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NY Daily News Update
Florida conspiracy professor suggests Sandy Hook
massacre didn’t occur, was cooked up by Obama to promote gun control

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 Regina Zen Zangha
“Loneliness is the ill-being of our time. … Even when we’re surrounded by many people we can feel very lonely. We are lonely together. There’s a vacuum inside us. It makes us feel uncomfortable, so we try to fill it up by connecting with other people. We believe that if we’re able to connect, the feeling of loneliness will disappear. Technology supplies us with many devices to help us stay connected. We’re always staying connected, yet we continue to feel lonely. Several times a day we check email, send email, and post messages to social media sites. We want to share and to receive. We might spend our whole day connecting, but it doesn’t help reduce the loneliness we feel. This is the state of things at this moment in our modern civilization.”
Thich Nhat Hanh

“Loneliness Is the Ill Being of Our Time”


You know, I used to play soccer on the school field outside the room where you died, when I was the age of the children you killed.

Dear Adam,

Let me start by saying that I wish for you to find peace. It would be easy just to call you a monster and condemn you for evermore, but I don’t think that would help either of us. Given what you have done, I realize that peace may not be easy to find. In a fit of rage, delusion and fear—yes, above all else, I think, fear—you thought that killing was a way out. It was clearly a powerful emotion that drove you from your mother’s dead body to massacre children and staff of Sandy Hook School and to turn the gun in the end on yourself. You decided that the game was over.

But the game is not over, though you are dead. You didn’t find a way out of your anger and loneliness. You live on in other forms, in the torn families and their despair, in the violation of their trust, in the gaping wound in a community, and in the countless articles and news reports spilling across the country and the world—yes, you live on even in me. I was also a young boy who grew up in Newtown. Now I am a Zen Buddhist monk. I see you quite clearly in me now, continued in the legacy of your actions, and I see that in death you have not become free.

You know, I used to play soccer on the school field outside the room where you died, when I was the age of the children you killed. Our team was the Eagles, and we won our division that year. My mom still keeps the trophy stashed in a box. To be honest, I was and am not much of a soccer player. I’ve known winning, but I’ve also known losing, and being picked last for a spot on the team. I think you’ve known this too—the pain of rejection, isolation and loneliness. Loneliness too strong to bear.

You are not alone in feeling this. When loneliness comes up it is so easy to seek refuge in a virtual world of computers and films, but do these really help or only increase our isolation? In our drive to be more connected, have we lost our true connection?

I want to know what you did with your loneliness. Did you ever, like me, cope by walking in the forests that cover our town? I know well the slope that cuts from that school to the stream, shrouded by beech and white pine. It makes up the landscape of my mind. I remember well the thrill of heading out alone on a path winding its way—to Treadwell Park! At that time it felt like a magical path, one of many secrets I discovered throughout those forests, some still hidden. Did you ever lean your face on the rough furrows of an oak’s bark, feeling its solid heartwood and tranquil vibrancy? Did you ever play in the course of a stream, making pools with the stones as if of this stretch you were king? Did you ever experience the healing, connection and peace that comes with such moments, like I often did?

Or did your loneliness know only screens, with dancing figures of light at the bid of your will? How many false lives have you lived, how many shots fired, bombs exploded and lives lost in video games and movies?

By killing yourself at the age of 20, you never gave yourself the chance to grow up and experience a sense of how life’s wonders can bring happiness. I know at your age I hadn’t yet seen how to do this.
I am 37 now, about the age my teacher, the Buddha, realized there was a way out of suffering. I am not enlightened. This morning, when I heard the news, and read the words of my shocked classmates, within minutes a wave of sorrow arose, and I wept. Then I walked a bit further, into the woods skirting our monastery, and in the wet, winter cold of France, beside the laurel, I cried again. I cried for the children, for the teachers, for their families. But I also cried for you, Adam, because I think that I know you, though I know we have never met. I think that I know the landscape of your mind, because it is the landscape of my mind.

I don’t think you hated those children, or that you even hated your mother. I think you hated your loneliness.

I cried because I have failed you. I have failed to show you how to cry. I have failed to sit and listen to you without judging or reacting. Like many of my peers, I left Newtown at seventeen, brimming with confidence and purpose, with the congratulations of friends and the approbation of my elders. I was one of the many young people who left, and in leaving we left others, including you, just born, behind. In that sense I am a part of the culture that failed you. I didn’t know yet what a community was, or that I was a part of one, until I no longer had it, and so desperately needed it.

