The following was originally published in the April 27, 2023, issue of the Soka Gakkai’s daily newspaper, Seikyo Shimbun.

by Daisaku Ikeda
President, Soka Gakkai International

The Ukraine crisis, which in addition to bringing devastation to the people of that country has had severe impacts on a global scale—even giving rise to the specter of nuclear weapons use—has entered its second year. Against this backdrop and amid urgent calls for resolution, the G7 Summit of leading industrial nations will be held in Hiroshima, Japan, from May 19 to 21.

The holding of the G7 Summit in Hiroshima brings to mind the determination expressed by Dr. Bernard Lown, co-founder of International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War (IPPNW). In March 1989, as the world was moving rapidly toward the conclusion of the Cold War, Dr. Lown came to Japan and visited Hiroshima. When we met in Tokyo he described the commitment that drove him to devote himself to efforts for peace, even as he continued his work as a cardiologist in the United States.

Dr. Lown said that as a physician he was motivated by the desire to save people from a tragic death, and that this feeling over time developed into the determination to abolish nuclear weapons, which can cause the death of humankind as a whole. This core determination was shared with fellow cardiovascular research specialist Dr. Yevgeny Chazov as they joined together across the Cold War divide to found IPPNW. The exchanges that sparked this new movement took place in December 1980, more than five years before the joint communiqué issued in November 1985 by U.S. President Ronald Reagan and Soviet General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev in Geneva, which famously declared that “a nuclear war cannot be won and must never be fought.”^[1]

The following year, in June 1986, Drs. Lown and Chazov traveled to Hiroshima, where they met with victims of the 1945 bombing who were hospitalized with its ongoing effects. The next day, they delivered a joint lecture at a symposium titled “Let’s Live Together, Not Die Together: What Must We Do Now to Prevent Nuclear War?” These words strike me as giving concise expression to the immediate feelings of physicians fully committed to protecting the lives of others. They also resonate with the determination of the survivors of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki nuclear bombings that the tragic impacts of nuclear weapons must never be experienced by anyone else on this planet.

In recent years, as the COVID-19 pandemic raged on and nations seemed to turn inward, the thing that undergirded international cooperation for public health was a spirit of solidarity embodied in the words: Let’s live together, not die together.

I strongly urge that, drawing on this spirit, efforts be made through the G7 Hiroshima Summit to find a path to the resolution of the Ukraine crisis that has wreaked devastation on so many people, and to reach clear agreement on preventing the use or threat of use of nuclear weapons.

Whereas the Cuban Missile Crisis held the world transfixed in terror for 13 days in October 1962, the Ukraine crisis has continued to escalate, as seen in Russia’s plan to station nuclear weapons in Belarus, attacks in the vicinity of nuclear power plants and the severing of the supply of electricity to them. Rafael Mariano Grossi, Director General of the International Atomic Energy Agency, has described each loss of electricity to a nuclear power plant as a roll of the dice, declaring: “If we allow this to continue time after time then one day our luck will run out.”^[2] Indeed, the risk of catastrophe arising from the current path cannot be denied.

In February of this year, on the first anniversary of the crisis, an emergency special session of the U.N. General Assembly was held, where a resolution calling for the early realization of peace in Ukraine and expressing profound concern over the devastating impacts of the war on multiple global challenges such as food security and energy was adopted. Among the operative paragraphs of the resolution was one that urged the “immediate cessation of the attacks on the critical infrastructure of Ukraine and any deliberate attacks on civilian objects, including those that are residences, schools and hospitals.”^[3] This call must be observed in order to prevent further suffering being inflicted on civilian populations.

With that as a first essential step, all concerned parties must come together to create a space for deliberations toward a complete cessation of hostilities. Here I would like to propose that, as negotiations advance through the cooperative efforts of the concerned countries, they be joined by representatives of civil society, such as the physicians and educators who work in schools and hospitals to protect and nurture people’s lives and futures, participating as observers.

Dr. Lown once characterized IPPNW’s activities as follows: Physicians have the kind of training and background that enables them to resist the dangerous tendency to stereotype our fellow humans. Further, they are trained to come up with workable solutions to problems that might at first glance seem impossible to resolve. He also called for humankind to work together across national differences to find a path to peace, describing this as “a prescription for hope.”^[4] I believe that the qualities described by Dr. Lown and seen in the physicians who played a powerful role in furthering momentum for ending the Cold War are just those that must be deployed in order to achieve a breakthrough in the current crisis.

In March, the leaders of Russia and China issued a joint statement following their summit meeting which reads in part: “The two sides call for stopping all moves that lead to tensions and the protraction of fighting to prevent the crisis from getting worse or even out of control.”^[5] This is aligned with the resolution adopted by the emergency special session of the U.N. General Assembly.

The G7 Hiroshima Summit should provide a “prescription for hope” by working for an immediate cessation of attacks on civilian objects and developing concrete plans for negotiations that will lead to a cessation of hostilities.

Together with working for the early resolution of the Ukraine crisis, I urge the G7 to commit at the Hiroshima Summit to taking the lead in discussions on pledges of No First Use of nuclear weapons. The current crisis is without parallel in the length of time that the threat of use and the fear of actual use of nuclear weapons have persisted without cease.

Recent years have seen the lapsing of the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty and the withdrawal of both the United States and Russia from the Open Skies Treaty, which aimed to build confidence among participating states. With tensions heightened by the Ukraine crisis, in February, Russia announced suspension of its participation in the New START (Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty), and the U.S. halted its sharing of data on nuclear forces with Russia. Should New START lapse, this could result in the complete loss of the frameworks—beginning with the signing of the Anti-Ballistic Missile (ABM) Treaty and the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT I) in 1972—designed to secure transparency and predictability around the two countries’ nuclear arsenals.

Since the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the hibakusha of those cities, in coordination with the larger civil society movement, have stressed the inhumane nature of nuclear weapons; non-nuclear-weapon states have engaged in continuous diplomatic efforts; and the states possessing nuclear weapons have exercised self-restraint. As a result, the world has somehow managed to maintain a 77-year record of non-use of nuclear weapons.

If international public opinion and the taboo against the use of nuclear weapons were to fail to provide their braking function, nuclear deterrence policy—premised on the thinking that other countries’ nuclear weapons are dangerous but one’s own are the basis for security—will compel humankind to stand on a precipitous ledge, never knowing when it might give way.

On this basis, in January 2022, one month before the outbreak of the Ukraine crisis, I urged that, when Japan hosts the G7 Summit in 2023, a high-level meeting on reducing the role of nuclear weapons be held to create conditions conducive to establishing the principle of comprehensive non-use. The choice, I asserted, was between allowing New START, the last remaining measure taken in response to Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT) disarmament commitments, to lapse—thus perpetuating continued expansion of nuclear arsenals and the threat of their use—or crystalizing the historical weight of more than seventy-seven years of the non-use of nuclear weapons into a mutual pledge of No First Use among the nuclear-armed states, making this the crux of efforts to rebuild the NPT regime on new and firmer ground.

