On April 16, the Ninth Headquarters Leaders Meeting of the decade leading to the organization’s 2030 centennial was held at the Tokyo Toda Memorial Auditorium in Sugamo. The meeting celebrated May 3, Soka Gakkai Day, which commemorates the inaugurations of Josei Toda as second president of the Soka Gakkai on May 3, 1951, and Daisaku Ikeda as third president on May 3, 1960, and is also Soka Gakkai Mother’s Day.  President Ikeda sent a message in which he congratulated members of the new Women’s Division on the holding of their first local-level general meetings throughout Japan since the merging of the Japanese organization’s Women’s and Young Women’s Divisions was announced in 2021. Videos of musical performances by the Soka Gloria Wind Orchestra and the Women’s Division chorus groups were featured.

by Julie Pham
Temple City, Calif.

I decided to chant for the things that I feared the most. One of them was to open my heart and life to others without the fear of rejection and disappointment.

When my best friend’s health declined in 2014, following a brain cancer diagnosis, I began to spend as much time with her as possible. She was a fierce person, always, and the diagnosis made her even fiercer. Every moment of the day she lived with a joyful, fighting spirit. One of our last conversations ended with her steady look and the words, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” 

To cope with my fears, I took up Buddhist practice, receiving the Gohonzon on June 1 that year. Just two days after, she passed away, having kindled in me not only a passion to care for the terminally ill but, at age 25, the resolve to summon my courage. 

At that time, I harbored so many fears, among them, opening up to friends and family about my sexual orientation. As early as age 6, I understood that I felt something for some girls that I did not for boys. I confided only to my best friend, one of very few people with whom I felt at ease, unashamed of who I was.

My parents, first-generation immigrants from Vietnam, come from traditional backgrounds, places where people of the same sex did not couple openly. Always a tomboy, confused by the purpose of Barbie dolls, I preferred sports to playing house. As I approached my senior year of high school, my mother couldn’t help but notice that, while many of my friends had begun to have boyfriends, or at least pine for one, I myself had never once even broached the subject. It was around this time when she began commenting on same-sex couples when we saw them. Her comments told me that loving someone of the same gender was strange, probably shameful. 

For years, I bottled up my attraction to girls. When I did express them—the first time as a college sophomore—it was to a young woman who, like me, was from a traditional background and, like me, was acknowledging her sexuality for the first time. Her shame surfaced in bursts of anger directed at me, which echoed my parents’ nightly fights and lashing out at me. This is love, I thought. Or rather, This is the love that I deserve; the only love I’ll ever have. I would continue to think this for many years, closing my heart and stifling my emotions. Even as I continued to over-
come many fears, among them my fear of failing to become a medical professional, my fear of rejection remained.

Part of me continued to feel ashamed of my sexuality and unworthy of love. Not until 2021 did I decide, after a painful disappointment in love, to overcome this shame and self-doubt once and for all. In September, I began to chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo abundantly and take part wholeheartedly in SGI activities, making this a personal goal toward Nov. 18, Soka Gakkai Founding Day. Before, such disappointments had caused me deep anguish, but this time, because, as a youth leader, I was so energetically encouraging other young people—studying Nichiren Daishonin’s writings and Ikeda Sensei’s encouragement—I found myself shedding happy tears, in appreciation for every disappointment, every mistreatment that had brought me to this moment. I could feel that with every cause I made, I was prying open the door to a new chapter in my life. Quickly the opportunity arose for me to act on this inner shift, in the form of my cousin’s wedding invitation.

Discussing plans with my mother for this happy occasion, there was a pause. Without the slightest hesitation or fear, I heard myself ask, “Hey, mom, do you ever want me to get married?”

“Yeah, of course!” 

Somehow, totally at ease, I ventured, “If I do get married, it’s not going to be to a man, you know?”

She was quiet for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I would want to get married to a woman!”

She didn’t react the way that I had feared. She wasn’t yelling; she wasn’t disowning me. “Well, of course that’s all right with me,” she said calmly. “I want you to be happy.”

By the way she said it, I realized that my mother had accepted this part of me some time ago and had been merely waiting for me to open up to her. I felt good, wonderful. But it was not my mother who unburdened my heart—I had already done that. Through chanting and fighting for kosen-rufu with good friends in faith, I had already realized that I was infinitely worthy of kindness, love and acceptance. Opening up to my mother was just the beginning—this inner shift invigorated my friendships old and new, and fundamentally changed the way I approach relationships in general.

