第1章
Finding Home in a Buddhist Monastery
When death calls, we must find ways to rebuild our inner sanctuary. After losing both my parents, I felt unmoored, disconnected from my familiar inner Home. This led me to embark on a forty-day pilgrimage to Plum Village, the renowned Buddhist monastery in France founded by Thich Nhat Hanh (affectionately called "Thay" by his followers). The number forty carries profound significance across spiritual traditions-Christ, Muhammad, and Moses all underwent forty-day transformative periods. In yogic science, forty days is recognized as the interval needed for deep truth recognition. Being forty years old when my father died added meaningful synchronicity to my journey.
Thich Nhat Hanh's teachings have influenced millions worldwide, including celebrities like Oprah Winfrey and tech leaders at Google. His accessible approach to mindfulness has made him one of the most influential Buddhist teachers in the West. Under the cold November sky, I crossed an ocean to live essentially as a nun, hoping this immersion would bring healing and guidance through life's turbulent waters.
第2章
The Monastery: A Haven of Mindful Presence
Sister An Nghiem, formerly employed by Washington DC's mayor, greeted me at the train station with her shaved head and muddy brown monastic robes. Her serene presence contrasted sharply with the bustling world I'd left behind. As we drove through the stunning French countryside to New Hamlet, one of Plum Village's three main monasteries, my anxiety began to dissolve. Rolling hills dotted with ancient stone buildings and sprawling vineyards stretched to the horizon. The rustic wooden sign reading "HAMEAU NOUVEAU, VILLAGE DES PRUNIERS" marked my home for the next forty days, its weathered surface telling stories of countless seekers before me.
Entering the refurbished French farmhouse brought immediate relief-my shoulders dropped as worry vanished. The bright front room bustled with shaved heads and brown robes moving with unexpected gaiety, defying the stereotype of somber monastics. Laughter echoed off centuries-old stone walls as sisters prepared for evening meditation. Through the back window, I spotted a massive brass gong hanging in an Asian-inspired temple-like structure amidst apple trees and grape vines, their branches heavy with autumn fruit. A joyous Vietnamese Sister with a stunningly sculpted golden face touched my elbow, saying sincerely, "I am so happy to meet you." Her genuine warmth instantly made me feel part of this sacred community.
My tiny room marked "EAGLE"-symbolizing the messenger to the creator in Native tradition-became my cozy Hobbit-like home. The simple furnishings included a narrow bed, wooden desk, and small meditation cushion beside a window overlooking the monastery gardens. The dining hall filled with women and nuns from around the world, their diverse faces reflecting a global sangha united in mindful practice. A resonant gong signaled dinner, eaten in twenty minutes of contemplative silence. I filled my plate with green lentils, vermicelli noodles, and purple cabbage with miso gravy, all grown in the monastery's organic gardens. After a traditional Buddhist prayer of gratitude, we ate mindfully, savoring each bite as an act of meditation. A cherubic-faced Vietnamese nun sat unusually close to me, looked into my eyes, smiled warmly, and bowed her head with hands pressed to her heart - a gesture I would come to know as "namaste," recognizing the divine in each other.
Life at the monastery followed a simple yet profound rhythm that would transform my understanding of time and presence. Rising at 5:00 a.m. to the deep, resonant sound of a brass gong echoing through morning mist, we gathered in the meditation hall before a magnificent six-foot white Buddha statue. The pre-dawn silence was broken only by the soft rustling of robes and occasional bird song. We shared silent meals prepared with mindful attention, each vegetarian dish a celebration of the earth's abundance. Walking meditation through the grounds became a daily practice in presence, our slow, deliberate steps matching our breath as autumn leaves crunched beneath our feet. The nuns moved with complete presence in every activity, whether sweeping floors with methodical care or serving tea with graceful attention. Their joyful demeanor - filled with spontaneous laughter and playful moments - challenged my preconceptions about monastic life being austere or somber. Instead, I discovered a community where mindfulness created not restriction but profound freedom and joy.
