The thought "mother"
cannot be separated from that of "love". Love is sweet,
tender, and delicious. Without love, a child cannot
flower an adult cannot mature. Without love, we weaken
wither. The day my mother died, I made this entry in my
journal: "the greatest misfortune of my life has come !"
Even an old person, when he loses his mother, doesn't
feel ready. He too has the impression that he is not yet
ripe, that he is suddenly alone. He feels as abandoned
and unhappy as a young orphan. All songs and poems
praising motherhood are beautiful, effortlessly
beautiful. Even songwriters and poets without much
talent seem to pour their hearts into these works, and
when they are recited or sung, the performers also seem
deeply moved, unless they have lost their mothers too
early even to know what love for mother is. Writings
extolling the virtues of motherhood have existed since
the beginning of time throughout the world. When I was a
child I heard a simple poem about losing your mother,
and it is still very important for me. If your mother is
still alive, you may feel tenderness for her each time
you read this, fearing this distant yet inevitable
event. That year, although I was still very young my
mother left me, and I realized that I was an orphan,
everyone around me was crying, I suffered in
silence...Allowing the tears to flows, I felt my pain
soften. Evening enveloped Mother's tomb, the pagoda bell
rang sweetly. I realized that to lose your mother is to
lose the whole universe. We swim in a world of tender
love for many years, and, without even knowing it, we
are quite happy there. Only after it is too late do we
become aware of it. People in the countryside do not
understand the complicated language of city people. When
people from the city say that mother is "a treasure of
love", that is already too complex for them. Country
people in Vietnam compare their mothers to the finest
varieties of bananas or to honey, sweet rice, or sugar
cane. They express their love in these simple and direct
ways. For me, a mother is like a "ba hu+o+ng" banana of
the highest quality, like the best "ne^'p mo^.t" sweet
rice, the most delicious "mi'a lau" sugar cane! There
are moments after a fever when you have a bitter, flat
taste in your mouth, and nothing tastes good. Only when
your mother comes and tucks you in, gently pulls the
covers over your chin, puts her hand on your burning
forehead (Is it really a hand, or is it the silk of
heaven?), and gently whispers, "My poor darling!" do you
feel restored, surrounded with the sweetness of maternal
love. Her love is so fragrant, like a banana, like sweet
rice, like sugar cane. Father's work is enormous, as
huge as a mountain. Mother's devotion is overflowing,
like water from a mountain spring. Maternal love is our
first taste of love, the origin of all feelings of love.
Our mother is the teacher who first teaches us love, the
most important subject in life. Without my mother I
could never have known how to love. Thanks to her I can
love my neighbors. Thanks to her I can love all living
beings. Through her I acquired my first notions of
understanding and compassion. Mother is the foundation
of all love, and many religious traditions recognize
this and pay deep honor to a maternal figure, the Virgin
Mary, the goddess Kwan Yin. Hardly an infant has opened
her mouth to cry without her mother already running to
the cradle. Mother is a gentle and sweet spirit who
makes unhappiness and worries disappear. When the word
"mother" is uttered, already we feel our hearts
overflowing with love. From love, the distance to belief
and action is very short. In the West, we celebrate
Mother's Day in May. I am from the countryside of
Vietnam, and I had never heard of this tradition. One
day, I was visiting the Ginza district of Tokyo with the
monk Thien An, and we were met outside a bookstore by
several Japanese students who were friends of his. One
discretely asked him a question, and then took a white
carnation from her bag and pinned it on my robe. I was
surprised and a little embarrassed. I had no idea what
this gesture meant, and I didn't dare ask. I tried to
act natural, thinking this must be some local custom.
When they were finished talking (I don't speak
Japanese), Thien An and I went into the bookstore, and
he told me that today was what is called Mother's Day.
In Japan, if your mother is still alive, you wear a red
flower on your pocket or your lapel, proud that you
still have your mother. If she is no longer alive, you
wear a white flower. I looked at the white flower on my
robe and suddenly I felt so unhappy. I was as much an
orphan as any other unhappy orphan; we could no longer
proudly wear red flowers in our buttonholes. Those who
wear white flowers suffer, and their thoughts cannot
avoid returning to their mothers. They cannot forget
that she is no longer there. Those who wear red flowers
are so happy, knowing their mothers are still alive.
They can try to please her before she is gone and it is
too late. I find this a beautiful custom. I propose that
we do the same thing in Vietnam, and in the West as
well. Mother is a boundless source of love, an
inexhaustible treasure. But unfortunately, we sometimes
forget. A mother is the most beautiful gift life offers
us. Those of you who still have your mother near, please
don't wait for her death to say, "My God, I have lived
beside my mother all these years without ever looking
closely at her." Just brief glances, a few words
exchanged-asking for a little pocket money or one thing
or another. You cuddle up to her to get warm, you sulk,
you get angry with her. You only complicate her life,
causing her to worry, undermining her health, making her
go to sleep late and get up early. Many mothers die
young because of their children. Throughout her life we
expect her to cook, wash, and clean up after us, while
we think only about our grades and our careers. Our
mothers no longer have time to look deeply at us, and we
are too busy to look closely at her. Only when she is no
longer there do we realize that we have never been
conscious of having a mother. This evening, when you
return from school or work or, if you live far away, the
next time you visit your mother, you may wish to go into
her room and, with a calm and silent smile, sit down
beside her. Without saying anything, make her stop
working. Then, look at her for a long time, look at her
deeply. Do this in order to see her, to realize that she
is there, she is alive, beside you. Take her hand and
ask her one short question to capture her attention,
"Mother, do you know something?" She will be a little
surprised and will probably smile when she asks you,
"What, dear?" Keep looking into her eyes, smiling
serenely, and say, "Do you know that I love you?" Ask
this question without waiting for an answer. Even if you
are thirty or forty years old, or older, ask her as the
child of your mother. Your mother and you will be happy,
conscious of living in eternal love. Then tomorrow, when
she leaves you, you will have no regrets. In Vietnam, on
the holiday of Ullambana, we listen to stories and
legends about the bodhisattva Maudgalyayana, and about
filial love, the work of the father, the devotion of the
mother, and the duty of the child. Everyone prays for
the longevity of his or her parents, or if they are
dead, for their rebirth in the heavenly Pure Land. We
believe that a child without filial devotion is just
artificial. But filial devotion also arises from love
itself. Without love, filial devotion is just
artificial. When love is present, that is enough, and
there is no need to talk of obligation. To love your
mother is enough. It is not a duty; it is completely
natural, like drinking when you are thirsty. Every child
must have a mother and it is totally natural to love
her. The mother loves her child, and the child loves his
mother. The child needs his mother, and the mother needs
her child. If the mother doesn't need her child, or the
child his mother, then this is not a mother, and this is
not a child. It is a misuse of the words "mother" and
"child". When I was young, one of my teachers asked me,
"What do you have to do when you love your mother?" I
told him, "I must obey her, help her, take care of her
when she is old, and pray for her, keeping the ancestral
altar when she has disappeared forever behind the
mountain." Now I know that the word "What" in his
question was superfluous. If you love your mother, you
don't have to do anything. You love her; that is enough.
To love your mother is not a question of morality or
virtue. Please do not think I have written this to give
a lesson in morality. Loving your mother is a question
of profit. A mother is like a spring of pure water, like
the very finest sugar cane or honey, the best quality
sweet rice. If you do not know how to profit from this,
it is unfortunate for you. I simply want to bring this
to your attention, to help you avoid one day complaining
that there is nothing left in life for you. If a gift
such as the presence of your own mother doesn't satisfy
you, even if you are president of a large corporation or
king of the universe, you probably will not be
satisfied. I know that the Creator is not happy, for the
Creator arises spontaneously and does not have the good
fortune to have a mother. I would like to tell a story.
Please don't think that I am thoughtless. It could have
been that my sister didn't marry, and I didn't become a
monk. In any case, we both left our mother -- one to
lead a new life beside the man she loved, and the other
to follow an ideal of life that he adored. The night my
sister married, my mother worried about a thousand and
one things, and didn't even seem sad. But when we sat
down at the table for some light refreshments, while
waiting for our in-laws to come for my sister, I saw
that my mother hadn't eaten a bite. She said, "For
eighteen years she has eaten with us and today is her
last meal here before going to another family's home to
take her meals." My sister cried, her head bowing barely
above her plate, and she said, "Mama, I won't get
married." But she married nonetheless. As for me, I left
my mother to become a monk. To congratulate those who
are firmly resolved to leave their families to become
monks, one says that they are following the way of
understanding, but I am not proud of it. I love my
mother, but I also have an ideal, and to serve it I had
to leave her -- so much the worse for me. In life, it is
often necessary to make difficult choices. We cannot
catch two fish at the same time: one in each hand. It is
difficult, because if we accept growing up, we must
accept suffering. I don't regret leaving my mother to
become a monk, but I am sorry I had to make such a
choice. I didn't have the chance to profit fully from
this precious treasure. Each night I pray for my mother,
but it is no longer possible for me to savor the
excellent "ba hu+o+ng" banana, the best quality "ne^'p
mo^.t" sweet rice, and the delicious "mi'a lau" sugar
cane. Please don't think that I am suggesting that you
not follow your career and remain home at your mother's
side. I have already said I do not want to give advice
or lessons in continuing to look into her eyes with a
serene smile, tell her, "Do you know that I love you?"
Ask her this question without waiting for an answer.
Even if you are thirty, forty years old, or older, ask
her simply, because you are the child of your mother.
Your mother and you will both be happy, conscious of
living in eternal love. And tomorrow when she leaves
you, you will not have any regrets. This is the refrain
I give you to sing today. Brothers and sisters, please
chant it, please sing it, so that you won't live in
indifference or forgetfulness. This red rose, I have
already placed it on your lapel. Please be happy. |