hospital as a physiotherapist with elderly and terminally ill people. I saw them suffer, not knowing how to handle their emotions and their pain, how to keep going. And I delighted in bringing the Dharma, the practice, straight into the hospital without ever saying that it was Zen. I practiced walking meditation for myself in the corridors—it calmed me. I would leave one patient’s room and go to the next, breathing mindfully. Standing before the new patient’s door, I would leave behind what the previous one had said, keeping only what was essential to convey to the medical staff. Thầy had taught me that.

Entering a room, I would look with fresh eyes—like a flash—quickly seeing what was important and what was not. Without saying anything, I brought meditation to the patient’s bedside—the meditation of inter-being. Some people were deeply lonely. For me, the Dharma is joyful, so I would show the patients the cotton sheet—how it was planted in Africa, the tiny seeds watered, then the people who had transported the cotton. It was a deep looking. I saw that it relieved them greatly; they no longer felt alone. I spoke to them about all the people who had worked to make the sheet for them—even the little butterflies, the earthworms—everything was there: the rain, the sun. Without saying it directly, I showed them that they were not alone.

For patients suffering from hemiplegia or Parkinson’s disease, I taught walking meditation in the corridors—without ever mentioning the word “meditation.” We walked slowly, in silence. Whenever they had difficulty moving forward—especially those with Parkinson’s—we stopped, and I would ask, “What is your favorite tree?” (They wanted to keep trying to move, but I told them, “No, no—we must practice stopping.”) If they said, “The cherry tree,” then I would say, “Okay, let’s become cherry trees in bloom, right here in the hospital corridor.” That released the feeling of helplessness. It was a creative kind of stopping—beauty was there inside it—and they loved it.

There are synapses in the brain—the tiny spaces between nerves. For those with Parkinson’s, even for young people, dopamine doesn’t flow easily; it becomes depleted. When we practiced stopping, something changed—we were no longer straining the neurons, and the synaptic space could refill until they were ready to walk again.

I didn’t do anything—I just helped. I transmitted bedside meditation, which was very helpful during the changing of dressings for bedsores—often a painful moment—and for people losing their memory or no longer fully aware of the world. I would visit them, ask about the beautiful things in their lives, and use that to counterbalance the pain.

I helped them practice stopping—seeing and recognizing reality as it is—and then gently “changing the record” as Thầy used to say. Before the dressing change, when they heard the cart approaching, they would sigh, “Ah!” And I would say, “Yes, that’s the dressing cart. Tell me about the flute your son plays.” By the time they were lying down, we could begin.

I never denied the truth. When the dressing was removed and the pain was intense, I would say, “Yes, it hurts a lot. Come back to your breathing and gently say, ‘It hurts a lot,’ while breathing calmly.” Then I might add, “There are also other places in your body—if I place my hand here, is it cool or warm?”

I helped them shift their attention. And if the pain was still too strong, mindful breathing and presence made it bearable. The person no longer screamed. I shared this with the nursing staff—“You can do this, together, as a team.” Otherwise, the person would struggle terribly.

I also helped to “bring back to life” the bodies of patients—the untouched parts that had been completely forgotten. I taught caregivers how to wash their patients with mindfulness—to always announce what they were doing: “Now I’m dipping the washcloth in warm water” so the patient could smell the soap and recognize the scent first, or “I’m going to touch your arm, or your face. Can you feel my hand? It’s soft.” Washing the body in this way helped reawaken the body’s image in the brain—stimulating forgotten areas that had not been touched for a long time.

One day, the head of the department called me in and said, “Madame, you’ve been working this way for several months. I don’t know exactly what it is you’re doing, but thank you—it’s working. You have carte blanche to continue.” (Of course, the results didn’t come from me—they came from the practice!)

I explained to the department head why I was working in this way, and that I belonged to a meditation community. I told him that walking like this is also meditating—that when I enter a patient’s room and try to see what they need, what’s right and what’s not, it’s only possible with a completely empty and clear mind.

For me, Buddhism is engaged in life itself. Whatever our profession, we can always find meditations that bring relief.

GN: Whenever I began a new kind of meditation practice, I would write to Thầy: “Dear Thầy, this is what I did today….” —though I never received a reply.

One day, during a stay at Plum Village, I skipped walking meditation. Sitting under the linden tree in Upper Hamlet, I wrote to Thầy about what I had been doing with my patients. Thầy came by, very gently, and said, “So, Sister Élisabeth.” He always called me Sister Élisabeth. He didn’t say, “You didn’t come to walking meditation.” No, he simply asked what I was doing.

“Dear Thầy,” I said, “I’ve put your teachings into practice at the hospital, and they’re bringing good results. I’m writing everything down.”

He just said softly, “Each time you find a new way to practice, send it to me.” So that’s what I did. I used walking meditation a lot—that’s important to emphasize. The results of this Engaged Buddhism were so clear that I began to have physiotherapy students ask me to give classes at their school. Nurses and caregivers also invited me to speak at the Department of Rehabilitation Medicine. They were so amazed by the results. Not because of me, of course—once again, it was the practice.

GN: In my own family, I never imposed silent sitting or stopping with the bell; I simply continued my life as before, but with more and more awareness and presence. That, too, was Engaged Buddhism. I used to write little stories and read them to my children—stories that carried the teaching of non-fear and many other seeds of understanding. When they asked questions, I always answered in natural, simple ways, to help them touch the deep teachings that Thầy had given us. That’s something very important to me.

Engaged Buddhism also means daring to pick up a pen—to write to heads of state and say, “This isn’t right,” but always with gentleness. During the war between Russia and Ukraine, I wrote a kind letter to Mr. Putin, telling him that he was sending his own children to die—that there was no difference between the Ukrainian children, the young soldiers, and his own Russian sons. These were poor young men who would die, be mutilated, or carry deep wounds in their hearts.

I told him that I knew he loved his family, that he cherished his children. I wrote, “If you want your name to be remembered with beauty, you can stop the war now. You just need to say, ‘That’s enough—we stop,’ and withdraw your troops. You could become famous for this beautiful act.” I sent the letter in Russian, directly to the Kremlin—without my address, out of respect for my sisters… you never know.

I was also part of Amnesty International—first writing letters, and later as a medical secretary. For me, that too is Engaged Buddhism: receiving a letter from Amnesty International and responding, “Dear Mr. President…” and signing my name with mindfulness. Always polite, respectful, and courteous, but clear and direct—leaving no room to hide. I did that for years. We can be engaged in so many ways.

In our sangha in Saint-Étienne, we also cared for people experiencing homelessness. Many came to us; we offered clothes, a place to wash, haircuts if they wished, and beard trims for the men. We prepared meals and created joyful little moments. We listened deeply and spoke with them with warmth and understanding. Thầy knew about it; he and Sister Chân Không protected us.

That continued for ten years while I was there—and after I left, the others carried it on for almost ten more.

There you are—very simple things.