By Nina Wise

I was still in my nightgown when I heard a knock at the front door. A dark haired woman I didn't recognize stood there, zafu in hand.

"You're Nina?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, perplexed.

"Allan and Marion told me to meet them here. I'm Angelique."

"Oh, come in," I forced myself to be polite, still half asleep, thinking I had fifteen more minutes before having to talk to anyone. "Do you want some tea?"

"Yes," she said, "that would be wonderful."

Angelique sat down while I scurried about, embarrassed by my own irritation at this interruption, making tea, making conversation, gathering my hat, sunglasses, sunscreen, blanket, zafu, water bottle, brushing my teeth, dressing. What should I wear, I wondered, to a gathering of 1,200 people, outdoors from 7 a.m. until 6 p.m., sitting and walking in the unique practice of smiling mindfulness that Thich Nhat Hanh teaches. I pulled out a dress, loose, colorful, and suited for the out of doors.

Allan and Marion arrived and the four of us piled into Angelique's car for what we feared would be a massive early morning traffic jam on the road to Spirit Rock. But the way was clear and as we pulled into the newly built road at the center, the dedicated volunteers in orange hats had everything under control. Cars flowed smoothly into designated parking fields and people made their way to a grassy hillside. By the time we arrived, the hill was already populated with hundreds of people. We searched for a spot, plopped down our pads and pillows, and waited for Thay's arrival. There was an air of eager anticipation as people continued to arrive and find spots higher and higher up the field. I giggled, remembering Wes Nisker's remark to me on the phone that this event was being called "Thaystock," the meditators' Woodstock.

Bells rang, introductions were made and Thich Nhat Hanh took his place on the small platform at the foot of the hill. His calm and charm radiated out over the field, and a feeling of delight captured my heart. I thought about the first time I met Thay, at an ecumenical retreat in 1987 in Santa Barbara, where fifty people gathered to receive teachings from this modest Vietnamese monk. In a short four years his grace and wisdom had attracted thousands of followers. I was proud to be sitting here, watching history unfold. In a society where popularity is gained by flaunting one's sexuality and wealth, where war is celebrated with ticker tape parades, where we feel more and more pressure to have surgeons alter our bodies so that we can be loved, I felt a moment of deep reassurance when I looked around and saw a hillside of friends and strangers gathered in silence to be reminded in simple language about wisdom and compassion, about simply becoming who we are.

And Thay's language is disarmingly simple. In, out, deep, slow, wind, breath, flower, fresh. This is the gatha we used during a half hour of sitting practice. One word for each in breath, one word for each out breath. Feeling the breath moving into the body, out of the body, feeling the breath moving deeply, feeling ourselves slowing down, feeling the wind around us and the breath inside us, seeing the flowers abundant in the fields, seeing ourselves as flowers, feeling fresh as the flowers. The effect of using the simple gatha is surprisingly profound. A wave of calm swept through the hillside of 1,200 meditators.

The day followed the usual pattern of a Thich Nhat Hanh day of mindfulness. He gave a dharma talk in a slow calm voice. We had a break where people maintained silence as they walked into the woods or to the outhouses. We gathered for a walking meditation. A thousand people followed Thay up the pathway through the rolling California hills of tall spring grasses already golden from the drought. At the top of the hill we sat and Thay gave another talk. We returned for lunch. People sat in quiet clusters, munching on whatever they had packed with them. Afterwards they lay in the grass or wandered in the woods. When I am around Thay I start moving more slowly, speaking more slowly, thinking more slowly. The calm sneaks up on me, like a lover who comes in the back door, knows his way around my house and puts on the kettle.

During the entire rest of the afternoon I sat on the hillside mesmerized by the wind blowing patterns through tall grasses. I was fascinated by the changing shapes of the coastal clouds moving through the sky. I was content, watching nature be alive. More than content, I was in a state of wonder, the way I remember being as a child, fascinated by the world, finding my own place by seeing what took place around me. This is what equanimity means, I realized. Being calm enough to see, and in the act of seeing becoming more calm. I hadn't spent so many hours outdoors for quite a while and when I am outdoors I'm usually busy—hiking or gardening or talking. On the day of mindfulness, I did very little, and in the not doing, became alive.

At the end of the day, after the songs and the poetry and the announcements and the talks and the walks and the breathing, I was mostly grateful to have found a teacher who could lead me to that place of quiet where the senses take pleasure in the world. This is what interbeing is about, I remembered, in the moments of quiet appreciation of that place and the magic of nature. It is about sitting in the field and watching the wind whip the grasses the way wind whips grasses, about watching the clouds move the way clouds move, about smelling the grasses and the trees, about feeling the coolness of wind on my cheeks. I thought about Brian Swimme's hypothesis that human beings participate in completing the equation of life by being aware of the beauty that surrounds them. That nature in some way becomes complete with the self-conscious appreciation and awe that human consciousness provides. I thought about how nature with awareness is an equation for love. I remembered Thay's teaching about how trees love the sky and the sky loves the ocean and the ocean loves people and people love the sun and the sun loves the trees. That we exist in this field of love becomes entirely self evident at moments of deep calm. We don't need to call it Buddhism or Biology or Dharma or Gaia. We need only to be still and open our senses to the world that presents itself to us moment to moment to moment.

Allan, Marion, Angelique and I made our way back to our car and followed a long line of easy moving traffic. When we arrived at my cottage, I invited them in.

"Tea?" I offered.

We sat, slowly sipping the warm liquid, grateful for sangha. After saying goodbye to my friends, I sat on my new couch, reading the Sunday paper.

"Remember," I told myself, "this paper was once a tree moving in the wind under a sky alive with clouds. Remember."

Nina Wise is a performance artist in the San Francisco Bay Area.