I have failed to be one of the ones who could have been there to sit and listen to you. I was not there to help you to breathe and become aware of your strong emotions, to help you to see that you are more than just an emotion.

But I am also certain that others in the community cared for you, loved you. Did you know it?

In eighth grade I lived in terror of a classmate and his anger. It was the first time I knew aggression. No computer screen or television gave a way out, but my imagination and books. I dreamt myself a great wizard, blasting fireballs down the school corridor, so he would fear and respect me. Did you dream like this too?

The way out of being a victim is not to become the destroyer. No matter how great your loneliness, how heavy your despair, you, like each one of us, still have the capacity to be awake, to be free, to be happy, without being the cause of anyone’s sorrow. You didn’t know that, or couldn’t see that, and so you chose to destroy. We were not skillful enough to help you see a way out.

With this terrible act you have let us know. Now I am listening, we are all listening, to you crying out from the hell of your misunderstanding. You are not alone, and you are not gone. And you may not be at peace until we can stop all our busyness, our quest for power, money or sex, our lives of fear and worry, and really listen to you, Adam, to be a friend, a brother, to you. With a good friend like that your loneliness might not have overwhelmed you.

But we needed your help too, Adam. You needed to let us know that you were suffering, and that is not easy to do. It means overcoming pride, and that takes courage and humility. Because you were unable to do this, you have left a heavy legacy for generations to come. If we cannot learn how to connect with you and understand the loneliness, rage and despair you felt—which also lie deep and sometimes hidden within each one of us—not by connecting through Facebook or Twitter or email or telephone, but by really sitting with you and opening our hearts to you, your rage will manifest again in yet unforeseen forms.

Now we know you are there. You are not random, or an aberration. Let your action move us to find a path out of the loneliness within each one of us. I have learned to use awareness of my breath to recognize and transform these overwhelming emotions, but I hope that every man, woman or child does not need to go halfway across the world to become a monk to learn how to do this. As a community we need to sit down and learn how to cherish life, not with gun-checks and security, but by being fully present for one another, by being truly there for one another. For me, this is the way to restore harmony to our communion.

Douglas Bachman (Br. Phap Luu),
who grew up at 22 Lake Rd. in Newtown, CT., is a Buddhist monk and student of the Vietnamese Zen Master and monk Thich Nhat Hanh. As part of an international community, he teaches Applied Ethics and the art of mindful living to students and school teachers. He lives in Plum Village Monastery, in Thenac, France.

Forwarded to by poet Gary Gach



  1. Garrett Hongo Says:

    Aloha Al and Gary,

    I found the most interesting statement here was regarding Br. Phap Luu’s guilt for having left Newtown behind and not returning to be a compassionate presence for Adam Lanza:

    “Like many of my peers, I left Newtown at seventeen, brimming with confidence and purpose, with the congratulations of friends and the approbation of my elders. I was one of the many young people who left, and in leaving we left others, including you, just born, behind. In that sense I am a part of the culture that failed you. I didn’t know yet what a community was, or that I was a part of one, until I no longer had it, and so desperately needed it.”

    I too left my urban hometown behind and never returned to bring to it what I have to give except for one summer I spent hosting and giving poetry readings in Japanese to retirees. It seemed the place had no need for me or the career of poetic contemplation that I was to have. What was there were more commonplace activities, but there was also violence in the schools — a shooter there too, once. When I was a student, there were knives, fists, sharpened can openers, broken bottles. I couldn’t wait to leave. But I never felt the guilt that Br Phap Luu expresses. Never was there as horrific a killing ground in my hometown as there was in Newtown’s either.

    Yet, would listening have helped? Would Buddhist compassion had the power to intervene except to save those dying souls and taken them to the Western Paradise?

    I’m very skeptical of that at the same time as I would like to believe it.

    The trouble in Adam Lanza’s soul was darker than I can imagine, I think, darker than the saints and boddhisattvas have imagined too, I believe. Darker than baldo. More violent than any hell depicted on any scroll or text. It exceeds all my wisdom.

    I hope someday we might understand it and discover a means to thwart if not assuage it.


    Garrett Hongo

  2. Gary Gach Says:

    Arigato gozimas! Thank you for sharing your response, Garrett. You have a way with words, for sure, which I’ve long admired: a fearless, eloquent speaking simply and with depth, with honesty and humility, addressing your lived world, and how that sincerity resonates with truth in others’ hearts.

