When the Vietnamese Zen master and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh died last year, he left behind an invented word. Unlike those annoying neologisms that appear to have been created for the sake of novelty (e.g., metrosexual, staycation), Thich Nhat Hanh’s invention deepened our understanding of Zen teachings while also making them more accessible to the general reader. And in its way, it also advanced the cause of peace and understanding.
The word to which I refer is interbeing. Appearing often in Nhat Hanh’s writings, this resonant term points toward three aspects of everyday reality, as viewed through the lens of the Zen tradition. First, it describes the impermanent, interdependent relationship of the things of this world to each other. Second, it illuminates the intimate relationship of the self to the physical world, particularly the non-human world of animals, minerals, flora, and fauna. And third, it sheds light on our relationships with other people, past and present. In all these respects, interbeing reminds us that our encounters with the external world, with nature, and with other people have both an ordinary dimension—what Zen calls the “relative” or “historical” dimension—and one that remains hidden most of time, known in Zen as the “absolute” or “ultimate” dimension. In the timebound, relative dimension, entities exist in separation; in the timeless, absolute dimension, they exist as parts of one undivided whole.
“Fundamentally,” declares an early Zen text, “there is not a single thing.” As baffling as it is radical, this pronouncement requires some explanation. By way of illustration, I might cite the vintage Conway Stewart fountain pen with which I am writing these words. My pen is indubitably a single “thing.” I can feel its weight and admire its marbled blue barrel, its gleaming nib. Yet, as Thich Nhat Hanh would put it, my pen depends for its existence on “non-pen” elements: the resin in its barrel, the ink in its old-fashioned, lever-action bladder, the 18-carat gold in its nib. Without these and other constituents, my pen could not exist.
No less important, those constituents are neither static nor permanent. To be sure, this elegant writing instrument has lasted seventy-five years and is still functioning smoothly. Its previous owner took care of it, and I am trying to do the same. But at some point, my fountain pen will wear out. Replacement parts may or may not be available. No longer of any practical value, it will become an heirloom, an antique—or be disposed of altogether. In all these ways, my pen is both a “thing” and fundamentally not a thing, insofar as that term designates a solid, separate, and permanent object in a constellation of other such objects. Rather, my pen and its parts exist as nodes in an interdependent network of “things,” which themselves are continuously changing, even as we speak.
And what is true of inanimate objects is also true of the self. “Aware of the element earth in me,” reads one of Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditative verses, “I breathe in.” Although until recently Western culture has tended to regard the physical world in general and the natural world in particular as useful, exploitable resources, separate from and inferior to human consciousness, Zen teachings have for centuries admonished us to view the self and nature as co-equals in an intricate, reciprocal relationship. What happens to the world of mountains, rivers, trees, and streams, often as a result of our actions, also happens to us. What we do to nature, we also do to ourselves. The long-term implications of this attitude, which closely parallels that of “deep ecology,” are as evident as they are timely.
And just as we are not fundamentally separate from nature, neither are we fundamentally separate from other people. Although our prevailing cultural milieu militates against this view, preferring to regard the self as a separate, solid, and owner-operated entity, the term interbeing calls attention to the obverse side of this cultural coin. Yes, we rugged individualists may choose to live separately and apart, each of us being unique, autonomous, and responsible for our thoughts, words, and actions. But like it or not, we are also enmeshed in fluid, causal, and consequential relationships with other people, domestically and internationally, including our blood and spiritual ancestors. To imagine otherwise is to inhabit a self-centered and often destructive fantasy.
Acknowledging the dynamic nature of interbeing, Thich Nhat Hanh added a second word to his initial creation, making a verb of the original noun. We inter-are, he often said. Were this potent verb to become widespread and even prevalent in our civic discourse, how different that discourse might be. In the meantime, for those of us who would promote unity rather than division, understanding rather than hate, and peace rather than war, Thich Nhat Hanh’s contribution to our contemporary lexicon offers, at once, an expansive conceptual framework, a useful linguistic tool, and a profoundly compassionate way of seeing.
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See Thich Nhat Hanh, “The Insight of Interbeing”.
A wonderful way to look at the world!
Indra and the net of 10,000 diamonds.