Excerpt
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 couldn't 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. It's a matter of familiarity. I know some people who can't 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 aren't "noise."
They only deepen the sense of silence. I put on my monk's robe, walked outside,
and I knew I was in parad ... read full excerpt from: Fragrant Palm Leaves: Journals, 1962-1966 ebook
