Selections from the Book

Foreword

A memory that I will always treasure is when I visited Richard and his partner, Elisabeth, in their home in Vermont. One evening after dinner, Richard played for me the soulful folk music of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, one of the most influential composers and performers of Jewish religious music in the post-World War II era. In the quiet of the night, we listened deeply to the simple and innovative Hebrew love songs to the divine, full of spiritual longing and emotional depth. Richard was visibly moved as was I. I could see his ancestors shining through him, inviting me also to be fed by their beauty. The stories in this book are Richard’s soul songs.

This is an extremely precious book that my dear friend, Richard Brady, has gifted us. I have practiced with him in the Plum Village community of Thich Nhat Hanh for nearly thirty years. He has been a dedicated student of our teacher and an energetic and committed cell in the larger body of this community inspiring many others to walk the path of transformation and healing. I have had the great fortune to learn from him, to receive wise counsel from him and Elisabeth, and to teach with him, co-leading retreats together for educators in Germany, Italy, the U.S., and beyond, both in person and online, spanning over a decade. What an honor to write the foreword to his sacred offering—an exquisite weaving of powerful personal stories, effective practices, and the gentle transmission of spiritual wisdom.

Richard's path, influenced by the richness and diversity of Jewish, Quaker, and Buddhist traditions, is a path with such heart, such transparency and vulnerability. Reading his memoir we feel we are there with him as he discovers key truths about himself and about reality itself, whether it is in life-altering exchanges with Thich Nhat Hanh or senior monastics on retreats, or whether it is in the loft of his home where he meditates daily, or among his community of fellow teachers and students at Sidwell Friends School, where he taught math and mindfulness for thirty-four years. Richard gives us an opportunity to intimately get to know Thich Nhat Hanh and his community through the eyes of one of his close disciples. As we journey with him, we are invited to immerse ourselves fully in the present moment—quietly walking alongside him through the forest paths of Plum Village and the busy school hallways, soaking in the wisdom of each step. 

Richard is a profoundly gifted teacher who has been studying how to support transformation in himself and others for decades, and, with much life experience, he is quite effective at it. In these pages, you will find stories of healing intergenerational trauma, nurturing authentic relationships, and navigating depression with unwavering acceptance and compassion. This book gracefully communicates his hard-earned insight that nurturing the wholesome qualities in our consciousness is just as important as taking care of our suffering. Richard's dharma shines brightly, an irresistible blend of storyteller, wise elder, and playful youth, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

Part poetry, part meditation manual, part memoir, this book is a doorway into what real spiritual evolution looks like. Through Richard's words, we are invited to traverse the landscapes of discipline, trust, and letting go—qualities that he embodies with grace and courage. His journey reflects a profound investigation into the causes and conditions that shape our consciousness and how we can begin to shift from habitual reactivity and denial to living with more and more presence, choice and freedom. Through his vulnerability and deep love, Richard embodies the essence of true friendship—a friend not only to himself and his loved ones but also to his spiritual community and the world at large.

Richard's spiritual name, True Dharma Bridge, expresses his aspiration and vocation to serve as a guiding light on the path of awakening. In his presence, we find freedom—a freedom to embrace things just as they are and to learn from and celebrate the profound wisdom of a life well lived.

With deepest appreciation, reverence and love,

Kaira Jewel Lingo 

Table of Contents

Part One: Transformation Who Am I?; Revelation

Part Two: Sangha Living the Questions; All in the Family

Part Three: Impermanence Homecoming; Life Lessons

Part Four: Interbeing Mud; Growing Flowers; Return Again

Part Five: Bodhicitta Coming Alive; Dharma Teacher; Heart Work

Part Six: Doing and Being Commencement; This Is It; Thầy

Present Moment, Wonderful Moment

When I was growing up, my father taught me honesty, loyalty, generosity, and attention to detail, to name just a few life lessons he offered, mostly implicitly. Now, at age seventy-nine, he lives in a nearby nursing home and has Alzheimer’s disease.

Dad recognizes almost nothing of the past. He can hardly access his long-term memory, cannot retain the recent past, and makes no plans for the future. Spending time with him forces me to dwell in the deep presence of each moment. That’s all there is, and it’s often a waterslide. Relieved of the possibility of cogent conversation, I hold his hand, massage his neck, walk with him, and play with my daughter, Shoshanna, now nearly four. My father seems content to watch with no need to join in our play.

To him I’m no longer anyone special. “Who is Richard Brady?” he asks. Sometimes I’m his son, but often I’m just another visitor. Without expectations, I’m allowed to be whichever Richard Brady arises in that moment. It seems to work for him, but I’m having a much harder time accepting this new reality. When he smiles and responds to me, I feel at ease. But when he stares into space or naps through our visits or fumes out of all proportion when accidentally bumped, old buttons are pushed, and I wrestle with my anger and the need for him to be other than he is.

He constantly shows me my dependence on the past—my notion of home, for example. During his recent visit to my house, the two of us took a walk. When we got back, I said, “Let's go in.”

“No!” he replied adamantly, “I don't know the people who live here.”

Luckily Shoshanna spotted us through the window, opened the door, and invited us in. Always a new person to my father, she is “wonderful,” a child whose invitation he would never refuse. When we returned to the nursing home, I simply suggested, “Let’s stop here. This looks like a nice place.”

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s stop here.”

He lets go of feelings as easily as he lets go of knowing. One minute he’s enjoying a visit with us, and the next he’s uncomfortable and ready to go. It’s hard for me to flow with his inconsistencies, but as I learn to be with him however he is, I discover that trying or pleasing, any feelings are impermanent, subject to change. No matter how slowly I drive, he wants me to go more slowly. When I do, he relaxes.

A few days after a recent visit to his nursing home, my wife Elisabeth tells me she wishes I would sit and beam at her as I do at my father. Thanks to Dad, I’m learning to be completely present with another, without language, past, or future.