DOORS THAT SLAM LIKE GUILLOTINES
Be a lamp unto yourself.
–Shakyamuni Buddha
You are the light of the world.
–Jesus
Daniel Berrigan says one should enter the prison as a bridegroom enters his bridal chamber. My first visit to Countytown Prison was nothing like that. Countytown is infused with the odors of fear. Sweat. Dread. Stale cigarette smoke. Impassive faces of the guards. No eye contact. No expression in the voice. Not a welcoming smile. No windows. Then the emptying of pockets. The metal detectors. Slamming metal doors. The tension of waiting before four successive and massive metal doors unlocked by machine and slamming themselves shut like gunshots, like guillotines. I did learn to hear the slams without startling. Prison doors do not close softly and mindfully. No slam, no lock. Lock clicks into place. Slam says this is final. Slam is part of the punishment.
Perhaps I had unfinished business inside prison walls, and that is why I felt the clear call to go to Countytown, a medium security men’s prison. I went to visit the husband of a Quaker friend who was imprisoned for a far lesser and nonviolent crime than Charles Grand—growing marijuana in his attic and selling it in order to keep his boys in private schools. When she approached me, saying Carl was desperate to resume his Buddhist practice but needed guidance, I jumped in. At that time, Charles was still alive in a federal prison. Perhaps, although I did not reason this out at the time, visiting Carl was a shallow foray for me into the dangerous waters inhabited by Charles Grand.
I was not yet ordained by Thich Nhat Hanh, but I was still a practicing Quaker. All Quakers serve as a ministers; we do not hire professional preachers. As a Quaker, I was permitted to enter the prison during nonvisiting hours as a “religious counselor.” Carl was glad to see a friend—someone he could ask about his kids, how they were getting along. He was ardently interested in Tibetan Buddhism, had once traveled. He didn’t mind that I was from another tradition, I offered to sit with him in the visiting room which was more like a closet with a window—while just outside the halls echoed with the ubiquitous slamming doors, booming PA system, raucous yells and mumbled epithets. With prison ambience as the ground of our meditation, we practiced together the posture and breathing that were giving me so much relief from the burden of self. I was able to bring Carl some books on Tibetan practice—soft cover only, for in a hardback one could smuggle drugs.
We relished our shared silence. Carl began meditating alone in his cell. He began to speak of his jail time as an opportunity to find peace and light, as liberation. After about a year of visits, Carl said, “I’m having some difficulty keeping the discipline without a group—a Sangha—to encourage me.” There were no Buddhist services at CTP at that time. I told him I would check to see what the prison would allow.
The Chaplain, it turned out, was Methodist. I explained to him that I combined my Christian (Quaker) and Buddhist (Zen) practice, but that I spring from Methodist roots, am ever grateful to my Methodist forebears for giving me a strong sense of devotion to God, the sacredness of place, the poetry of the scriptures. I explained that my husband, also a Quaker and Zen practitioner --with Southern Baptist roots--did not want me to lead the group alone, so he committed to come along. We planned a weekly mindfulness practice class of an hour and a half. After a meeting with the Deputy Director of Treatment, who was enthusiastic--“This could be big; it could be really big!”--we began with a poster:
Still the Mind and Open the Heart
Mindfulness
Meditation
Breathing
Posture
Seated Meditation
Chanting Practice
Walking Meditation
Readings
Thursday Evenings 7-8:30
With Judith Toy, who is both a Quaker and an ordained Zen monastic
And Philip Toy, Quaker and Zen practitioner for 27 years,
Founders of Old Path Zendo, New Hope
I swallowed hard when I wrote the words “Open the Heart,” as frankly, I still harbored a prejudice: most convicts are hard-hearted thugs who would scoff at the idea of opening their hearts. But I wrote it anyhow and am glad I did, because ten guys signed up for the first night of mindfulness practice!
There were forms to fill out and an orientation on prison rules for me. For example, “There are to be no ‘favors’ done for inmates. This jeopardizes the integrity of the Volunteer Program.” That was tested on the first night when an inmate asked me to carry out a letter for him; I had to refuse. It was clear that Jane, administrative right wing of the treatment team who showed me the prison ropes, held a genuine affection and respect for her men. Finally the first night arrived. The system for calling the men up, even when they hold passes, does not always work. So there were only four men that first night with Philip and me. Carl read a passage from one of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s books on Tibetan Buddhism. We shared sitting meditation and walking meditation.