第3章
The Power of Taking Refuge in Oneself
My first shower at the monastery became an unexpected lesson in mindfulness. Standing naked, wet, and shivering when the tepid water completely disappeared while I was covered in soap, I recalled Thay's teaching: "Take refuge in your self." I focused on my breath, observing a black spider in the corner, its web glistening with moisture. Within sixty seconds, my gooseflesh softened as I accepted my circumstances. "I can control my body but not my surroundings," I realized. This moment of discomfort transformed into a profound teaching about acceptance and inner stability.
This small challenge revealed the Buddha's Four Noble Truths in vivid detail: I experienced suffering (cold and wet), identified its cause (aversion to discomfort), found a way out (mindfulness), and practiced the path to well-being (concentrated breathing). The water eventually returned, but more importantly, I glimpsed the power of taking refuge within myself through mindfulness. This practical application of ancient wisdom showed me how theoretical teachings become lived experience.
Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that taking refuge means finding a safe island within ourselves, a concept he often illustrates through the metaphor of a sturdy boat anchored in rough seas. When we're caught in a storm of emotions-anger, fear, despair-we need a solid place to stand. This isn't about escaping reality but developing the capacity to face it with equanimity. Through mindful breathing, we create an island of peace that allows us to respond to life's challenges with clarity rather than reactivity. He emphasizes that this practice isn't just for moments of crisis but should be cultivated daily, like tending a garden that will shelter us in storms.
During my forty days, I practiced this refuge-taking countless times: when frustrated by other pilgrims' snoring during meditation, when missing home during festival celebrations, when physical discomfort arose during long meditation sessions that stretched past midnight. Each time I returned to my breath, I strengthened this inner sanctuary. The practice became particularly powerful during group conflicts over shared spaces or different interpretations of monastery rules. As Thay often says, "Breathing in, I go home to myself. Breathing out, I feel at ease." This simple practice became my anchor, transforming difficult moments into opportunities for deeper understanding.
The monastery's challenges - from cold showers to interpersonal tensions - became my teachers, showing me that true refuge isn't found in perfect circumstances but in our capacity to remain steady regardless of external conditions. Each day brought new opportunities to practice: dawn ceremonies in freezing temperatures, lengthy periods of noble silence, and the constant surrender of personal preferences to community needs. Through these experiences, I learned that taking refuge in oneself isn't a form of isolation but rather a way to engage more fully with life and others from a place of stability and peace.
第4章
Beginner's Mind: The Antidote to Boredom
Dining across from a stunningly beautiful young Vietnamese nun, I contemplated the nature of boredom. Her perfect golden visage made me reflect on a past relationship I left out of boredom - a pattern that had repeated throughout my life. At the monastery, I learned that forgetfulness is the opposite of mindfulness-when we lose our "beginner's mind," we forget what we enjoy about people and experiences, gradually becoming blind to their unique qualities and the joy they once brought us.
Through dedicated mindfulness practice, I discovered how to fully immerse myself in everyday activities like brushing teeth or eating, connecting to my inner energy rather than being outside myself. These simple acts became gateways to presence. Watching the nuns clean the dining hall with complete focus, I saw they were purely sweeping the floor - each stroke deliberate and purposeful - without the troublesome quality of enhancing rather than dissolving the self. Their movements were like a graceful dance, completely free from the ego's need to rush through tasks or think about what comes next.
Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that drinking tea mindfully creates happiness, while drinking tea while worrying means we're "drinking our sorrow." Each sip can be either a moment of pure joy or another missed opportunity for presence. I realized I must treat all beings with the same curiosity as a first true love - seeing them fresh each day, without the accumulated judgments and assumptions that dim our perception. As Einstein said, "Never lose a holy curiosity." With beginner's mind, I could discover the many personalities within others, just as a man married forty years might find endless discovery in his wife, noticing new expressions, habits, and depths that reveal themselves only through patient attention.