Before her passing, my best friend showed me the life of a person of courage. Chanting the lion’s roar of mentor and disciple, summoning the courage to act on the guidance of my mentor, I have drawn closer than ever to her parting declaration that, for a person of courage, there is truly nothing to fear. 

On April 9, the Soka Gakkai’s Seikyo Shimbun reported that Soka University has decided to offer a learning and research environment for students forced to discontinue their studies at Kyiv National University of Trade and Economics. In 2003, the two universities established a formal academic exchange agreement. 

From March 30 to April 7, the exhibition “Everything You Treasure—For a World Free From Nuclear Weapons,” jointly created by the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons (ICAN) and the SGI (Soka Gakkai International), was held at the University of La Salle in Madrid, Spain. The exhibition was hosted by the university’s Institute for Studies of Religions in the Contemporary World (IERMA) and was part of a symposium held on March 30 on the role of religions in realizing the SDGs. Carlos Esteban Garcés, director of IERMA commended the Soka Gakkai for promoting peace through the exhibition.  

Living Buddhism: Hello, Suzanne! We understand you began practicing Buddhism when you were studying to become a classical pianist.

Suzanne Pittson: That’s right. I was a 25-year-old anxious student at San Francisco State University when I began practicing. I had come from a family of musicians and received classical piano training from a young age, with the dream of becoming a concert pianist.

Several years before encountering the SGI, I had developed debilitating stage fright. My body froze, my hands shook, and my mind went blank. My performances were wooden, lacking the easy, exacting muscle memory that, given so many hours of painstaking practice, should have been on hand. This paralyzing anxiety confirmed what I had suspected: that I did not have what it takes to be a professional musician.

What drove you to continue pursuing music?

Suzanne: My drive to improve as a musician was fueled by jealousy toward the other musicians in my program. Offstage, following those miserable performances, I doubled down practicing. But the next time I stepped onstage, the same thing would happen: All that hard work flew right out the window. Then, a particularly difficult Brahms piece temporarily crippled my right hand. I saw this bout with tendinitis as the end of my piano dreams.

What role did Buddhism play in your craft?

Suzanne: My boyfriend, now husband, Jeff, a fellow pianist, introduced me to Buddism. Chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, I felt my chronic anxiety ease. Jeff would say that he was chanting to become a great musician for kosen-rufu. Though I didn’t fully understand what that meant, I saw that chanting was, for him, a way of affirming his mission to contribute to humanity through music, something I had given up on. Buddhism enabled me to refresh my dream, and so I joined him in chanting abundantly to fulfill my mission as a musician.

That’s quite a shift! What followed?

Suzanne: In addition to playing piano, I had always sung, but only around my house. One of my friends, a singer, reached out to me. She said there was an opening to sing at a local jazz venue and asked if I could fill it. I said yes and accompanied myself on the piano. Amazingly, I tossed off this breezy performance, not overly technical or anxious and with little complaint from my right hand. I felt so comfortable up there that I started to improvise and even scat. Soon after, I was called on again and booked at another venue.

Chanting gave me the confidence to open myself to the possibility of entirely new directions. In addition, Jeff and I began giving financial contributions to the SGI-USA out of our appreciation for our Buddhist practice giving us new possibilities. Getting booked more and enjoying myself each time, I realized what I wanted to do: I wanted to be a jazz vocalist for kosen-rufu.

How would you describe the fortune you created through your contributions?

Suzanne: Jeff and I united in a prayer to take our careers to New York City and make it our place of mission for kosen-rufu. But we were freelancing just to pay the bills and had neither the means nor prospects to justify the move.

United prayer to fulfill our vow gave rise to a spirit of challenge. Alongside other limitations, we tackled our finances head-on. As we increased our financial contributions to the SGI each year, we renewed our spirit to take bold action. In the process, I transcended my creative limitations, both as an artist and as a human being. Our fortune manifested at crucial moments: too many to tally here. We always had enough. Then, in 2005, I was unanimously chosen from a pool of 80 applicants for a full-time, tenured teaching position in the jazz program at the City College of New York.

That’s wonderful! How did your career advance after moving to New York?