Since the start of the Ukraine crisis, I have written two public statements.^[6] In both, I referenced the joint statement by the five nuclear-weapon states (United States, Russia, United Kingdom, France and China) made in January 2022, which reiterated the principle that “a nuclear war cannot be won and must never be fought,” and called for this statement to serve as the basis for reducing the risk of nuclear weapons use.

Also of important note is the shared awareness expressed by the declaration issued by the G20 group in Indonesia last November, which stated: “The use or threat of use of nuclear weapons is inadmissible.”^[7]

The G20 member countries include the five nuclear-weapon states as well as nuclear-armed India. It further counts Germany, Italy, Canada, Japan, Australia and South Korea—all of whose security policies are dependent on nuclear weapons—among its members. It is deeply significant that these countries have officially expressed their shared recognition that the use or threat of use of nuclear weapons is “inadmissible”—the animating spirit of the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons (TPNW) that entered into force in 2021.

The G20 Leaders’ Declaration also stressed that “Today’s era must not be of war.”^[8] It is vital that these two messages be communicated powerfully to the world from Hiroshima.

As the G7 leaders revisit the actual consequences of a nuclear weapon detonation and the bitter lessons of the nuclear era, I urge that they initiate earnest deliberations on making pledges of No First Use so that their shared recognition of the inadmissible nature of nuclear weapons can find expression in changed policies.

The origins of the G7 process can be traced back to the Rambouillet Summit, held near Paris in 1975 in the midst of the Cold War and attended by the leaders of six countries. The Soka Gakkai International (SGI) was also established in 1975 and, taking to heart second Soka Gakkai President Josei Toda’s declaration calling for the abolition of nuclear weapons, which he had issued 18 years earlier as his final instructions to his successors, over the course of that year I visited all five nuclear-weapon states to engage in dialogue with prominent leaders and thinkers regarding paths to global peace.

Following my travels to these countries, on Nov. 9, I delivered a speech in Hiroshima in which I stressed the urgent need for the nuclear-weapon states to make declarations of No First Use and to extend negative security assurances, that is, guarantees never to use nuclear weapons against states not possessing them. Such steps, I urged, were a matter of highest priority in achieving the abolition of nuclear weapons. The upcoming summit meeting of the six leading countries in France was very much on my mind as I further called for an international peace conference to be held in Hiroshima as a first step toward nuclear weapons abolition.

My rationale for this proposal, I explained, was based on my firm belief that such high-level meetings where the interests of only the countries concerned and their national security are prioritized are meaningless unless they are redirected and used for the purpose of discussing the path toward nuclear abolition on which rests the destiny of humankind.

My conviction remains unchanged to this day, and these are the expectations I hold for the upcoming Hiroshima Summit.

Humankind has stepped up to the brink of nuclear war on multiple occasions, most dramatically during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Today, as the taboo against the use of nuclear weapons has been eroded among the nuclear-weapon states and frameworks for managing and reducing nuclear arsenals verge on collapse, there has never been a greater need to declare and establish policies of No First Use.

What is the nature of the security sought by the great majority of humankind?

In a report issued just weeks before the start of the Ukraine crisis, the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) found that most people in the world feel insecure. The backdrop for this is a sense that human security—“the right of people to live in freedom and dignity, free from poverty and despair”^[9]—has been eroded, feelings that were shared by more than 85 percent of respondents even several years before the start of the COVID-19 pandemic.

It is undeniable that this sense of insecurity has only been exacerbated by the impacts of the Ukraine crisis. In his foreword to the UNDP report, U.N. Secretary-General António Guterres voiced concern that “humankind is making the world an increasingly insecure and precarious place.”^[10] My view is that the most essential factor here is the threat of nuclear weapons that has become so inextricably embedded in the way our world is structured.

The contrast with efforts to fight global warming is informative. Despite the stark reality of the crisis, recognizing that it is a priority issue concerning all humankind, meetings of the Conference of the Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change have been held on an annual basis, steadily building global consensus and solidarity for strengthening responses.

With regard to the nuclear issue, however, even as voices are raised advocating for disarmament, the nuclear-weapon and nuclear-dependent states regularly maintain that the challenging realities of their security environments mean the conditions for progress are not yet ripe.

If agreement could be reached on the principle of No First Use, which was at one point included in drafts of the final statement for last year’s NPT Review Conference, this would establish the basis on which states could together transform the challenging security environments in which they find themselves. I believe it is vital to make the shift to a “common security” paradigm congruent with the spirit “Let’s live together, not die together,” which has underpinned cooperative efforts among governments in the fight against climate change and in responses to the pandemic.

Commitment to policies of No First Use is indeed a “prescription for hope.” It can serve as the axle connecting the twin wheels of the NPT and TPNW, speeding realization of a world free from nuclear weapons.

For our part, the SGI has continued to work with the world’s hibakusha, International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons (ICAN)—which arose from the parent body of IPPNW—and other organizations first for the adoption and now the universalization of the TPNW. As members of civil society, we are committed to promoting the prompt adoption of policies of No First Use of nuclear weapons, generating momentum to transform the age.

Here I am reminded of Dr. Lown’s assessment of the significance of 1989. It was the year the Berlin Wall fell and the U.S. and Soviet leaders declared the end of the Cold War. When more than 3,000 physicians from East and West gathered for the IPPNW World Congress in Hiroshima that year, it was under the theme “No More Hiroshimas: An Eternal Commitment.” It was a year, he remarked, that should be celebrated for proving the power of ordinary people, which at first may seem ineffective but which can and did change the course of history.

It is said that the darker the night, the closer the dawn, and the end of the Cold War demonstrated the scale of energy unleashed when people who refuse to be defeated unite in solidarity.

Today, amid a political climate that some are even calling “a new cold war,” it is my fervent wish that constructive discussions that present a prescription for hope be undertaken at the G7 Summit in Hiroshima. I would also like to declare: Now is the time! Let us once again change the course of history through the power of people, paving a path toward a world free from nuclear weapons, a world free from war.

On April 26, Bharat Soka Gakkai (BSG) organized a second sustainability conclave titled “Goals to Action: Through Sustainable Human Behaviour” in New Delhi, India. Nearly 4,000 people attended the hybrid event. Dr. Vibha Dhawan, director general of the Energy and Resources Institute delivered the keynote address. Participants were introduced to BSG’s Carbon Footprint Calculator, part of the “BSG for SDG” app. The “Seeds of Hope & Action: Making the SDGs a Reality” exhibition, a joint initiative of the Earth Charter International and the SGI (Soka Gakkai International), was displayed at the event.  

We sometimes find ourselves in difficult situations that seem beyond our control. Instead of viewing difficult events as our unchangeable destiny, we take them on as our mission to revolutionize our state of life and create value.