    Would I be missing the mark to say a big bite of that truth, here, is
    of the inevitable limitation of the human? I mean, one take-away I
    get from your response is how inconceivable are the universal
    essential qualities (such as wisdom, such as compassion) of the
    bodhisattvas, the Buddhist saints, if you will. ÂżIf the universe has
    compassion for me, how much more so for Adam Lanza? How selfless the vow of Ksitigarbha —– : “ÂżIf I don’t down into hell to help the
    suffering beings there, who else will?”In this dark of this year, and
    of this era, Br. Phap Luu’s letter awakens and encourages my faith :
    not as faith in the bodhisattvas but as the faith of
    them, their faith ; the Buddha’s faith, that his awakening
    includes all beings. Please let me know if I’m feeling you a-right, Garrett.

    For me, guilt never entered into my reading of this letter from a
    monk, altho’ from a Judeo-Christian perspective I can hear that. (In
    Judaism, it’s shame — blame for what I didn’t do; in Christianity,
    it’s guilt — blame for what I did do. Either, way, a set-up for
    failure.) I hear bodhichitta : awakening love of
    enlightenment. But I ain’t debating ; just saying. For me, as I read
    Phap Luu’s letter, nothing stands out for me. Like a poem, to me it’s
    all of a piece. Taking it slowly … line by line … breath by breath …

    It might further dialog here to mention some thing
    I hear not being said in the letter, a bit of context : Venerable Phap
    Luu’s engaging in a practice now ±6 years old, initiated by his
    teacher (& mine, btw), Venerable Thây Nhat Hanh. (No need to
    introduce him to you, as you’re already familiar with his
    poem/meditation ‘Call Me By My True Names’, which
    in-form the letter. Those probative, penetrative words continue,
    long after the plight of the boat people, to speak so so very well as
    to how us limited beings can touch the selfless nondual
    dimension within the relative dimension, by looking deeply … and
    connect with suffering to heal & transform.)

    In 2005, Thây invited members of his community (Plum
    Village) to each write a letter to a suicide bomber [
    At very least, it’s a needful antibody to the cynicism of media, and its
    commercially-driven exploitation of the lowest common dominators
    (operative mottoes: “sex sells,” & “if it bleeds it leads”). As
    antidote to violence, it recognizes peace for any one of us is
    inextricably bound up with peace for all of us (… &
    vice-versa). It’s a bold assignment, which I’ve found requires
    readjustment of body-spirit-mind to consider, if not personally try
    out for one’s self. You never know. As Rev. Ronald Kobata, Buddhist Church of San
    Francisco, said to me recently, in different context, “With so
    much swamp, there must be a lotus!”


  3. Al Says:

    Hi, Garrett —

    I’ve thought a long time about the question: Would it have helped, as Zen monk Br. Phap Luu suggests, for someone like him to talk with Sandy Hook shooter Adam Lanza? I say yes. It wouldn’t have been so much the talk as the caring that might have made a difference. From my many visits as a writer-teacher to prisons and juvenile facilities, I’ve been exposed to the level of isolation and loneliness Br. Luu addresses in his letter to Lanza. For many of the men, women and children I’ve met in these human warehouses and holding tanks, poetry and storytelling povided their first chance to contemplate or express their sense of rejection and rage.

    What we aren’t talking about are the edgy, self-medicated populations outside the criminal justice system. When I look at our pathological preoccupation with smart devices and disembodied “socializing,” I understand exactly why MIT’s Sherry Turkle titled her book ALONE TOGETHER: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other. And when I talk with a troubled-looking kid on BART or on a San Francisco Muni bus, I rediscover just how hungry we are for meaningful attention and care.

    At one of the juvenile halls I visited, kids and attendants spoke of how often visiting parents were caught sneaking drugs in to comfort their child. And when I once asked a gathering of 100 teen and pre-teen juveniles — 50 boys on one side of the room, 50 girls on the other — how many had lost a family member, a friend, classmate or a neighbor to violence, every hand shot up. Sometimes I think the model is set at the top, at foreign policy level. We neither understand just how much we need each other nor how we’re still members of one another.

    To talk doesn’t hurt. To care enough to let others know they matter, I think, will beat every time a real-life episode of Grand Theft Auto.

    Yours as always,

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