Suzanne: I continued to develop a unique and recognizable singing style, releasing a highly technical album based on thorough study of John Coltrane’s masterpiece A Love Supreme. Even as my style became better known and increasingly sought after, however, I began to experience physical issues that affected my voice—allergies, laryngitis, jaw tension, etc. These issues arose with increasing frequency in the middle of performances, causing me to lose my footing and disconnect from the emotion of the song. I began to think, Compared to other singers, who would want to listen to me?

This sounds like the doubt you experienced when you were younger.

Suzanne: Yes, my doubts were resurfacing. But the difference now was that I recognized this issue as an obstacle to be overcome and to not give in. I continued singing through every ailment, but one day in 2012, I woke up and couldn’t speak. The night before, I had a rehearsal for an upcoming performance, and was working with a classical voice teacher to refine my technique. I went in for a throat check-up, and they found a vocal hemorrhage. Though my voice returned after a few weeks, something was off. I might have succumbed to any number of emotions: anger, frustration, despair. But, while on vocal rest, I read the following guidance from Ikeda Sensei in The New Human Revolution on confronting the “one evil,” or the fundamental cause of unhappiness in one’s life:

The beginning of the challenge of human revolution starts with identifying the “one evil” in your own life, deciding to eliminate it, earnestly chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo and challenging yourself to succeed.^[1]

This one evil, takes different forms for different people. I chanted to confront my “one evil,” which was jealousy. The perfectionism that had pushed me so hard as a classical pianist and now as a jazz vocalist was born of envy of those who were still more technically advanced, whose voices could do easily things I had to push myself hard to do. I determined then that I would put an end to these destructive comparisons and further develop my self-confidence.

That must have been difficult.

Suzanne: Despite my best efforts, by 2018 my voice had become chronically hoarse, often unable to hit the pitch I wanted to sing. I went in again to my throat doctor, who discovered a polyp on my right vocal cord. I decided to undergo surgery to have it removed. Although successful, the surgery revealed an untreatable tremor in my larynx. I continued to study with a great teacher, but there was no guarantee that I could get the sound I wanted from my voice. I was nearly a decade out from the release, in 2010, of my last record. Though I didn’t say so out loud, inwardly I doubted the prospects of my singing career.

What was going on in the classroom?

Suzanne: At the same time as I was struggling to connect with my voice, I was having a hard time connecting with my students. I felt I gave clear directions but that those directions went unheard. My approach was: Here is your work, and this is the result that I expect. The COVID-19 pandemic changed all that.

My greatest source of strength at this time came from the weekly Soka Spirit meetings, where SGI members united in prayer from our respective homes and then joined an encouragement call. We discussed at length Nichiren Daishonin’s treatise, “On Establishing the Correct Teaching for the Peace of the Land,” which stated unequivocally that the lasting solution to humanity’s greatest predicaments can only be found in the human heart.

As both a classroom teacher and the associate director of the university’s jazz program, I saw up close and from a bird’s eye view the heavy toll the pandemic took on students and staff. I reoriented my approach with the students, asking myself first, not about the quality of their work but the quality of their lives. I thought: Are my students OK? How is their emotional health? We spent whole classes talking about life and youth, and the world’s many troubles.

Quite a few of them were interested in what I was doing to remain optimistic, and I invited them to join our SGI meetings. Their main concern was not improving vocal techniques, but how to overcome anxiety, become happy and develop meaningful relationships. I would explain my journey of facing and overcoming similar challenges through Buddhist practice.

My classroom, meanwhile, was undergoing major transformations. Because I was opening up to the students, speaking and listening from the heart, they sought me out. My attitude had become, Here’s what I know you can do, here’s something you can do to get there and here I am, fighting alongside you. Engaging fellow teachers and staff with this same committed spirit, the jazz department flourished.

That’s truly inspiring. Were you able to go back to performing?

Suzanne: In spring 2021, I had a turning point in my singing career when I was asked to perform online. Though I eagerly accepted, I was terrified. Fear and self-doubt threatened to disconnect me from the joy I wanted to impart with my music. With a sense of mission, I recorded the video. My heart guided the song and was supported by the skill and technique I’d tempered over a lifetime, without interference from the vocal tremor I had experienced.

That’s fantastic! Where do you see yourself going forward?