And by not being defeated by such challenges, we lessen their negative impact on us. In fact, we can transform our challenges into fuel for better understanding and encouraging people going through similar struggles. This is how we transform our karma and send waves of positive change into our environment. This is the purpose of the SGI’s kosen-rufu movement. Ikeda Sensei famously writes:

A great human revolution in just a single individual will help achieve a change in the destiny of a nation and further, will enable a change in the destiny of all humankind.^[1]

To effect positive change in society, we must become experts in transforming the inner tendencies that cause us suffering.

What Is Karma?

We often hear that we can change our karma by practicing Nichiren Buddhism. But what does this look like?

The general law of cause and effect underlies the Buddhist doctrine of karma, a Sanskrit word meaning “action.” In this context, our actions refer to the present causes we make—whether good or bad—through our thoughts, words and deeds. Each good action we initiate manifests sometime in the future as a positive effect, while evil actions garner negative effects.

We could say that this general view of cause and effect lays out a kind of retributive justice—that people cannot be happy until they receive and thereby erase all the negative karmic effects resulting from past negative causes.

Some Buddhist and Hindu teachings use this basic view of karma to explain why people were born into certain circumstances without teaching a practical means for changing karma in this lifetime. This perspective on karma inspires little hope for improving one’s life; worse, it may lead one to be resigned to their fate.

According to this view, a person would have to create enough good karma to cancel out all of their negative karma to attain enlightenment or Buddhahood. This would take endless lifetimes of Buddhist practice.

But Nichiren Buddhism goes beyond this basic notion of cause and effect and karma. We can use even our seemingly negative karma to improve our lives. Sensei writes:

Buddhism explains karma in order to reveal how to transform it. Put another way, to hold the doctrine of karma over people without fully clarifying the means for changing it is to wrongly interpret Buddhism. Such teachings only cause people to remain bound by the shackles of fate.^[2]

While our present life is a collective result of all our past actions, this does not mean our future is set in stone. And there’s no need to backtrack to figure out exactly how we created our karma, either, as Nichiren affirms: “It is impossible to fathom one’s karma.”^[3]

Nichiren Buddhism, however, teaches that we are never doomed and that everything can fuel our enlightenment. What we can do is focus on the present, resolve to become happy and use all our experiences to create value here and now. By chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo and teaching others about this Law, we can tap into the power to redirect the pull of our negative karma toward creating a robust, resilient and happy life.

Lessening Karmic Retribution

In practicing the Mystic Law, we are bound to face obstacles and negative influences that try to block or interfere with our efforts to deepen our faith and spread Buddhism.

Nichiren teaches that in contrast to the general causal law, of adverse effects arising from evil deeds and positive results from good deeds, the most profound causes and effects arise from our relationship to the Mystic Law.

For example, he identifies the source of the persecution he faces due to propagating the Lotus Sutra, which expounds the workings of this Mystic Law, as his own past disparagement of this Law. By meeting the hardships that come from propagating the Law, he is not only expiating his negative karma but also fully activating the state of Buddhahood within his life. This exact process applies to each of us.

The obstacles we encounter while carrying out Buddhist practice are benefits. They enable us to carry out the process of “lessening our karmic retribution.” As we spread Buddhism and help others become happy, the obstacles we face allow us to change our heavy karma and experience it in a much lighter form. Therefore, we are quickly expiating our negative karma by facing hardships amid all our efforts for kosen-rufu.

Nichiren further clarifies that the source of negative karma is acting from our fundamental ignorance of the Buddha nature in our own lives and the lives of others. By recognizing and striving to work in harmony with this Law, we can overcome our fundamental ignorance, the root source of karmic suffering.

When we do so, Nichiren says, “the sufferings of hell will vanish instantly.”^[4]

Does this mean that our karma vanishes when we practice Nichiren Buddhism? Certainly not. If our karma disappeared, it would go against the fundamental law of cause and effect.

Instead, our negative karma quickly pales in significance compared to the wisdom and life force that fill our lives when we awaken to our Buddha nature.

Nichiren says that once the sun rises, the stars in the sky are no longer visible.^[5] Similarly, once the sun of the Mystic Law rises in our hearts, it outshines our karmic troubles, rendering them powerless to dictate the direction of our lives. We fundamentally change our destiny by activating a more profound and powerful inner source of causes and effects.

Changing Karma Into Mission

So why do we go through challenges, some of which can seem unfair or insurmountable? It’s easy to forget that what encourages people is not the happy result at the end of an experience but forging an undefeated spirit in the process.

While favorable circumstances are wonderful, when we face and persevere over dire challenges, we send the message: You, too, can fight through this and win. Don’t give up!

When we understand that we overcome our hardships to create a model for winning in life and encouraging many others, our karma changes into our mission.

Changing karma into mission means going from feeling that our karma is a heavy burden to seeing it as our unique path to enlightenment. This doesn’t mean we force ourselves to think positively about our karma. It means chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo infused with a firm determination to overcome those things that cause us to suffer—whether a work, relationship or health issue. Through chanting, propagating the Mystic Law and participating in SGI activities, we bring our Buddha nature to the fore and transform the tendencies or circumstances causing us misery.

Ikeda Sensei once encouraged a member, saying: “Your current suffering and misfortune exist so that you may fulfill your own unique and noble mission. Everything will turn to defeat if all you do is worry about your karma and let it make you miserable.”^[6] He goes on to explain:

It is true that Buddhism teaches that one who commits evil deeds against others will receive the negative effects of those actions and live an unhappy life. Were it the entire teaching on karma, however, then people would be doomed to live under a cloud of guilt and vague anxiety, not knowing what offenses they might have committed in past lives. It would also mean that people’s destiny was fixed—a concept that could easily rob them of their energy and passion.

The Buddhism of Nichiren Daishonin goes far beyond the framework of superficial causality. It elucidates the most fundamental cause and shows us the means for returning to the original pure life within that has existed since time without beginning. The means it shows is to awaken to our mission as Bodhisattvas of the Earth and dedicate our lives to the widespread propagation of the Law.^[7]

In grappling with and transforming our karma, we realize that our struggles have meaning, to emerge as an undefeated Bodhisattva of the Earth who makes it their mission to awaken others to their Buddha nature. Hence, we transform the burden of karma into an unstoppable engine for producing happiness.

Voluntarily Assuming the Appropriate Karma

As we engage in Buddhist practice and overcome hardships, we find deeper meaning in living.

In the Lotus Sutra’s “Teacher of the Law” chapter, the concept of “voluntarily assuming the appropriate karma” explains that bodhisattvas willingly and compassionately choose to be born in the evil age after the Buddha’s passing. They decide to struggle so they can lead others to happiness. In that chapter, Shakyamuni says:

You should understand that these people voluntarily relinquish the reward due them for their pure deeds and, in the time after I have passed into extinction, because they pity living beings, they are born in this evil world so they may broadly expound this sutra. If one of these good men or good women in the time after I have passed into extinction is able to secretly expound the Lotus Sutra to one person, even one phrase of it, then you should know that he or she is the envoy of the thus come one.^[8]

Those who embrace the Lotus Sutra, he says, have created so much fortune, that if they so desire, they can be born in a land free from suffering. But they reject favorable circumstances and instead choose to lead people to enlightenment in the evil age.

