Ginger and I trailed behind the monks in a small group of people snapping photos and hurrying to catch up. The bald robed men walking in a single file line were surprisingly quick and bright faced as they waved and accepted flowers from outstretched hands.
It was day 80 on the Walk for Peace and the monks had one message. Peace starts right here, right now, inside my heart. Inside yours.
Aloka, the peace dog, was missing as he’d had surgery and was recovering. I thought our Ginger would be a good substitute “peace dog” today. Judging by all the other dogs in the mix, I wasn’t the only one who had this idea.
Everyone loves Aloka, whose name means “light.” He had been a stray in India and had followed the monks during a different walk. He’s been walking with them ever since. Later in the evening, the first question to the monks would be: “How is Aloka?”
In times like these we need the pure love of our dogs. And we need these monks who tell us to forgive, to let it go, to choose peace, to not let the pain swallow you.
Along the path there was a rainbow of people- Black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Indian. Old, young, able bodied, people in wheel chairs, and others holding onto walkers. Everyone wanting a glimpse of what is good and beautiful. I stood in front of a native South Carolinian army veteran’s home who said he “reckoned the monks meant no harm”… I assured him they only wanted to spread peace and love. He told me my peace flag was “purdy” and I thanked him for his service. He said it was nice talking with me and I said the same. His granddaughter waved at Ginger.
Peace.
With all the sunflowers and daisies and carnations and flowers of every colors, shape and size, beauty seemed to be accessible to everyone.
A little girl handed me a picture she had drawn of Aloka. Another child with the sweetest smile gave me the flower that a monk had given her. I took it and passed her the orange carnation that a monk had given me. Her mom gave Ginger a scratch.
Later, when the monks spoke, it was like they were describing what we experience occasionally at a prodemocracy rally:
“People will shout at us, drive by in their trucks and blow black smoke that we have to breathe.”
But the monk didn’t sound angry.
So what do they do?
Simple. They don’t absorb the energy. They let it bounce back to the person it’s coming from. It is their rage and hostility to keep. The monks let it go and send positive and peaceful energy out into the world. Period.
I thought of Renee Good. I thought of her dog in the back of her car. I thought of the description of Renee: She sparkled, she literally sparkled. Gone now. It could have been any of us. And the pain intensifies as the lies and justifications rip through the Internet and the air waves.
“Don’t absorb it. Repeat after me: this will be my peaceful day,” the venerable monks tell us. We want to believe them. We all do.
All of this goodness and light surrounding the thousands of people outside of Rock Hill, South Carolina. Every day the numbers who want to be in their presence keep growing as the 19 Buddhist monks walk 30 miles every single day toward Washington DC.
They are not giving up on peace, even in a world where unthinkable cruelty happens: a young mother shot in the head three times with her six-year-old son’s stuffed animals lying next to her, and her dog alert in the backseat. Her final words: “I’m not mad at you”
Like the monks, we keep moving forward. Not because democracy and decency and goodness is certain or guaranteed, but because we’re not giving up on any of it.
Ginger and I left a little canister of tiny dog treats for Aloka with an attached note: “May you and all beings be well, happy and at peace.” I’m trying to absorb the monk’s mantra.
Ginger has it down.
Contributed by Julie Crandall