Suzanne: Through over four decades of chanting, sharing Buddhism and making financial offerings to the SGI, I have become in touch with my heart. I’m purely motivated to express my internal beauty and inspire many people to awaken to their own. By focusing my prayer on my heart, it shines through my music. I’m happy to report that I’ve finished recording an album that will be released later this year!

Toward 2030, I’m determined to inspire 5 million people with my voice. Through my music, I want to share with people the triumph of the human heart.

On March 20, SGI-Dominican Republic (SGIRD) held a hybrid general meeting at its culture center in Santo Domingo commemorating the 56th anniversary of the forming of its first chapter and the 50th anniversary of the founding its fife and drum corps. At the meeting, new national-level leadership appointments were made. Eiji Nishio and Victoria Kimura were appointed as vice general directors, and Ruriko Tamate as women’s division leader. 

by Sapna Batish
Reston, VA

When I was 1, my father inspected my baby bottle, about as old as me and surely past its prime. Deciding that a replacement was overdue, he flung it down the mountainside. (We lived near Shimla, India, in the foothills of the Himalayas.) The story goes that I refused the new bottle and went on a hunger strike, shedding so much weight my parents feared they’d lose me.  I came around, but not before alerting everyone to my fierce spirit.

When I was 7, my parents decided to move our family to America. Beforehand, my parents hired a private tutor, who instructed me in a back room of our house. There, over several months, he molested me. When my mother caught him, he was fired, and the incident was never spoken of again. His words “What we did was very bad” were the last on the matter. Those lessons and the years of unbroken silence that followed snuffed the light from my eyes, broke my spirit and filled me with shame. 

It didn’t derail me at the time, however. We moved to Ohio, where I threw myself into my studies, discovering by high school a love for history and literature, only to find that these discoveries about who I was were not to be spoken of. When my father heard that I favored the humanities over the sciences, he sat me down and grilled me for hours. What could I possibly want if not to become a doctor? he wanted to know. For him, becoming anything else would be throwing my life away. 

These interrogations eventually broke me down.  After high school, I entered an accelerated two-year undergrad program and then a single year of medical school, after which, to my father’s horror and my own intense shame, I dropped out and spiraled into a deep depression. On top of this, the trauma of the sexual abuse began to surface in my intimate relationships, which followed a devastating pattern, into my 40s, of intense attraction followed by crippling shame and suicidal insecurity. 

In 1998, when I was 32, my psychologist, after watching me struggle for years despite therapy and medication, suggested I try chanting.  “I don’t know what else I can do for you. I have a friend who chants.  She says it helps.” The first time I chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, I did feel lighter. But my first district meeting, in February 1998, clinched it. Each person shared how this Buddhism had helped them overcome the most painful experiences. I continued to take antidepressants and see a therapist, but it was the chanting that set my life on a new trajectory. 

I had a long way to go. I remember the first time I read Nichiren Daishonin’s words “Buddhist teachings will not relieve you of the sufferings of birth and death in the least unless you perceive the true nature of your life” (“On Attaining Buddhahood in This Lifetime,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1, p. 3). In my state, I thought this meant that the necessary first step on the path to enlightenment was to recognize how worthless I currently was. 

My startled district leader explained over coffee that this is not the Daishonin’s point. With a finger, she navigated back one sentence, quickly clarifying what Nichiren was saying: My life itself, just as it is, is a Buddha. 

I went back to the drawing board, affirming for myself that I did not have to become a doctor or be in a relationship to be worthy of respect. I received my doctorate in environmental science in 2006 and met my husband, with whom I haven’t once felt insecure, in 2010. I was happier but my despair continued to surface because I still hadn’t overcome my biggest obstacle.

For 18 years, though I’d shared Buddhism with many people, and helped support my district in various capacities, I battled what I call “my monster;” an inner voice whose sole aim seemed to be to sabotage my daily practice. At times it was resentful: “Sapna, why should you have to chant simply to function?”  At other times, it was cajoling: “You’re doing fine. You can skip morning gongyo today.” And then I’d skip it in the evening, too; then a week’s worth of gongyos; and this could turn into months. Slowly I would shrink from the world, stop answering phone calls, hardly leave the house, watching television, feeling utterly depleted, too ashamed to reach out to anyone.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when my chapter women’s leaders visited me in 2017 and asked me to take on district leadership. As the district women’s leader, I knew I’d have to be rock-solid. Did they know who they were talking to? I explained I hadn’t done gongyo that morning. “We know you have the capacity,” they said. 