In perceiving our problems as our window into understanding and empathizing with others, we can eliminate the mental anguish of thinking, Why me? Or What did I do to cause this suffering?

Instead, we can take on challenges, thinking, This will enable me to give hope to many more people! Because we experience problems, we can lead others to happiness. Striving to overcome our challenges to open the way for others helps us grow into individuals in total control of our lives. We can transform any situation, no matter how impossible it may seem. Happiness does not mean a life without problems but a life undefeated by difficulties.

Sensei encourages pioneering members in Brazil, saying:

Buddhism teaches that its practitioners “voluntarily choose to be born in evil circumstances so they may help others.” This means that although we have accumulated the benefit through Buddhist practice to be born in favorable circumstances, we have purposely chosen to be born in the midst of suffering people and there propagate the Mystic Law.

For example, if someone who had always lived like a queen and enjoyed every luxury were to say, “I became happy as a result of taking faith,” no one would bat an eye. But if a person who is sick, whose family is poor and who is shunned by people because of these things becomes happy through practicing faith and goes on to become a leader in society, this will be splendid proof of the greatness of Buddhism. Don’t you agree that this would make others want to practice Buddhism too?^[9]

“Voluntarily assuming the appropriate karma” can be understood as choosing the tools necessary to build a life of absolute happiness for ourselves and others. We are in the driver’s seat and have everything we need to create the most remarkable life.

Karma Summed Up

We may not be able to fathom all our karma. But by chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo and sharing it with others, our unique karma becomes the pathway to our individualized mission for bringing hope to those we encounter.

Sensei makes a crucial point about this:

We don’t focus on our karma merely so that we may repay our karmic debt and bring our “balance” to zero. Rather, it is to convert our “negative balance” into a large “positive balance.” This is the principle of changing karma in Nichiren Buddhism. And it is the Buddha nature existing in the lives of all people that makes this possible. Our focus on changing karma is backed by our steadfast belief in our own Buddha nature.

And great hardships provide us with the opportunity to forge and temper our lives. When things are most painful, that is the time when we can most deepen our humanity.^[10]

Some karma is easy to change, with immediate results. Other issues may plague us year after year. Regardless of what we face, we can take complete control of our lives. As we change our karma into our mission, we change from playing a negative role to a fully empowered and positive one. When we change in this way, we serve as inspiration to countless others. This is how we enact the drama of changing our destiny and dynamically transforming the destiny of all humankind.

—Prepared by the Living Buddhism staff

Living Buddhism: Hi Grady! We understand you were raised by parents who were musicians disillusioned with organized religion. Music played a far more central role in the home than faith. Yet it was through music that you made your first contact with Nichiren Buddhism. How did you encounter this philosophy, and why did you take it up?

Grady Tesch: That’s right. I encountered Buddhism the summer of my freshman year of college, in 2013. I’d left my small, sleepy Utah town for the city that never sleeps to pursue my undergraduate degree in jazz performance at New York University (NYU). There in the Big City, I felt lonely and rootless. I’d been prescribed Adderall for my ADHD and was taking lots, pulling all-nighters multiple times a week to write papers. It provided me with reliable bursts of focus, but I knew it wasn’t sustainable. I sensed I needed something to anchor me on a deeper level in this new place and new chapter in my life.

I kept it together just long enough to wrap up the semester, and mentally collapsed as soon as I made it home to Utah. I’d never understood the challenges of those who dealt with depression or mental instability. Just tough it out, I’d thought, as though their struggle could be reduced to a weakness of character. To be frank, this is who I was—a privileged kid whose thoughts revolved around himself and didn’t deeply consider others’ problems. But now, when my mental health made it extremely difficult for me to even speak to another person, it occurred to me, as it had maybe never occurred to me before: Oh, this is serious.

What did you do?

Grady: I was at a kind of crisis of meaning. What was meaningful to me? I didn’t know. I wanted to become a jazz percussionist, sure, but I wanted that about as much as I wanted to know where I could find the next big party. Still, I knew that jazz meant something to me, knew that from the first time I heard it, when my older brother was sent home from a summer music camp with a couple of jazz cassette tapes. The spirit of the music was one of striving, of reaching for something. To me, it was so … exciting! I sought deeper meaning in jazz.

Anything stand out?

Grady: Yeah, oh yeah. I was in my room, listening to Wayne Shorter’s Without a Net. The music is deeply improvised, sometimes chaotic, dissonant, emotional—but when Wayne played a note, man… it would shift the whole band. Through his sax I heard a fighting spirit, as though he were drawing from somewhere very deep for every note, moving through something painful but with such a powerful spirit that it moved everything else with it, resolved to move everything in the direction of hope.

He’s struggling through something, and he’s winning, I remember thinking. I can fight through this, too.

I got ahold of his biography. The whole thing, to me, is a 200-page Buddhist experience, straight up.

This, I realized, was what I heard when I listened to Wayne’s music. Not technique or imitation or ego—but an indomitable fighting spirit calling forth happiness from the depths of life to awaken others to the joy he’d found there, that he’d discovered through Buddhism.

Right away, I opened my laptop and looked up a video on how to chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. Chanting along, I felt this hope coming alive within, this inner voice assuring me: You’re going to be OK; there’s a deeper aspect of life to tap; you can live a happy life.

I take it you returned to school?

Grady: I did. I didn’t wait to get connected, either. I looked up the New York Culture Center before I got back and stopped by as soon as I did. “How can I start?” I asked the person at the front desk. Right away, I got plugged into my local district and, soon after, took on unit leadership, running alongside my district young men’s leader to visit other young men. I strove to impart the joy and confidence I myself experienced from chanting—the conviction that life has deep meaning. Sharing Nichiren Daishonin’s writings and Ikeda Sensei’s encouragement gave both myself and others hope; I could tangibly see the effects of the practice in our lives.

What did your parents think?

Grady: At first, that I’d “drunk the Kool-Aid.” Their own experiences with religion had not been positive, so they were concerned. They grilled me, but I stood firm.

“Look, I can tell that this is a positive thing for me; I’m gonna give it a fair shot.”

