24 Hours in a Buddhist Monastery

The revered Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh once said, “You don’t have to make any effort during walking meditation, because it is enjoyable. You are there, body and mind together. You are fully alive, fully present in the here and the now. With every step, you touch the wonders of life that are in you and around you. When you walk like that, every step brings healing. Every step brings peace and joy, because every step is a miracle.” Sounds pretty good, right?

A few years ago I spent four months living in India on a college field studies trip with five other students. Much of it was spent in a rural village in Tamil Nadu, a terrifying and ecstatic time where every breath I drew felt wondrously strange. After ten weeks, we moved on, touring the country through its religions, stopping in cities sacred to Jains, to Sikhs, to Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists. We stared at their holy places, looking for clues to understanding.

In Bodh Gaya, the city where the Bodhi tree under which the Buddha sat when he became enlightened still grows, though, there was less to stare at and more to find by looking inward. For some small number of rupees, the Buddhist monastery there allowed visitors to stay for 24 hours, taking part in the daily meals and meditation. Why not, two friends and I asked ourselves, and we handed over our fee, promised to be silent for the extent of our stay, and were led to our dormitory.

We looked out of our small window, giggling with the effort of not talking to each other, and watched the wind chase leaves around the courtyard. A couple of monks swept the ground clean with brooms, their movements as patient and unhurried as I wished I felt. I was already wondering how much time had elapsed and thinking about dinner. When we were called downstairs to our meal by the sound of a gong, it was stewed spinach, bland and unsalted, with white rice in a single bowl. We ate in silence, no talk to distract us from our meal, no sound but the leaves rustling in the trees. I looked up to see two young monks walking by, texting - silent, but definitely texting. It's going to be a long 24 hours, I thought to myself.

The next morning we ate a quiet breakfast; what it was I can't remember, but I do recall the walk we took afterward, outside, gazing up at the statue of the Buddha. I was reminded of the Chinese Buddha's rolls of fat and happy grin; as a child I had seen his giant golden image at the Capitol Children's Museum in Washington, D.C. This Indian Buddha was a much more severe fellow, a true ascetic, with a stern gaze seeming to condemn us lest we be late for the morning's meditation. We hurried inside and sat down on mats in a long room, staring at our bare feet, waiting for the monk at the front of the room to begin. We were dressed in traditional Indian clothing worn by women of the continent for centuries - shalwar kameez (long tunics and loose pants), since we were unmarried, and dupattas (lightweight scarves) draped modestly over our chests and dangling down our backs. With us sat a female backpacker, her pierced nose, halter top and shorts a startling contrast to our conservative appearance. But who knows that she wasn't more inwardly focused than I, already contemplating my next meal.

The monk asked us to stand, to begin walking the length of the room and back, placing one foot in front of the other as we cleared our minds and thought of absolutely nothing at all, repeating only the words "lift, move forward, touch" as our feet left and returned to the floor. My thoughts, which would not leave me, went something like this:

"Lift move forward touch (instead? Courtney and I might collide, I think) lift, forward, touch (she’s trying to make eye contact) lift move touch (get me to laugh, I wonder if she’s paying attention).

Not paying attention! I am…ok, I am. Here’s the wall. Lift, move forward, touch. Lift, forward, touch. Lift, forward touch. Along a line, lift, move forward, touch. Lift, forward, touch. Halfway, halfway across the room. That backpacker girl here seems lonely. I wonder why she’s here. Her hair looked dyed, it was so white, she was so trendy, a bhikku-backbacker, faker. I wonder why anyone would come here. What, to watch the monks running around texting while they laugh at the American girls walking around ponderously looking at their feet? My feet are so big. And white. I hope the mosquito bites go away when I go home. You aren't concentrating. Sarah, come on! Lift, move forward touch.

Are they going to ring the bell? Dammit, sweat rolling down my back, it’s so bloody hot in here, no, it’s just your imagination, try—harder—lift, move forward, touch, lift, move forward, touch. Ok, NO, I can’t stand it, but I’m going to do it the right way—reaching, reaching, reaching, scratching, scratching, scratching, hands touching, ok, lift, move forward, touch, lift, forward touch, lift forward touch lift forward touch lift forward

(I miss home, I miss the field out back and sleeping without the whir of a fan and sheets stained with the blood of smashed bugs, I wonder what kind of cake we'll make when I get home, do monks eat cake? Is that attachment? I) lift forward touch lift forward touch (love fireworks especially the gold ones) lift move forward touch lift move forward—oh dang it, I almost fell over—touch, balance, lift move forward touch lift forward touch (why aren’t there fireflies in India? Why aren’t there fireflies everywhere? They’re the best part—

This is supposed to teach you something, that flower arrangement is so awful, I wonder how they can stand it here, how can anyone stand living like this, you know what, I want my thoughts back, I just want my thoughts back, or else they are all going to fizz out in some disastrous way and I HATE not thinking! I hate it! Ok, you can think, breathe breathe breathe, oh don’t start that stupid repetition! Think of nice things, ok, I can, just keep walking and think at the same time so you won’t go crazy—ok cold milk, cereal that is not stale, clean dogs, grass that is really green and no trash, dad’s woodworking goggles, just keep walking and it will all be over soon, the leather couch in your house, working at the post office, the taste of envelope glue and shiny sticker stamps, seeing him again, playing Scrabble and I daresay I’ll make a nice pie, yes, and something else, something I should wear an apron do I even own an apron my dad has that one we made him for Father’s Day with painted stars on it ugh it’s so hot in this room, how are the others even standing it, I wish we—"

And then the gong rang, and we were finished - at least for a time.

What did it mean, that I couldn't leave my thoughts alone? Mindfulness is supposed to have no goal - but that's not something I realized at the time. In my mind I failed, when really, I had just begun a journey. It's not one that I've taken many steps on; I like being good at things right away. But perhaps the struggle is how you get from proud to humble, from frantic to calm, to sweeping the courtyard with slow, even steps, and not being too good to send a text during dinner - even if you are a monk.