Though terrified of accepting this responsibility, I knew I had to if I wanted to change my life. This is when I finally developed a consistent practice. Taking care of the members of my district meant I had to take care of myself. It’s also when I began to understand that hitting an obstacle wasn’t a time to back down, but a time to break through with determined prayer to turn karma into mission. I began chanting to be the best daughter I could be and found I was able to let go of my anger toward my father. 

Today, I’m deeply gratified in my marriage and enjoy the conviction that I deserve my happiness.  I’m finishing my first novel, a work of historic fiction, and am determined to help fight climate change in a way unique to me. This Buddhist practice is not about trying to forgive my past or make the best of an unfortunate situation, but about using sufferings to fuel my human revolution and lending this example to others battling to transform their lives. The resolve to light the way for others has allowed me to tap my own inner fire, inextinguishable and burning now more fiercely than ever. 

The City of Aliso Viejo recognizes Soka University of America (SUA) as a “Trusted Partner” supporting the city.  

Mayor Ross Chun and Mayor Pro Tem Richard Hurt presented SUA President Edward M. Feasel and Archibald E. Asawa, vice president for finance and administration, with a certificate of recognition in February.

President Feasel acknowledged the award at a city council meeting. “Over the years, Soka has continued to serve as a great resource for our local community, most recently partnering with the city and county as a major center of distribution established during the initial days of the COVID vaccine,” he said.

“As an institution that prides itself on the importance of community, locally, nationally and globally, we are very proud of all these relationships and venues we have created for serving residents of the city of Aliso Viejo, and we look forward to our continued partnership and collaboration together in the future.” 

Visit www.soka.edu for more information.

The World Tribune spoke with Andrea Bartoli, Ph.D., an international conflict resolution expert, about his thoughts on the war between Russia and Ukraine, the use of violence in conflicts and his belief that peace is possible. He currently teaches at Seton Hall University, is a visiting fellow at the Columbia University’s Advanced Consortium on Cooperation, Conflict and Complexity (AC4) and a member of the Steering Group of the Global Action Against Mass Atrocity Crimes (GAAMAC). Dr. Bartoli also serves on the board of trustees of Soka University of America in Aliso Viejo, California.

World Tribune: Thank you, Dr. Bartoli, for speaking with us. We understand that your first encounter with Daisaku Ikeda and his works was at Columbia University in 1996. Can you tell us about that time?

Andrea Bartoli: I was at Columbia University working on conflict resolution when Daisaku Ikeda lectured there.^[1] Out of curiosity, I attended his lecture.

I was intrigued by Dr. Ikeda’s insistence on global citizenship. There was an interesting mix of language that he was using. Wisdom, courage and compassion—these are words that are not usually associated with international relations. The concept of global citizenship he introduced is an idea, but it’s also a very practical choice that each of us can make. You don’t have to wait for somebody to formally establish a passport for global citizens. You can become a global citizen by accepting the discipline of being a global citizen and cultivating these qualities of wisdom, compassion and courage in your own life. That nuance was clear in Dr. Ikeda’s Columbia University Teachers College lecture, and this is why I became interested. I started following Dr. Ikeda’s writings, and went back to his work on value creation. This was the beginning of my ties with Daisaku Ikeda and the Soka Gakkai.

WT: The world is watching with horror the events unfolding in Ukraine. As an expert in conflict resolution, what are your thoughts about the current events?

Dr. Bartoli: The situation between Russia and Ukraine is important for all of us. In many ways, it is a product of centuries of historical development. If you have an understanding of the world that others are always out to get you, a world in which everybody is against everybody else, then it makes sense to have a highly defensive, highly conflictual approach to your relationship with others. It is the most prudent way to respond to any threat—it is better to be protected, it is better to be alert.

But what we see is that, as human families, we need that attitude less and less if we are to build patterns of cooperation. If we recognize one another as global citizens then we don’t need to use violence and threats, and there is no need for a defensive posture.

We need to hope that between Ukraine and Russia, a political attitude of dialogue and participation will prevail over the temptation that power is the only way to resolve the issue.