My sophomore year at NYU, I hit the ground running. We rallied our campus club around the principles of Buddhist humanism and waged a campaign to build consensus around nuclear abolition. Amid this, I was hospitalized for appendicitis. I vividly remember the many members who visited me in the hospital, chanting with me and sharing Buddhism with other patients there, as if to remind me that I wasn’t down and out, that that was my battlefield to create value, and they were fighting with me. The surgery was a success, and I recovered in no time. Returning to the campus club, I brought with me an even deeper awareness of what the SGI is all about—from the level of the individual life to the level of collective global life, this Buddhism is about safeguarding and bolstering the sanctity of life itself. That year, this thing called May Contribution came around, and everyone in my district was challenging some personal breakthrough alongside a financial contribution goal that was ambitious for them. I remember my district women’s leader, a professional actress, who was always fighting hard behind the scenes. “I’m challenging myself this May,” she’d say, “I’m going to show proof of this practice and land my next Broadway show!” After all the causes she had been making, sure enough, she did. In high spirits, I made my first financial contribution—not much, but it was a stretch for me. No one suggested this, but I felt confident that by making this cause to protect and support the SGI, which functions to protect and support the sanctity of life, I was making a profound cause that would no doubt return to me as great benefits. Actually, given how lost I’d felt before finding Buddhism, I felt that simply being able to make such a cause with absolute confidence was itself the greatest benefit.

That’s a beautiful spirit.

Grady: That year, some folks from Blue Note Records came on campus and held open auditions. The winning student band would go on tour for 10 days in Peru. Some 20 bands auditioned, mine among them. After, the panel called us in. The chairperson spoke up.

“You know, other bands were good, very proficient, maybe even better, technically, than yours. But we felt that your music was the most human, had the most feeling. Congratulations.”

You won!

Grady: Yes, because the actions I was taking in my Buddhist practice were having a profound effect on my relationships—with myself, my music, my bandmates—everyone. My parents, too, seeing how much I’d changed, fully backed my practice. My mother, in fact, had taken up chanting, receiving the Gohonzon in January the following year.

You graduated in 2016. What awaited you?

Grady: The illustrious work of folding shirts at a fast-fashion retailer and a bucket drumming class for kids at a family homeless shelter in the Bronx. I could barely afford rent. What’s more, I was a district young men’s leader. I’d meet my guys at cafés and couldn’t even buy myself a coffee! I remember one young man who was roughing it, who’d go out behind a grocery store after hours and dumpster dive for the food they’d tossed. For him in particular, I felt I had to show actual proof.

I’m gonna buy you a sandwich! I vowed. That was my determination that year leading up to the May Contribution activity. I chanted vigorously, applying even to places that weren’t hiring. One school got back to me, offering me a job that didn’t yet exist, to teach their inaugural afterschool percussion workshop.

I felt that I got that job by expanding myself for the sake of life, in this case striving quite literally to nourish life. Being able to take the guys out to lunch was a great feeling. Watching this young man take on leadership, turn his life around and secure a job in real estate was quite another.

What happened next?

Grady: In 2018, I was hired to score a film about nuclear abolition. I was not chosen based on my resume—frankly, I didn’t have much to show. The filmmaker based his decision on the heart—it was important to him that whoever scored the film be someone who understood the heart of the project and was passionate about its mission. A fellow NYU alumnus who remembered my involvement in the campus club put us in touch.

Soon after, I encountered an incredible music teacher at a tuition-free music school. There was an opening at the school and, while the pay was less, the school itself was, for a musician, a dream, offering lots of contact time with the kids, my own classroom full of instruments and the opportunity to study under this incredible teacher. Again, I based my decision on the heart and applied. I got the job and that May made my largest contribution. When the pandemic hit, many musicians lost their jobs. Because I was on salary as a full-time teacher, however, I kept mine. I felt protected.

The list of benefits continues to grow. In 2021, the filmmaker I mentioned asked me to score yet another project, this one a PBS documentary about the fight to make New York transit accessible to all. That same year, I decided to make the leap into full-time musicianship, something I was able to do while moving into a roomy apartment—a bastion for New York kosen-rufu!

I’m always inspired by Ikeda Sensei who teaches us that the heart of Nichiren Buddhism is developing an unshakable self.

This May, I’m challenging myself once again, making a determination that will require me to expand my life, that will in turn expand our organization that protects and supports the sanctity of life.

by Jamie Bautista
Sacramento, Calif.

If drinking booze and rolling joints in parking lots are the hallmarks of teenage rebellion, surely two weeks in juvie put me in a new league.

It must have been sometime in 2008, in 6th grade, that I started to rebel—around the time that I was just coming into my own. The thing was, my parents—my dad, specifically—was not enthusiastic about who I was becoming. Critical of the music I liked, the clothes I wore, the friends I made, he brought out in me an intense desire to rebel, to push back and establish my own identity. I became increasingly interested in anything that upset him. We still did gongyo as a family most mornings, and I have many golden memories of being brought up in the Garden of Soka, but often I burned with indignation at what I saw as my parents’ hypocrisy—if Buddhism was all about bringing forth my true self, why did home feel like the one place where that wasn’t allowed?

To make matters worse, I developed symptoms of narcolepsy in the 8th grade: disrupted sleep, inability to stay awake, sleep paralysis and episodes of sudden muscle weakness. No sooner than class began would my eyelids grow heavy and my head nod toward my desk. A moment later, I’d jerk upright, startled by the bell.

I was bewildered the first time it happened. But soon, it was happening on a daily basis, multiple times a day. Startled awake by the bell, I’d look down at the half-conscious notes I’d managed to scribble—completely illegible—and my heart would sink. My grades and my confidence plummeted. 

That year, a gulf opened up between my friends’ and parents’ expectations. Increasingly, I was drawn to a crowd whose total indifference gave them an aura of invincibility, a crowd that broke rules, did drugs and partied. For a fragile, despairing person, this aura proved magnetic. As an added bonus, they displeased my parents. I thought that by rejecting my parents’ expectations, I was affirming my own independence, but actually, the decisions I was making were directly influenced by them: whatever they wanted me to do, I did the opposite. Far from independent decision-making characterized by choices that maximize happiness, I was controlled by a simple, self-destructive drive to upset my parents.

As a child, my tendency had been to shrink from conflict. But entering my teens, I started fighting back. Shouting matches became the norm in our home, and the police were called in regularly to defuse them. One day, the summer of my freshman year of high school, a shouting match turned physical on my part. This was the fight that landed me two weeks in juvie. You might think that this would be cause for reflection, but it wasn’t. Actually, I was in awe. 

Jamie, you went to jail, I remember thinking. You’re, like, a super rebel. 

I embraced my new status and image. I found that hard drugs, if only for a moment, made me feel invincible. Of course, a moment later, I was back to myself—fragile, frustrated, desperate. 

Somehow, I graduated. Not only that, but I got into college, at Loyola Marymount in Los Angeles. After leaving for school, however, I realized for the first time just how much I’d relied on my SGI community. On my own, I didn’t take the initiative to get myself connected; my SGI community had always just been there. My mental health plummeted over the first summer break. Speaking to my parents then, they encouraged me to attend the Student Division Conference at the Florida Nature and Culture Center. I had strong reservations—so strong that I actually missed my flight, unable to pull myself together to get to the airport. But sitting with the realization that I’d missed the flight, my heart sank. I realized that I was passing up something truly positive, the only reason being that my parents were the ones who wanted it for me. Resentment and pride stood between me and my growth. I picked up the phone and called my parents. They got me on the next outgoing flight to Fort Lauderdale. That conference changed the course of my life. 