I’ll never forget the gardenia that night. A dear friend had brought me a fresh gardenia to lay on our altar at home. On a whim we took the creamy flower with its waxy green leaves and laid it on the table. Its fragrance served as our incense, since actual incense was disallowed. I felt chills as some of the men told us they had known Charles, [the boy who murdered Connie, Allen and Bobby] one of them at Ridge High School, several from the early days when he was held in the Countytown prison.
Calypso, in a voice like a cement mixer, shared with us that he was a Vietnam vet, that he had committed countless atrocities. Because of this, he told us, he had suffered deeply and continuously. He often became obsessed with thoughts of homicide or suicide. But he truly wanted to put the war behind him and find peace. How was this man different from Charles? Yet there I was with Calypso, offering the teachings of peace.
Absorbed by the prison sounds as the ground of our being, we discovered inner harmony in the power of the group. As we made ready to leave the prison that first night, we passed the gardenia around our meeting table. Each man inhaled its sweetness, touched its tender petals and leaves. I cherish a mental photo of Calypso with his nose in the flower: Calypso and the Buddha, Calypso and the Christ. I can still smell that gardenia.
Still, even as my fear of entering the prison began to abate, I had my bad days when prison was not high on my list of destinations. The recliner and the TV beckoned. Or my eyes wanted to close. I often resisted the routine that required Philip and me to walk through the metal detector again or subject ourselves before the days of airport security to the hand-held detector, arms outstretched. It makes one feel like a criminal, I complained. Sometimes en route in the car, Philip and I bickered. Yet without fail once we had been in the prison for a time, practicing together, our minds lightened and we always left walking on air.
It helped that a friend from Old path Zendo Sangha came along, and when Philip and I moved to North Carolina, he protected the prison Sangha by staying with it in our stead. Steven is a student of Satya Sai Baba. When we told him that the father of one of the men in the group—Deepok—had been a disciple of Sai’s also, Steven asked to join us. And he stayed.
Most touching was the friendship that developed between the two Sanghas [communities of practice]—Old Path and the Prison Sangha who eventually named themselves Fragrant Lotus Petal Sangha. Here was a friendship between folks who had never met in the flesh. The men dedicated their practice each week to Old Path Sangha, and at Old Path Sangha, we dedicated our practice to the inmates. We did not ask the men how they happened to be convicted. We just sat. We just walked. We just smiled. We just beamed out our love. And always there were hugs goodbye.
The next chapter in our prison saga I would not have believed if it did not happen.
Be a lamp unto yourself.
–Shakyamuni Buddha
You are the light of the world.
–Jesus
Daniel Berrigan says one should enter the prison as a bridegroom enters his bridal chamber. My first visit to Countytown Prison was nothing like that. Countytown is infused with the odors of fear. Sweat. Dread. Stale cigarette smoke. Impassive faces of the guards. No eye contact. No expression in the voice. Not a welcoming smile. No windows. Then the emptying of pockets. The metal detectors. Slamming metal doors. The tension of waiting before four successive and massive metal doors unlocked by machine and slamming themselves shut like gunshots, like guillotines. I did learn to hear the slams without startling. Prison doors do not close softly and mindfully. No slam, no lock. Lock clicks into place. Slam says this is final. Slam is part of the punishment.
Perhaps I had unfinished business inside prison walls, and that is why I felt the clear call to go to Countytown, a medium security men’s prison. I went to visit the husband of a Quaker friend who was imprisoned for a far lesser and nonviolent crime than Charles Grand—growing marijuana in his attic and selling it in order to keep his boys in private schools. When she approached me, saying Carl was desperate to resume his Buddhist practice but needed guidance, I jumped in. At that time, Charles was still alive in a federal prison. Perhaps, although I did not reason this out at the time, visiting Carl was a shallow foray for me into the dangerous waters inhabited by Charles Grand.
I was not yet ordained by Thich Nhat Hanh, but I was still a practicing Quaker. All Quakers serve as a ministers; we do not hire professional preachers. As a Quaker, I was permitted to enter the prison during nonvisiting hours as a “religious counselor.” Carl was glad to see a friend—someone he could ask about his kids, how they were getting along. He was ardently interested in Tibetan Buddhism, had once traveled. He didn’t mind that I was from another tradition, I offered to sit with him in the visiting room which was more like a closet with a window—while just outside the halls echoed with the ubiquitous slamming doors, booming PA system, raucous yells and mumbled epithets. With prison ambience as the ground of our meditation, we practiced together the posture and breathing that were giving me so much relief from the burden of self. I was able to bring Carl some books on Tibetan practice—soft cover only, for in a hardback one could smuggle drugs.