This approach transforms even the most mundane activities into profound experiences of discovery and wonder. One morning, I noticed brilliant crimson pomegranate seeds in my breakfast bowl, their jewel-like clarity stunning me with their beauty. Through mindful breathing, I'd gone "Home to myself" as Thay teaches, unifying body and mind in the present moment. Only in this state of presence could I truly see the pomegranate seeds-really see them-for only the second time in my life despite having eaten them for years. Each seed became a universe of color, texture, and taste, revealing how much richness we miss when we rush through life on autopilot.
The practice of beginner's mind extends beyond individual moments of awareness. It becomes a way of approaching all of life's experiences - from relationships to daily tasks - with fresh eyes and an open heart. This perpetual newness is the ultimate antidote to boredom, transforming every moment into an opportunity for discovery and growth.
第5章
The Ethical Mind: Interconnection and Compassion
During a group discussion, a chef-in-training sobbed about her history of killing lobsters. Her story made me reflect on my own grocery store encounter with live lobsters. Despite their minuscule brains, I've always found it troubling to see these creatures bound and piled in small tanks. Though lobsters can't technically scream when boiled alive, zoologists confirm they feel pain during the 35-45 seconds it takes to kill them.
Later, watching a documentary about shark finning, I was disturbed by fishermen slicing fins from sharks and throwing their bodies back to suffocate in the ocean. This brutal practice serves only to create an expensive Chinese delicacy. The documentary revealed how sharks maintain the delicate balance of marine ecosystems-killing them ultimately endangers human lives too.
These experiences led me to contemplate an ethical, reverent mind that understands all life is interconnected. Thich Nhat Hanh emphasizes that "Right Mindfulness is at the heart of the Buddha's teachings." He teaches that mindfulness and ethics are essentially interchangeable-if we're truly aware, we'll naturally be moral. The problem is that we often act in a fog of unawareness.
In his teachings, Thay explains how the four objects of mindfulness practice-body, feelings, mind, and objects of the mind-keep our inner "house" tidy rather than abandoned. Chogyam Trungpa connects this ethical behavior with fearlessness, noting that authentic fearlessness comes from accepting yourself rather than trying to be artificially solemn.
Being preoccupied is the opposite of mindfulness-losing ourselves in thoughts pulls us from the present moment. Meditation helps foster this attention, launching us into the here and now where we can truly know how we're living. As I said goodbye to the young chef, I reflected on how fostering clarity and mindfulness naturally leads to morality. We don't need to be taught right from wrong when we feel our connection with others.
第6章
The Path to Insight: Mindfulness, Concentration, Wisdom
On my fourth day, Thich Nhat Hanh held a delicate yellow rose, teaching us: "If you are mindful of the rose, then you also have some concentration on the rose. When you are mindful and concentrated on the rose, then you know the rose-you have some insight." In this brief phrase, he encapsulated the complex Buddhist teachings of Sila (mindfulness), Samadhi (concentration), and Prajna (insight).
When the 84-year-old Zen master silently entered the Buddha Hall, he appeared remarkably youthful, with large wise-looking ears framing his insightful face. As he picked up a yellow rose and said, "A rose is not a rose; that is why it is a real rose," something magical happened. A warm, buzzing sensation filled my spine between my shoulder blades. In this moment of clarity, everything made sense.
Thay explained the interdependence between mindfulness, concentration, and insight, writing on the board: "mindfulness -> concentration -> insight." These three disciplines support each other-when one improves, the others automatically strengthen. Looking deeply at the rose, I began to understand that it's composed of "non-flower" elements: sunshine, clouds, earth, minerals, air. Without these components, the flower cannot exist. This understanding of "non-self" liberates us from despair and confusion.
Walking alone afterward through the monastery grounds, I reflected on how accomplished people excel through their concentrated minds. I thought of ant biologist Deborah Gordon, who spent twenty-five years observing ant colonies, discovering systems driven by accident, adaptation and chaos. I recalled my violin student Luke, who experienced spontaneous awakening while focusing on a lake and sky. Both exemplified the Samadhi mind-through concentration comes insight.
Whether one is a biologist, musician, dancer, carpenter, or beekeeper, what matters is depth of concentration. As Einstein said, "the journey of exploration and discovery is reason enough to pursue answers." Listening to Thay's wisdom awakened love and insight within me.