At the FNCC, everyone was so warm and so lively. Everywhere, young people were talking—and I mean really talking—about their lives, their struggles, their hopes and their dreams. I realized that I hadn’t been a part of this kind of conversation since leaving home for college, leaving my district in Sacramento. I just remember feeling for the first time in such a long time so good, so hopeful! 

Upon returning to Loyola for my sophomore year, I decided that the greatest cause I could make for my life was to start an SGI campus club. Again, though, I wasn’t sure how to take the initiative. Fortunately, my young women’s leader reached out—she’d heard about me from the conference.

“So!” she said. “Wanna start a club?”

Supporting 20-year-old me was no easy task—I was in turmoil just about every time she called to check in, anxious about an exam, a boy, about everything. 

“Let me come pick you up,” she’d say, or “Want to come over and chant?” To this day, I still chant to be able to support young women the way she supported me. 

At first, it was really just me in the club; I was too nervous to invite anyone. Slowly, with lots of encouragement, I summoned the courage to ask one classmate after another. By year’s end, we had 19 come out, and for the first time in years, I had lots of friends, real friends, coming around me in search of something uplifting.

Still, I hadn’t done away with my old ways. That same year, 2017, I was arrested for public intoxication. Sobering up, a quote from Nichiren Daishonin came to mind, about the locations of heaven and hell. 

“Both exist in our five-foot body. This must be true because hell is in the heart of a person who inwardly despises his father and disregards his mother” (“New Year’s Gosho,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1, p. 1137).

I realized that at the root of so much of my suffering was resentment for my parents. To transform that, I decided at year’s end to move back home with them in Sacramento, where I earned my degree at UC Davis, took on leadership responsibilities in the SGI and hugely improved my relationship with my parents. 

It’s now my greatest joy to see young women take off in their practice. But the young women who, like me at their age, are really struggling—the ones who make me seek, study and chant a lot in order to discover how I can support them—these young women have made me strong, have driven me day after day to become the best version of myself, a person who believes in herself and in others. 

by Thia Calloway
San Juan, N.M. 

Pursuing a career in theater, there seemed to be no roles for someone like me—a mix of Irish, Afro-American, Scottish, Italian, Filipino, Spanish, English and Cherokee. Every now and again a casting agent would say out loud: “You’re not Black enough,” or, “You’re the wrong kind of Oriental,” or, most bluntly, “What are you doing here?” This last was put to me in the spring of 1985.

Beaten down by endless rejections on Broadway, I’d given up on my dream of acting on Broadway. Truth be told, I was selling cocaine on the New York night scene. I was 29 in 1985, when that blunt Broadway agent so casually devastated me. Dismissed, I dragged myself to my next appointment for headshots, where I broke down in tears. The photographer smiled. “Can I share something with you? It’s a chant I do when I feel bad; it always makes me feel better.”

 “Alright,” I said. First repeating shakily after her, then more firmly together, we chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. I blinked. Whatever my reservations, I had to admit, I did feel better. I wiped my tears and stood. 

The photographer invited me to a Buddhist meeting. Everyone there was warm and friendly. I knew I wanted that same happiness and decided I would receive the Gohonzon. 

The New York arts scene is not for the faint of heart. Looking back, I can say with certainty that I could not have done it alone. In addition to the bustling SGI-USA New York Culture Center, my Harlem apartment was literally surrounded by encouragement and daimoku; there were three districts in a two-block radius and always someone willing to chant and study Buddhism with me. Whatever I was facing in my personal or professional life, I could meet someone nearby to rouse my spirits and challenge myself to win.

Refreshed, I’d go out and tackle one challenge after another. Determined to impact the theater industry, to make it a space of opportunity for people of color, I applied everything I learned in the SGI—painstaking attention to detail and deep consideration for others—and earned my stripes, eventually becoming a theater manager for the country’s oldest professional theater organization. All of my accomplishments I owe to practicing this Buddhism and to my mentor, Ikeda Sensei.

Over the years, while living in New York, my husband, Lenny, and I would take trips to his hometown, San Juan Pueblo, New Mexico. Lenny shared his dream to retire there. I agreed on the condition that the home we built would be my dream home, too—a place to host SGI meetings out of my deep gratitude for this organization.  

Sensei says: 

Recognizing debts of gratitude expresses the Buddhist spirit of cultivating the richest possible humanity, while repaying that gratitude is the hallmark of a life of wisdom that comes from conquering fundamental ignorance. Hence, the lives of genuine Buddhist practitioners always shine with the inner light of appreciation and gratitude. (Learning From the Writings: The Hope-filled Teachings of Nichiren Daishonin, p. 223)

In 2012, while still in New York, we got our home construction underway. It took years, but in the winter of 2018, the end was in view. But that Christmas, Lenny suffered a heart attack that put him out of work. He returned to work in the winter of 2019 and the completion of our home became a possibility again. But then the pandemic hit. Broadway shut down, and I was out of work. Lenny and I packed our things in a van and left for New Mexico.

Within two months, I was supporting members there as a district leader. Within a year, I was asked to take on vice women’s leadership of Northern New Mexico Chapter. I owe my life to this Buddhist practice. Without hesitation, I said, “YES!”

The members need a place to gather, I thought. Lenny and I had been working on our San Juan home for almost a decade, building it slowly. While I united with my husband to fast-track our home’s completion, we didn’t wait to take action for kosen-rufu. Though Lenny doesn’t practice Buddhism himself, he does just about anything to support me. Geographically, Northern New Mexico is a vast chapter, its members spread out over many miles. My eyesight is not good at night, so often Lenny drives.

I visited one young woman who was in tears over a poor grade in class. I’d visit her and her mother to chant and study with them. 

I gifted her a little pane of glass with a full moon sketched over a mountain and a card with a passage from Nichiren Daishonin. She hung them in the window. I visited many times, and due to her and her mother’s daimoku, a path opened before her. As I write this, she’s attending Soka University of America. 

In March, our kosen-rufu home was complete, and I was ready to host. I was determined that we would host New Mexico’s March Youth General Meeting.  Given that the closest center was in El Paso and that we’d designed our home to host meetings, our request was swiftly approved. 

Leading up to the meeting, there were many challenges, including a snowstorm! But it quieted down just in time. Frankly, I don’t remember that much of the meeting itself—I was running around behind the scenes—but I remember all five of our youth—all guests—left smiling. And I’d like to mention here that one is soon to receive the Gohonzon!

Sensei says that the inner transformation of a single individual can transform the destiny of all humanity. If that’s true of one person, just think what five could do! In the spirit of repaying a profound debt of gratitude, we’re determined to turn Northern New Mexico Chapter into its own region by expanding our ranks of joyful, empowered, unstoppable young people! 