We relished our shared silence. Carl began meditating alone in his cell. He began to speak of his jail time as an opportunity to find peace and light, as liberation. After about a year of visits, Carl said, “I’m having some difficulty keeping the discipline without a group—a Sangha—to encourage me.” There were no Buddhist services at CTP at that time. I told him I would check to see what the prison would allow.
The Chaplain, it turned out, was Methodist. I explained to him that I combined my Christian (Quaker) and Buddhist (Zen) practice, but that I spring from Methodist roots, am ever grateful to my Methodist forebears for giving me a strong sense of devotion to God, the sacredness of place, the poetry of the scriptures. I explained that my husband, also a Quaker and Zen practitioner --with Southern Baptist roots--did not want me to lead the group alone, so he committed to come along. We planned a weekly mindfulness practice class of an hour and a half. After a meeting with the Deputy Director of Treatment, who was enthusiastic--“This could be big; it could be really big!”--we began with a poster:
Still the Mind and Open the Heart
Mindfulness
Meditation
Breathing
Posture
Seated Meditation
Chanting Practice
Walking Meditation
Readings
Thursday Evenings 7-8:30
With Judith Toy, who is both a Quaker and an ordained Zen monastic
And Philip Toy, Quaker and Zen practitioner for 27 years,
Founders of Old Path Zendo, New Hope
I swallowed hard when I wrote the words “Open the Heart,” as frankly, I still harbored a prejudice: most convicts are hard-hearted thugs who would scoff at the idea of opening their hearts. But I wrote it anyhow and am glad I did, because ten guys signed up for the first night of mindfulness practice!
There were forms to fill out and an orientation on prison rules for me. For example, “There are to be no ‘favors’ done for inmates. This jeopardizes the integrity of the Volunteer Program.” That was tested on the first night when an inmate asked me to carry out a letter for him; I had to refuse. It was clear that Jane, administrative right wing of the treatment team who showed me the prison ropes, held a genuine affection and respect for her men. Finally the first night arrived. The system for calling the men up, even when they hold passes, does not always work. So there were only four men that first night with Philip and me. Carl read a passage from one of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s books on Tibetan Buddhism. We shared sitting meditation and walking meditation.
I’ll never forget the gardenia that night. A dear friend had brought me a fresh gardenia to lay on our altar at home. On a whim we took the creamy flower with its waxy green leaves and laid it on the table. Its fragrance served as our incense, since actual incense was disallowed. I felt chills as some of the men told us they had known Charles, [the boy who murdered Connie, Allen and Bobby] one of them at Ridge High School, several from the early days when he was held in the Countytown prison.
Calypso, in a voice like a cement mixer, shared with us that he was a Vietnam vet, that he had committed countless atrocities. Because of this, he told us, he had suffered deeply and continuously. He often became obsessed with thoughts of homicide or suicide. But he truly wanted to put the war behind him and find peace. How was this man different from Charles? Yet there I was with Calypso, offering the teachings of peace.
Absorbed by the prison sounds as the ground of our being, we discovered inner harmony in the power of the group. As we made ready to leave the prison that first night, we passed the gardenia around our meeting table. Each man inhaled its sweetness, touched its tender petals and leaves. I cherish a mental photo of Calypso with his nose in the flower: Calypso and the Buddha, Calypso and the Christ. I can still smell that gardenia.
Still, even as my fear of entering the prison began to abate, I had my bad days when prison was not high on my list of destinations. The recliner and the TV beckoned. Or my eyes wanted to close. I often resisted the routine that required Philip and me to walk through the metal detector again or subject ourselves before the days of airport security to the hand-held detector, arms outstretched. It makes one feel like a criminal, I complained. Sometimes en route in the car, Philip and I bickered. Yet without fail once we had been in the prison for a time, practicing together, our minds lightened and we always left walking on air.
It helped that a friend from Old path Zendo Sangha came along, and when Philip and I moved to North Carolina, he protected the prison Sangha by staying with it in our stead. Steven is a student of Satya Sai Baba. When we told him that the father of one of the men in the group—Deepok—had been a disciple of Sai’s also, Steven asked to join us. And he stayed.
Most touching was the friendship that developed between the two Sanghas [communities of practice]—Old Path and the Prison Sangha who eventually named themselves Fragrant Lotus Petal Sangha. Here was a friendship between folks who had never met in the flesh. The men dedicated their practice each week to Old Path Sangha, and at Old Path Sangha, we dedicated our practice to the inmates. We did not ask the men how they happened to be convicted. We just sat. We just walked. We just smiled. We just beamed out our love. And always there were hugs goodbye.
The next chapter in our prison saga I would not have believed if it did not happen.
