“How do we deal with that?”

the interviewer asked the

short, brown-eyed Buddhist

Jewish grandmother,

“Anger that is….”

“Moderate it,” she responded.

“Don’t refuel it. Direct it toward

the social injustice that gave it

birth. Don’t fight with the

moment. Be attentive and do

what is kind to yourself and

model that for others,”

said the woman who had sat

at the feet of Hillel, Jesus and

the Buddha and perhaps Mother

Teresa, and who now has children

and grandchildren sitting at the

sandaled feet at the end of her short

legs covered with a long springtime

skirt – legs that almost don’t touch

the floor.  The two sat on the stage

of a community center in what has

been called the worst American

city and spoke of the pervasive

pain of life but not without

hope and amazement. The

grandmother did a “Reader’s

Digest” condensed version of

centering prayer with the

audience and as the camera

scanned the room when eyes

were opened, it revealed

animated, smiling faces.

The grandmother read a poem

she carries with her always by

Pablo Neruda, “Keeping Quiet”:

 

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still

for once on the face of the earth,

let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for a second,

and not move our arms so much.

 

It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines;

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.

 

Fishermen in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would not look at his hurt hands.

 

Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victories with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

 

What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.

 

Life is what it is about…

 

If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with

death.

 

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.

 

Then the audience clapped, the

short Jewish grandmother laughed

a Buddha size laugh and took a

sip of water.