Voicing My Prayers

I’d been leaning, barefoot, over the traffic crawling 11 stories below, thinking, but also, not thinking… 

The next day, I’d called my friend and told her how unhappy I was, how bone-tired of moving, friendless; how much I missed working with children, as I had in the U.S., where I’d been a practicing pediatrician. She listened and then asked whether I’d ever chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. 

I said I wanted to try and asked that she pass my number along to someone close by who could help. I hung up the phone around 10 a.m. and by 4, heard a knock at the door. It was one of the women’s leaders, bright and warm—my neighbor, apparently, coming to chant. 

Daily thereafter, one of the women’s leaders came by. Monthly, I began joining my district’s discussion meetings, enjoying as much as anything the simple fact of such happy company. The same thing continued when we moved to Noida, India, where, for the first time in years, I felt I had some friends. 

I began talking with the moms in the courtyard of our apartment complex, where we brought our children to play. When they heard that I’d been a practicing pediatrician in the U.S., word flew around the building and soon, beyond it, to the hiring board of a local school, which got me working with the children in need of special support. Which brings me to the boy with burned feet.

We’d made progress, he and I, in the three months we’d known each other, but it wasn’t until I saw the burns that I understood that what I knew was not enough. That night, I opened my laptop and wrote an email to the head of developmental pediatrics at Stanford University, who, by morning, had sent a swift reply. Taking her professional guidance to heart, I worked tirelessly with that child, until, five months later, he spoke his first word: Mama. In the following months, he expressed himself more and more.

In 2011, we moved back to the U.S. My husband’s health had not improved, and we decided it was time I take the wheel, work-wise, and accept a standing offer from a children’s hospital in Washington state. 

Here, I encountered new frustrations. Whereas systems to support neurodivergent children are more robust in the U.S., there are also certain hurdles. Having worked with a number of autistic children in India, I had in many instances provided the care such a diagnosis would entail. Here, I could not, as a general pediatrician, make that diagnosis or refer that child for care.

Instead, I had to refer that child to a specialist. This is all well and good, except that wait times often ranged from six months to four years, a huge loss for the child, for whom early intervention is key. Each time this happened, my frustration grew.

In 2007, I was working 10-hour days, six days a week. My husband’s health was flagging once more, and we were drowning in debt. I could see no path to specialization, but I began to chant earnestly to open one. That year, I was asked to take on SGI-USA district leadership and, without hesitation, agreed. I was encouraged at this time to chant with conviction that my life itself is Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. As the district women’s leader, my victory would open the way for the victory of the district. 

Several days a week after work, I’d visit the women in my district. Whether it was their health or the health of their children, financial troubles or loneliness, all were challenging something. 

All the while, I continued to chant to receive the training that would qualify me to diagnose and treat autistic children. I’d need a fellowship, something I could do remotely while continuing my work at the hospital. Taking time off was not an option—between my husband’s health bills and our daughters’ educations, we were in six-figure debt.

When the pandemic struck, when our bonuses were cut and we all began working at base pay, I thought that it might never happen. But as Nichiren Daishonin says of facing a crucial moment: “The wise will rejoice while the foolish will retreat” (“The Three Obstacles and Four Devils,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1, p. 637). Leaning into my prayer, I decided that, instead of abandoning my determination, I’d add a new one. Not only would I get a fellowship, I would purchase a home. 

When, for the span of just two weeks, interest rates dropped below 3%, I pounced, purchasing a home in Washington at below asking price, not a penny above my budget. The following year, in June, we paid off our six-figure debt. And finally, last November, surfing the web one evening, I found the fellowship of my dreams at Stanford. A mostly remote, two-year fellowship, I could complete it without leaving my work in Washington. I inquired that same night and received a reply—it was from the head of developmental pediatrics, the same woman I’d written years before about the boy who couldn’t speak. She remembered me and encouraged me to apply, saying that the program had launched just the other day. It was not long before I got word that I’d been accepted.

This year, my husband’s health collapsed. In spring he passed away. Though extremely painful for all of us, I realized, chanting for his happiness, that in supporting him, I’d grown immensely in faith. Because of him, I was able to awaken to my Buddhahood.

Today my dream is to open my own pediatrics center, where each child receives the care and deep respect they deserve. Recently, I began a campaign of kindness. “I have an ask,” I tell my children. “Could you do one random act of kindness each day?” Our voices, used for good, inspire good. When we speak from a belief in the profound dignity of our lives, anything is possible.

November 8, 2024, World Tribune, p. 5