WT: The war in Ukraine is a macro event that is impacting the world, but we all have personal conflicts that can get out of hand. What do you teach others about conflict resolution that can be applied to our daily lives?

Dr. Bartoli: My simplified answer to that question is that conflicts and violence tend to be associated with righteousness. In many ways, the violent one always thinks they have a good reason to be violent. The violent one thinks that he has been provoked and that something wrong has been done to him.

But it is very addictive. Violence takes hold of those who are using it. Those who are using it believe that they are right, but actually violence is controlling them. It is forcing them to do things that are against human rights, against the other, even against themselves.

I find Dr. Ikeda’s insistence on personal responsibility for nonviolence really important because fundamentally, violence is always trying to control somebody. We should have control over our lives, emotions and bodies, but violence is an illness in which you lose that control. The result is that you start hurting people, insulting people, ruining people and ultimately killing people.

It’s important for us to invite each other to the responsibility of choosing self-restraint so that peace is given a chance. Peace can be given a chance through each of us taking responsibility to become global citizens. There is an important relationship between the responsibility of each of us and the result globally.

WT: What is the role of faith organizations in promoting peace?

Dr. Bartoli: Humanity is in many ways emerging as humanity. As a devout Catholic, I’m familiar with engaging religious communities toward a common goal. I think it’s important to collaborate as faith organizations for the betterment of our world.

WT: When events like these occur, it can dim people’s hopes for peace. Do you think that world peace is possible?

Dr. Bartoli: Absolutely. When we look at the long trend, humanity is actually doing better. Even though right now we have weapons that can destroy the entire planet in a moment, we are not using them. We are showing restraint. We can focus on the capacity of people to control themselves and choose real peace. The key is real people choosing real peace.

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Voices of Hope

Kosen-rufu Here Impacts Peace in Ukraine

Tsuneo Yabusaki is the administrative manager for the SGI Office for U.N. Affairs and the New York Zone men’s leader. His younger brother, Yoshio, lives in Kyiv, Ukraine, where he supports SGI members throughout the country.

Tsuneo Yabusaki, New York

I had a quintessential turning point while studying peace education at Teachers College, Columbia University. I don’t remember which country or war, but I saw a photo of a mother, no emotion on her face, carrying her dead child in her arms. That photo was burned into my heart and solidified my vow to fight for world peace wherever I am.

Recently, that fight has hit close to home. For the past decade, my brother has lived in Kyiv, the capital of Ukraine, with his wife and family. Given the current situation there, I’m chanting serious daimoku for their safety. But instead of feeling powerless and consumed by my inner weaknesses, I’m focused on cherishing the person right in front me with the conviction that, because we are all connected through the Mystic Law, my actions for kosen-rufu here will directly impact peace in the Ukraine.

Recently, my brother told me that though people there are suffering, the youth are standing up with tremendous courage. I’m determined to directly translate the hope and determination I feel for the youth in the Ukraine to the youth I meet here in New York, believing in the tremendous mission that every single one of them has for world peace. 

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Peace is Possible

Marina Inoue is a freshman at Soka University of America from Vladivostok, Russia. She speaks to the World Tribune about her hopes for peace. 

Marina Inoue, Aliso Viejo, Calif.

When I initially heard the news of what was happening in Russia and Ukraine, I was shocked. There was a lot of panic and fear—the fear of war, fear for the people in the epicenter of the conflict and fear for the people of Ukraine. I also felt powerless because I wasn’t there, and I felt that I could not change anything. 

Quarrels started between some of my friends because of differences in political views in the information each person was being exposed to. I realized that there was no meaning in trying to understand the politics. We all wanted the same thing—peace, not war. I’m doing my best to support my friends back at home who are anxiety-ridden with worry, fear and concern for the people of Ukraine. 

I was born into a family that practices Nichiren Buddhism with the SGI, but I’ve never challenged something of this magnitude with faith. My roommate and I decided to hold a chanting session for the sake of world peace and peace in Ukraine. Family and friends from Russia, my SGI district and school joined the chanting session. I’m so moved by the support I’ve received from my SGI family, and I will continue to chant for peace in the world and support the people around me. 

Do I think that peace is possible? My hope has not yet died, and I am determined to contribute to make it possible. My dream is to go back to Russia after graduating and open my own school to foster many more global citizens who can change the world for the better. 

by Joan Bivins
Manalapan, N.J.