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Q: What advice would you give the youth?

Thia Calloway: As Nichiren Daishonin says, “Rely on the Law and not upon persons” (“Conversation between a Sage and an Unenlightened Man,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1, p. 102). No matter what, stick with the SGI. Supplying people with the pure energy of faith and nurturing their capabilities, the SGI functions as a true friend in faith.

by Amelia Gonzalez
New York

Since my early teens, I’d known my father belonged to a notorious motorcycle “club,” and I wasn’t shocked when my mother told me in 2011, my junior year of high school, that he’d been involved in a brawl with a rival gang and stood accused of killing their president. I knew it would be national news—that tomorrow I’d wake in a world that knew me first and foremost as the daughter of a man accused of murder.

“Hard work brings success!” was the lesson he’d imparted most often, but that night, from behind bars, he gave a very different kind. Something like: Forget about hard work, Amelia. No matter how hard you try, your future is decided by things beyond your control. I started skipping classes, partying and doing drugs.

I was raised by my mother in the “Garden of Soka,” but I’d never done more than allow myself to be carted along to meetings. It wasn’t until I got an ultimatum from my principal and encouragement from my young women’s leader that I realized it was time to take a stand in faith and in life. I began to participate regularly and seriously, studying The New Human Revolution and attending all my classes. What’s more, my seniors in faith taught me that sharing Buddhism with others, or shakubuku, was the essence of faith.

My friends, seeing me change, wanted to give Buddhism a try, too. In March 2013, I was accepted to Antioch College on a full scholarship. In my last years of high school, several of my friends joined the SGI and together we dramatically transformed our lives. 

There remained one person, though, who I felt certain was incapable of change: my father. When my young women’s leader suggested that I chant for his happiness, I shot back: “No way. You don’t know him.”

In April, I was invited, along with other incoming freshman, to tour the Antioch campus. While there, some students invited me to smoke a little marijuana, and we did. Upon returning home, I received a letter from Antioch. They were suspending my scholarship—news of the marijuana had reached administration; I had 48 hours to respond. I chanted abundant daimoku about my response and, in the weeks after sending it, quit drugs and parties completely. Reflecting deeply, I realized I had a lot of inner work to do and also that by not sharing Buddhism with my father, I was withholding an opportunity for him to do his. 

That spring, I called him. “Please try chanting,” I said. “And let’s get you subscribed to the World Tribune.”

My father’s trial was slated for August, one month out from the start of my freshman year at Antioch (that is, if they’d still have me). I chanted abundant daimoku, making every possible cause I could think of for the sake of kosen-rufu. Actually, I was making so many causes that I felt victory ought to be assured. “If my father isn’t acquitted, I’m gonna stop practicing,” I told my young women’s leader. That month, I received a letter back from Antioch, reinstating my scholarship—a major breakthrough but only part of the one I felt I deserved. My father’s trial date came and went. He was given a life sentence and taken to a prison in the heart of a Nevada desert. I moved to Ohio for my first year of college.

By this time, it was clear to me, if not yet to the country, that my father was innocent, that he’d done what he had in self-defense. Sure, it might take a few months, but surely the court would correct its mistake. But I was wrong, they didn’t. Years passed by—freshman, sophomore and junior years of college, with my father still in a prison. A prison, mind you, that didn’t take phone calls. Mostly, we wrote.

“Though in prison, I feel happy,” one letter read. And another: “Amelia, please accept the reality. I may be in here for life.” He was chanting and reading the SGI-USA publications and wasn’t bemoaning his fate, but he could see where his cards were falling. But I wasn’t interested in “accepting the reality.” I was bent on changing it.

“No way,” I wrote back. “You’re gonna be at my graduation.”

In April 2017, the case against my father collapsed; the star witness signed an affidavit admitting his testimony had been a lie. For a moment it seemed my father would be freed in time to see me graduate in May, but bad news followed quickly: the federal government was leveling a new charge, this time against his motorcycle club as a whole, and this time my father faced the death penalty. Seeking more deeply for the confidence that Nichiren Daishonin’s teachings and Ikeda Sensei’s guidance are absolute, I flew to Nevada to testify in the winter of 2019 convinced that my prayer and my actions for the sake of Buddhism were at the heart of everything. 

On Feb. 24, 2020, after nine years of imprisonment, my father was acquitted of all charges and released the same day. And in June of last year, he received the Gohonzon, something that had once seemed a pipe dream. 

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had my father been acquitted in 2013. Would I have continued to strive in faith, or would I have felt satisfied with my “bargain with Buddhism” and left it at that? What I know is that over nine years, there were countless times I wanted to give up, countless times I thought that my happiness was impossible, that I was not in control of my destiny. Because of this ordeal, I had to dig deep and then deeper, had to seek out guidance and work hard to apply it to my life. What I know is that this experience has made me a stronger person, a person who lives with the conviction that Nam-myoho-renge-kyo can move the universe. 

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“Viewed from the profound perspective of Buddhism, your suffering is like that portrayed by a brilliant, highly paid stage actress cast in the role of a tragic heroine. … Just as a great actress relishes performing her tragic role, please rise from the depths of your sorrow to boldly act out a magnificent drama of human revolution.”

from Ikeda Sensei (The New Human Revolution, vol. 1, revised edition, p. 274)

On April 2, the SGI-USA Orlando Buddhist Center opened in Orlando, Florida. The opening ceremony was attended by some 300 members and guests. On the same day, SGI-New Zealand also opened a new center in Auckland. President Daisaku Ikeda sent congratulatory messages to both ceremonies.

On March 30, Chinese People’s Association for Friendship with Foreign Countries President Lin Songtian visited the Soka Gakkai Headquarters in Tokyo and met with Soka Gakkai President Minoru Harada. Mr. Lin thanked the Soka Gakkai and President Daisaku Ikeda for promoting friendship between the people of the two countries. President Harada affirmed that the Soka Gakkai would continue to promote cultural exchange between youth for the sake of peace.  

Living Buddhism: Hello Oona! Thank you for discussing your recent family breakthroughs with us. When did your experience begin?

Oona Friedland: In the summer of 2019, my brother began experiencing a host of bodily pains with no identifiable cause. Then, in April 2020, his symptoms devolved into a debilitating condition that partially cost him his sight, hearing, voice and ability to eat. He was incapacitated like this for six months before a specialist diagnosed him with a rare and advanced neurological disease. To our horror, she gave him one year to live.

My mother, one month retired from a storied career as a tenant-rights lawyer, committed herself to the 24/7 care of my brother with the same tirelessness with which she’d committed the previous 40 years to representing Detroit’s most downtrodden residents. In raising my brother and me, she took on the dual responsibilities of motherhood and lawyering, and boasts of never taking a day off. Tending to my brother quickly became an all-consuming endeavor.

How did your brother respond to his diagnosis?

