The Buddhist monks walking for peace might not have been on my radar except that my son works at the National Cathedral and sent a photo of Aloka the Peace-Dog taking a load off in the office. Since attaching himself to the monks in India, he’s now walked 2,300 miles from Texas to DC like the good boy he is, despite requiring surgery for an old injury and falling ill. A tan-and-white rescue, Aloka sports an uncanny white heart the size of your palm on his forehead, roughly in the spot of the crown chakra. What are the chances the dog who chose the monks was born to be a symbol of love?
The monks were to visit Annapolis after the day in Washington, DC, where the Venerable Bhikkhu Pannakara asked 8,000 well-wishers to place a hand on their hearts and to breathe in unison in a mindfulness meditation. Thousands of people fell silent, and when a group of hecklers began blasting messages of hate through a loudspeaker across the street, the monk instructed the crowd, “It’s just sound, it’s just noise. Use it to bring your thoughts back to your heart.”
Ricochet mind. Rebound love.
On this next leg, they were walking from the Navy-Marine Corps Stadium in Annapolis to the Maryland State House. I left home in time to be there for their arrival.
An icy wind gusted. Every time the sun went behind a cloud, I wished again for a hat as I wedged my way into a crowd of hundreds of spectators, thinking I’d barely made it in time.
“Get behind the white line,” a cop instructed. The chatty crowd squeezed together, packing ourselves in even more densely behind barricades. I love that about Americans. We are democratic when we queue, and we are cowboy-friendly in a group, although when a man tried to insert himself into our midst, a woman whose shoulder was pressed against my back kindly suggested he move on down the road. We could not get one more sardine in our can.
I looked around me at the other people who had thought this was a good idea. A middle-aged woman in a red scarf held a placard that read, “Best Birthday Gift Ever!” A pretty, young mother grasped a bag of oranges while scattering flower petals. Another held a sign that read, “Cảm ơn rất nhiều.” Thank you very much.
After about an hour, freezing people started sharing updates on the monks’ progress via tracking apps on their phones. “They haven’t left DC yet,” someone said. “They’re still on their bus.”
I thought about all the manuscripts waiting on my desk and considered bailing, but when you invest in something you’ve suffered for, it’s hard to pull the plug. And I mean we’re talking monks, not next in line for coleslaw at the deli counter.
I decided rather than go home, I’d walk to meet them.
I made my way along the side of the road through a diverse crowd. Young professionals, seniors with canes, babies in strollers, dogs dressed better for the weather than I was, Black, Asian, Hispanic; we were America in all her glory. I think we were there to say, “Heal us. Can you heal us? Can our presence amplify your effort? We are practicing peace by proxy. We want to be better than we are, the world better than it is.”
The monks were in the area now, making their way past Calvary Methodist, which looked so buttoned-up, so prim and staid, it seemed incongruous with the event at hand.
“One of the monks was hit by a car in Georgia, the man next to me said. “Lost his leg. Amputated.” I turned to him, zipped up against the 30-degree wind, only his face was visible from inside his navy parka hood. My companion’s name was Ton—a Vietnamese immigrant, brought to this country when he was two. He was a web designer, probably 30. “I saw them yesterday in DC,” he said.
I was confused. “And you drove to Annapolis to see them again today?” He should have been at work. It was a Thursday. His commitment seemed extreme, unlike mine, which was primarily curiosity and all of the above.
Ton was from Philly and had driven all this way, staying in hotels overnight just to witness these last legs of this pilgrimage. “Why?” I asked.
“To support them. They walk barefoot,” he added. “Their toes are black.”
At that moment, the first monk in the procession came alongside us, beaming a beatific smile. I looked at his feet. Bare. I didn’t see Aloka. They walked single file, their shaved heads nodding, protected by brown wool caps. “Sadhu! Sadhu!” called the crowd. “Well done!”
What would you sacrifice to serve? There are times you can only be a witness. You can only bring your heart back to love in response to the noise.
An icy gust whipped at their orange robes as the last monk passed. The phrase, “path of righteousness,” came to mind.
A tall Black man on my left just kept whispering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I said it, too.
It was all we had to offer.
The post Peace by Proxy by Laura J. Oliver appeared first on Talbot Spy.
