The Power of My Life

What did you find that so impressed you? 

Kathy: All of it—the philosophy, the people, the message and the practice. But above all, I’d have to say it was the spirit—a spirit of joyful challenge, to tackle all obstacles as opportunities to grow. To set goals that are a bit uncomfortable, that feel almost too big, and tie them to a vow for kosen-rufu, the happiness of all people and the peace of the land. Prayer based on a great vow unleashes energy we didn’t know we had.

Can we go back a bit—to that train you couldn’t bring yourself to step off of? Not everyone would miss their stop to eavesdrop on an intro to Buddhism.

Kathy: Well, I might be a rare case, in that I think I can pinpoint the moment and even the place I began looking for an answer to the question of death. I was 11, in bed looking up at the darkness when I had the realization that everyone dies. The understanding came with a tremendous wave of anxiety, which grew into a full-blown panic attack. These continued over the years, brought on unpredictably, without clear cause. They diminished after I began practicing Buddhism, but came on again in earnest after I’d left the advertising world for a job at a greenhouse, while applying to serve in the Peace Corps.

Doesn’t sound like the most panic-inducing environment.

Kathy: Right, right. But, as Nichiren Daishonin says, “There are not two lands, pure or impure in themselves. The difference lies solely in the good or evil of our minds” (“On Attaining Buddhahood in This Lifetime,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1, p. 4). The people and the environment are one, and it’s especially true that leaders influence the culture of a workplace. As it happens, the boss of the greenhouse was a bully. Biking home at the end of every workday, I felt like my bones were made of lead. Getting up every morning felt like lifting a bowling ball off my chest. Were it not for my morning gongyo, I don’t think I’d have even once made it out the door. I sought from friends in faith and was encouraged to chant for his happiness, something that sounded absurd to me at the time. Less absurd was the other part of the encouragement I got, which was to insist, in my prayers, on respect. 

I stayed late one evening, doing paperwork on the second floor and sent a large job to the office printer. While it worked, I made a cup of tea and paced the floor while watching the sun set from a window overlooking the yard. Enough light remained to make out the outlines of things—the greenhouse roof, a scattering of potted plants, and something else—an unfamiliar form, like some misshapen tree, moving slowly toward the greenhouse. Squinting, I took in a bent neck and a stooped back and realized with a shock that it was my boss pushing a potted plant across the grounds. He was alone—everyone else had gone home. Probably he assumed that I had, too. With no one left to impress or intimidate, he moved like he was on the verge of collapse, with a heaviness I’d never known he could feel. This was not the body of a person who’d known the satisfaction of a full day’s work but of one worn down by a burden never put down. In that instant, I saw the person beneath the rage, wounded and unhappy. 

The following day, he was himself again, animated and enraged. There came a point, as there did every day at work, when he shouted at me, furious at who-knows-what. I can’t remember what I said, or if, in fact, I said anything at all. I only remember recalling my prayer for his life and my own, insisting on respect for us both. I bow to your Buddha nature, I thought, and in my heart, I did. The next instant, we were blinking at one another, his face gone soft while his words petered out, as though he’d forgotten what he’d had to say. He simply turned around and trailed off, into the warm cover of the greenhouse. It’s strange, but he treated me differently after this. So much so that my co-workers noticed and said so. In a way that they were never able, I found I could speak up to him, for myself and for others. When he began to bully, I spoke, and my words had the effect of water on flames. I left after a year with his recommendation, knowing the power of prayer.

What next?

Kathy: I volunteered at a high-impact organization whose peace work and mission I believe in deeply. While there, I strove all-out, optimizing existing fundraising programs and creating new ones. There was a job opening up that summer, and I set my sights on getting it. As ever, I worked with the spirit of joyful challenge. I set a goal for the annual May Contribution activity and fought in faith and in work with the spirit to achieve it no matter what. 

And then… I didn’t get the job. Not only did I not get the job, but I didn’t even get an interview. My immediate supervisors, disgusted, said they wouldn’t blame me if, out of self-respect, I left. Well, respect was one thing, and funds was another. Frankly, staying on in my volunteer position just wasn’t an option if I was going to make the rent. Painfully, I left that summer and took a nanny job. It was a difficult summer—the elder of the two boys was a wonderful, cheerful kid and a total menace, setting off alarms and spilling baby oil up and down the wooden steps, racing all around. Oddly, for completely different reasons, the work set off my panic attacks. I remembered, though, the spirit of joyful challenge. I chanted a lot and intensely to hit my May Contribution goal, and did. 

Toward the end of the summer, I got a call from the organization I’d left. They wanted to offer me a director position. No interview necessary—if I wanted it, it was mine. The position’s responsibility and compensation were far beyond that of the role I’d applied for. I took it, knowing the power of owning my own determination and sticking to it regardless of circumstances. In short, knowing that no cause is ever wasted, I stayed a year before taking on a supporting role for an economist at a Harvard institute, a man whose brilliance was outmatched only by his work ethic. There were rumblings on my way in, apologetic looks and sympathetic warnings from the other employees. “His personal assistants never last,” said one; “Six in nine years,” piped another; “They couldn’t keep up with the work,” said the last, with a look of finality. I must say, a younger me would have fled for the hills. But now, if anything, all this talk piqued my curiosity. I knew what I was capable of, and that no one could take from me what mattered most—my self-respect. 

Again, I drew on the spirit of joyful challenge, a spirit I’d learned over years of engaging in various SGI activities—be it raising youth, sharing Buddhism or contributing financially—owning my determination and realizing victory. In any case, I wasn’t about to fold before the battle had begun.

What happened?

Kathy: The first day of work, he listed off some two dozen tasks that needed doing, to which I replied, “No problem.” He held my gaze and then let me at it. In addition to these tasks, others came up, sometimes in pairs throughout the day, but I took them in stride, handling one after another. Somewhere in the midst of this, he said, with apparent joy, “We’ve got to find a way to keep you.” We did it again the next day and again the day after that. He’d been raised on a farm in Canada, and had been expected to inherit the land until an aunt took note of his extraordinary proclivity for numbers and systems and insisted the boy receive a college education. He was not at all the soul-crushing force of nature I’d been warned against. He was highly respectful. He had only the tremendous work ethic of a farmer and a passionate sense of his personal mission. Which made two of us. For nine years, we worked together, a partnership that outlasted the institute itself. We parted ways when the institute was dissolved, and I left with the most glowing recommendation I’d ever read. 

Tell us about the award—the one you received from MIT. 

Kathy: Ah, the Infinite Mile Award. The award was devised to “recognize those individuals or teams who have made extraordinary contributions within their own organizations to help the Institute carry out its mission.” That year, 9 recipients were nominated from hundreds of staff by their peers through individual written submissions. These submissions are then compiled into an essay and read aloud to each recipient when they receive their award. I had been nominated for my wide-ranging administrative, financial and human resources work.

I remember listening to the first of these, then the second and then the third. Awards were presented in alphabetical order, so I was toward the end. With every reading, I felt a growing bewilderment: someone made a mistake. The accomplishments of each recipient were more extraordinary than the last. And then I remembered my prayer to respect myself, to joyfully challenge my own limitations. I remembered all the people I’d supported and all the ways I’d supported them over the years. Calmly and with deep appreciation, I took the stage when they called my name, knowing the power of my life. 

From the April 2025 Living Buddhism