Oona: My brother was deeply discouraged. He had always been the brightest light in any room, the proverbial “big man on campus,” someone who was always ready to laugh, always surrounded by laughter. My lenses may be rosetinted—I am his younger sibling after all—but anyone will tell you that Iggy’s energy was infectious. It was often through the widening eyes of others that I was reminded of his impact.

“You’re Iggy’s sister?” people shouted when they found out.

Which leaves me, then, the cheerleader. It was just the three of us growing up, Iggy, my mother and I, a tight-knit unit. Iggy and I have different fathers, and while his stayed in the picture, mine didn’t. Until I was 13, my father struggled to stay sober and in the margins of my life, and then, one day, he vanished—poof—as though from the face of the earth. I wasn’t the only one he hurt. My father’s disappearance weighed on our home. Not wanting to add to the burden, I put on a brave, smiling face. It’s OK! We’re all right! I said. But, where my father was concerned, I wasn’t.

Throughout my childhood, my mother poured encouragement and praise on me. All that accounted for, however, my father’s leaving did a number on my self-esteem and was one topic too sensitive to touch. I grew accustomed to cheering others on, putting on a brave face even when my heart was aching. When Iggy fell sick, that same tendency of mine cropped up again—I felt I had to offer myself as a constant support, a bright presence, without touching on my own pain for fear of adding fuel to the fire, weight to the burden. This was my initial response to the illness. Never had I felt so fortunate as I did then to have my SGI community to lean on.

Speaking of the SGI, when did you begin your practice? What drew you to try it out?

Oona: I began my Buddhist practice in 2018, age 24, as a sad and cynical person. My girlfriend at the time, now my wife, was trying out the practice. She brought me one day to an SGI meeting, of which my first impression was, unsurprisingly, cynical. Why are these people acting so kind, so attentive, so eager to know me? What do they want from me? I think this had to do with my father—his leaving had colored my outlook on the world, on relationships and friendships; I had a hard time trusting others’ good intentions and letting them in. Eventually, I felt the undeniable sincerity of the SGI members. They wanted my happiness and went to great lengths to show me so. I got more involved in the practice, joining the Kayo core and doing Byakuren shifts, the young women’s behind-the-scenes training group. It was with these young women, whom I’d bonded with, that I came to feel I could share anything.

In the winter of 2021, Iggy received a second medical opinion that he would survive. This came as a massive relief to me and my mother, and felt like incredible proof of my Buddhist practice. At the same time, my mother now had to pivot, mentally and emotionally, to the prospect of indefinite caregiving. Even with this victory, time together was spent in sadness so deep and complex it felt unspeakable. It seemed that the devil of illness had taken up residence in our homes. It was all we ever talked about or tended to—even at home with my wife, I’d go on about it, flip-flopping from self-pity to complaint.

What role did your faith play at this time?

Oona: As I mentioned, it was with the great friends I’d made in Byakuren and Kayo-kai that I opened up to at this time, feeling I could share anything with them. Through these conversations and my own chanting, I began internally navigating the intense and complex emotions that patterned my family life.

One day, on my way home from work, I was overcome by immense sadness. I pulled over to the side of the road, killed the engine and wept. In that state, I called my young women’s leader, who picked up on the first ring and listened for a good while. Then she said: “Oona, I know it’s hard, but it’s precisely for these moments in life that we practice Buddhism. You must become happy, and that begins with you, with your daimoku, your heart, not with something or someone outside of you. Let’s chant with the conviction: When I change, my environment changes.”

That night, I sat down and chanted—and I mean really chanted, asking myself, What do I need to confront in my own life in order to become happy? Chanting to appreciate my life and my family, without pointing a finger at circumstance, without complaint or self-pity, I came to realize what it was that was keeping me down: I was deeply afraid to be honest.

How would you describe this fear of being honest?

Oona: I’d been putting on my brave face, not voicing how scary and confusing this whole experience was for me, thinking that the people in my family didn’t have the capacity for this kind of honesty, with my brother shouldering the burden of his illness and my mother being the one looking after him. But who was I helping by holding this in? By withholding my feelings, I couldn’t give true support to them and do our human revolution together. After abundant daimoku, I called my mother.

“This is so hard,” I told her.

She let out a long breath. “Yeah,” she said.

“Remember those walks we used to take?” I didn’t have to tell her which ones. Our childhood home was on a lake, and we’d take walks around it, my mother pointing out the birds—she knew them by their beaks, their flight patterns, their colors and size.

“I do,” she said.

“And the camping trips?”

“Of course.”

“I really miss that; I really miss you. I really need you right now. Do you think you could make it over sometime for dinner?”

After this conversation, I began going to each of my Byakuren shifts with a renewed intention, carrying my brother and mother in my heart. I will become absolutely happy and shine like the sun for my family. With this change, I was able to show up for my mother and brother in a new way. When I went over, I no longer strained to paint a rosy picture of the situation. I accepted the situation for what it was—a grueling and difficult one for any family to experience.

But even amid that, I felt deep appreciation, recognizing that this was a chance to deepen my connection with myself and my family. My brother now says of me and Lauren, my wife, that we are among a very few with whom he feels he can be himself, totally honest and comfortable. For his part, I’ve seen him draw on reserves of deep inner strength to return to what once brought him so much joy in life: his passion for ceramics.

My mother, too, slowly began to return to that which had once given her so much joy—birdwatching and nature walks—and made it to our place once a week for dinner. My brother gradually improved his health and began making ceramics again, even recently exhibiting them in a gallery.

Last June, we did what just a few months earlier would have seemed impossible—we went on a camping trip. We planned everything, down to who would get what from the grocers, where we’d find firewood, etc. We got there with plenty of daylight to set up camp. As the sun went down, Lauren got to work making a fire. She worked nimbly with the kindling, drawing appreciative sounds from Iggy and my mom, and then compliments. All the praise was making me a little jealous.

“Well, yeah, it’s pretty good, I guess,” I said. In the moment of silence that followed, I think I saw my brother raise an eyebrow. If anything, the trials he’s been through have given him an even keener ear for comedy.

“I mean, this fire,” he mused, “might just be the best fire ever made.” After this, the praise of the fire grew more and more lavish, each one-upping the other, until even I couldn’t help but laugh with them.

Above the fire, above the laughter, the moon shone brightly in the clear night sky. I looked at it awhile, taking in the moment, and recalled, suddenly, these words of Nichiren Daishonin:

The journey from Kamakura to Kyoto takes twelve days. If you travel for eleven but stop with only one day remaining, how can you admire the moon over the capital? No matter what, stay close to the priest who knows the heart of the Lotus Sutra, keep learning from him the principles of Buddhism, and continue your journey of faith. (“Letter to Niike,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1, p. 1027)

I felt all right about their praise then—Lauren really does know how to make a fire. All of us together had built something just as bright, just as strong. Out of two years of hardship, leading with courage, honesty and fighting spirit—we’d become a family that knows how to kindle deep, blazing joy, even in the depths of night.