My sister, Jeanne, who has lived with me for 35 years and keeps an old habit of leaving paper towels on the counter, was the first to tell me how much I had changed. In 2015, a year into my Buddhist practice, I called one of these towels to her attention. She told me to let it go … and I did. That’s when she said it.

“Joanie, I cannot believe you let that go just now. Lately, I cannot believe I’m talking to the same person.” 

That may seem insignificant, but finding the practice of SGI Nichiren Buddhism at age 73 fulfilled nothing less than a lifelong search for a spiritual practice that would help me soften to the people around me. Attempts along this line trace back to childhood: At the age of 9, I announced to my mother that I would become a nun, my ideal of a bighearted person.

“A bossy nun, I guess,” she said. 

With my father working, she had her hands full with us kids and let me, the eldest, get things done the way I knew how—by whipping around like a whirling dervish, doing all but the cooking, bossing my five bookish siblings to roll up their sleeves. I did not like the role, but it was my duty, I felt, to play it; someone had to or the place would go to seed. I could be relied on to get the troops marching, but I was high-handed and disconnected from kindness and trust, the proper wellsprings of service. Instead, obligation and worry drove my service to others. 

While I would go on to get married, have kids and do all that generally disqualifies girls from becoming nuns, I would, indeed, become a Presbyterian deacon and raise my children as regular churchgoers. While I did manage to sell them on their duty to attend church, it was like dragging horses to water; as soon as they left for college, they stopped. Not long after my youngest left home, my own faith, affirmed increasingly in terms of duty, reached an impasse. I was in my mid-60s, a deacon of some 40-odd years, but I had felt unsupported and strained in my efforts to connect my heart with the hearts of others. Despite intense misgivings, I left the church in 2008.

The years that followed were hard. Though a teacher by trade, a shortage of administrators at my school required me to take on duties that befitted a vice principal. I continued to find meaning in work, but the demands made of me, beyond my pay and field of expertise, caused me greater anxiety than ever.  

When, attending the wedding of extended family in 2014, I heard the chanting of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo sounding from a living room, I was immediately curious. The resounding, melodious rhythm filled the house for a half-hour. 

At dinner, I asked my brother-in-law about the chant. He had broached the topic with me once before, but I had let it go. Now, patiently, he explained about the SGI and its central practice: the chanting of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo as a celebration of the Buddha nature inherent within all people. He traced the organization’s history, from the teachings of Nichiren Daishonin up to their present expression within the SGI, comprising people committed to peace the world over. 

He gave me a card reading Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, which I taped on my computer monitor at work. Whenever things piled up and threatened to spin beyond my control, I chanted under my breath, which calmed me down and allowed me to keep a level head and accomplish much more than I normally could. I also began taking part in district meetings and studying with the other Many Treasures Group women, whom I came to regard as my  bodhisattva sisters in faith. My sister, Jeanne, was the first to comment on my change, but soon siblings, friends, children and grandchildren were piping up. 

My daughter, who had never asked me to pray for her before, took to ringing me up when problems arose, asking me to chant. My son, overjoyed that I would be published in a Buddhist newspaper, asked if I thought his son might connect with the practice. And when I ask my grandkids, three of whom attended the Lions of Justice Festival in 2018, if they’d like to join me for an SGI activity, they most often say, “Definitely,” “Yes!” or “I’ll go!”—responses I never got from my kids at that age. No finger shaking, no pushing; they want to. 

The reason, I think, is that they can see it in me, the joy of this kind of service. In 2016, my bodhisattva sisters and I took my eldest granddaughter to her first meeting, a kosen-rufu gongyo meeting at the East Orange Buddhist Center, and my first of that size. When we got there, the first thing that struck me was the diversity. Everybody together. Everybody chanting. They didn’t know me, but they all greeted me, smiling at me, thanking me with everything they had for the long drive we’d made. And afterward, you could see it in the room: the joy. It was in the way people spoke to one another and really listened. I actually cried some. It was humbling, somehow, and I could tell that my granddaughter was moved, too. More than anything, I decided I wanted to leave to my children and grandchildren, family and friends, a legacy of the spirit in that room, of voluntarily giving of ourselves, the best of ourselves, not out of duty, but joy.