第7章
Embracing Suffering: The Path to Transformation
When I was twenty, a Brazilian beach vacation turned terrifying when three street children surrounded us and pointed a gun at our chests. This memory resurfaced as I read Thich Nhat Hanh's account of an American soldier who spat on a novice monk during the Vietnam War. Thay comforted the hurt young monk, explaining, "You were not born to hold a gun. The American soldier considered you his enemy-that was a wrong perception."
This insight connects to Thay's First Mindfulness Training on Reverence for Life, which states: "I am determined not to kill... Seeing that harmful actions arise from anger, fear, greed, and intolerance, which come from dualistic thinking, I will cultivate openness." Thay distills complex issues to their essence: wrong thinking is the foundation of killing. Violence stems from the closed view that people are separate from each other.
During a rare Q&A session, an Australian man asked Thay whether he should become a monk or return home. Thay responded, "To stay or go makes no difference. The question is: Can you look deep inside yourself, touch your feelings, and understand that your perception is partial?" He used the metaphor of viewing a fish from different angles-we can only see one perspective at a time, but must remain open to other views to gain complete understanding.
This teaching resonated with my experience in Paris, where after meeting Gandhi's great-grandson Rajmohan, I became violently ill from bad fish. In my vulnerable state, I emailed everyone I knew expressing kindness and care. Thay had said earlier that pain often brings insight-it opens the mind. That night of illness expanded my view, helping me realize the importance of expressing love to others.
The memory of the Brazilian gun incident returned-watching the young boy's trigger finger tense while my boyfriend nervously talked, until I signaled our escape with a look. Thay teaches engaged Buddhism, diving deeply into complex situations with valor. A true monk doesn't renounce the world but experiences it fully, building resilience "as powerful as granite stone."
第8章
The Art of Stopping: Finding Peace in Presence
The day my father underwent triple bypass heart surgery, my brothers and I sat unaware in our Toronto homes because he had forbidden my mother from telling us. Throughout his life, my father worked relentlessly-rising at 5:00 a.m., working before heading to the office, returning home after dinner to continue working, and even working weekends. Like many driven professionals of his generation, he wore this constant busyness as a badge of honor, believing that perpetual motion was the key to success and security. His desk was always piled high with papers, his phone constantly ringing, his mind forever racing to the next task.
Thich Nhat Hanh warns that without the ability to stop, no insight can be attained. At the monastery, bells signal everyone to pause, breathe, and be present - a practice known as "bell meditation." These mindfulness bells ring throughout the day, during meetings, meals, and even while washing dishes. This practice initially felt strange but became welcome, allowing me to check in with myself and break free from the momentum of constant doing. Thay teaches "walking like the Buddha"-steps that are careful, firm, even and continuous. He emphasizes that each step should be taken with full awareness, as if kissing the earth with our feet. When I managed to slow down and "touch the moment," I felt lighter and more alive, noticing the plum trees, smelling wet grass, hearing wrens singing their morning songs. These simple observations, often overlooked in our rush through life, became portals to deeper presence.
My father's health scare eventually compelled him to spend more quality time with family, teaching him the hard way that life's richness lies not in constant activity but in meaningful presence. He began taking evening walks with my mother, started attending his grandchildren's school events, and even learned to enjoy quiet Sunday afternoons in the garden. In our over-caffeinated world, where productivity apps and efficiency hacks promise to help us do even more, I wonder if we'll learn to work with greater intelligence before illness forces us to stop.
Thay demonstrates this art of stopping through his own presence. At 84 years old, he accomplishes extraordinary things - writing books, leading retreats, guiding a worldwide community - while maintaining health and peace. Watching him mindfully drink tea one morning, I noticed nothing hurried in his movements, yet he's extraordinarily productive. Each gesture was deliberate and graceful: lifting the cup, breathing in the aroma, sipping slowly, setting the cup down. His remarkable presence demonstrates mastery of Right Effort-accomplishing great things while maintaining balance. