Walk for Peace
Warmth in the deep freeze
On Sunday afternoon, the Buddhist monks who are walking across the United States came to my neighborhood. Most of us didn’t know that their route would bring them so close — and we only received the news a couple of days ago.
It was 25 degrees, with a wind chill of around 19. But Richard and I drove a mile to a parking lot behind the middle school and walked a bit further to the street. When we arrived, we were surprised! There were cars everywhere. It was hard to park! And thousands of spectators lined the street. Or, perhaps, I should call them witnesses.
People were in a good mood, even with a frigid breeze on our faces. And we waited, mostly in quiet camaraderie, striking up conversations with strangers. The crowd was diverse in age, color, and faith. But we were all there because we wanted to see the monks. The sense of eagerness was palpable.
Why would so many of my neighbors stand in the freezing cold for as much as an hour waiting to watch Buddhist monks walking down a suburban street? Treating them almost as spiritual celebrities? A man next to me told his children, “This is historic. You’ll never forget this.”
The walk has become a phenomenon. The monks left their Texas monastery on October 26 and have walked through ten states to Washington, DC. They’ve trekked in heat, through the autumn, and in some of the worst winter storms that the South has seen in decades. And their journey, now in my neighborhood, is nearing its end.
In January, they posted the answer to the question most frequently asked of them: Why are you walking?
Some people may doubt that our walk can bring peace to the world — and we understand that doubt completely. But everything that has ever mattered began with something impossibly small. A single seed. A first mindful breath. A quiet decision to take one step, then another.
Our walking itself cannot create peace. But when someone encounters us — whether by the roadside, online, or through a friend — when our message touches something deep within them, when it awakens the peace that has always lived quietly in their own heart — something sacred begins to unfold.
That person carries something forward they didn’t have before, or perhaps something they had forgotten was there. They become more mindful in their daily life — more present with each breath, more aware of each moment. They speak a little more gently to their child. They listen more patiently to their partner. They extend kindness to a stranger who needed it desperately.
And that stranger, touched by unexpected compassion, carries it forward to someone else. And it continues — ripple by ripple, heart by heart, moment by moment — spreading outward in ways none of us will ever fully witness, creating more peace in the world than we could possibly measure.
This is our contribution — not to force peace upon the world, but to help nurture it, one awakened heart at a time. Not the Walk for Peace alone can do this, but all of us together — everyone who has been walking with us in spirit, everyone who feels something stir within them when they encounter this journey, everyone who decides that cultivating peace within themselves matters.
One step becomes two. Two become a thousand. A thousand become countless. And slowly, gently, persistently — not through grand gestures but through ten thousand small acts of love — we can help make the world more peaceful.
This is our hope. This is our offering. This is why we walk.
May you and all beings be well, happy, and at peace.
And that’s why thousands of my neighbors showed up. To witness this walk. To witness peace. To, perhaps, be changed. To see hope. And to join their walk for at least a few steps.
When the monks came by, I found myself transfixed by their eyes. Tired eyes, full of kindness. Gentle eyes scanning us. They must have read the signs: “Peace and Hope,” “Lovingkindness Can Save the Planet,” “God Loves All,” “Bless You.” A few brothers carried flowers and passed them to people in the crowd. One monk reached toward me with a bouquet. I pointed to the red-headed girl next to me. He gave them to her instead (you can see her in the picture). And they walked. An orange parade of kindness.
I’ve been to protests. But this wasn’t that. And I’ve attended many resistance events. It wasn’t that either. We were neither protesting nor resisting. This was an embodiment of possibility and openness — that people can gather for peace, joy, and hope to build a different sort of community, a better world.
It was a bit rag tag. It was cold. The Potomac River (right down the street) is as frozen as this icy American political season. But there were thousands on that road. We’ve been isolated and alone, afraid for so long, now held captive in our homes by a deep snow that won’t melt. Yet we came out for the monks. Quiet, bowing politely, saying “thank you,” and being kind to one another. We were warmed by it all — this parade of peace.
I can’t say that I had a mystical experience or any profound spiritual insight. Instead, I witnessed a moment of genuine hope, goodness, and kindness, and saw, in a way I’ve never quite seen, as the brothers wrote, that “something sacred” is unfolding.
People walked away. Quietly. Thoughtfully. With respect. The father who had been standing next to me said to his children, “That was so worth it.”
Yes, it was.
Look for that something sacred today. It might just walk by unnoticed unless you pay attention.
We often think of peace as the absence of war, that if powerful countries would reduce their weapon arsenals, we could have peace.
But if we look deeply into the weapons, we see our own minds — our own prejudices, fears and ignorance. Even if we transport all the bombs to the moon, the roots of war and the roots of bombs are still there, in our hearts and minds, and sooner or later we will make new bombs.
To work for peace is to uproot war from ourselves and from the hearts of men and women. To prepare for war, to give millions of men and women the opportunity to practice killing day and night in their hearts, is to plant millions of seeds of violence, anger, frustration, and fear that will be passed on for generations to come.
— Thích Nhất Hạnh, Living Buddha, Living Christ
INSPIRATION
Listen with the ear of your heart.
from the Prologue to the Rule of Saint Benedict
Because words can be rubber bullets,
can be pepper spray, can be cuffs.
Scared, my ears become rabbits
that burrow and hide. Angry,
my ears become stone gates
that refuse to let anything in.
It’s so painful to hear
the rhetoric of hate. Burns
like tear gas. Stuns and disorients
like flash-bang grenades.
No part of me then can believe
there is a sliver of divinity in you
that I want or need to listen to.
It is so hard to listen.
What if we do not listen?
I want to train my ears to hear
beneath the invective. Want
to listen beneath the attack.
What if I could hear the human
in you and not only the weapons
of your words? What if you could hear
the human in me and find a piece
of yourself? What if we left all our mouths
at home and let only our ears
gather in the streets?
Would we hear, then, the sounds
of each other’s breath, proof
of our mutual humanness?
What peace might arrive for a moment
if we listened, all of us miracles,
softening into that generous silence,
listening with the ears of our hearts
as the cold wind swirls all around?
— Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, “Sometimes, I Forget How to Listen”
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
— Jesus, Matthew 5:9
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I am visiting Alexandria from Ohio, to provide some respite to friends whose adult daughter is seriously ill. Last night nobody slept, the daughter paced all night. We are all exhausted. A few hours later I found myself standing with the silent onlookers as the monks made their way towards Old Alexandria. I prayed for my friends' daughter. It was a commingling of sorrow and hope, a day I will always remember with love.
They came through my neighborhood in Decatur, Georgia. I’ve thought about their walking ever since, during these awful weeks of this administration’s cruelty. Like a river, the walk for peace quietly flows underneath the chaos of our country.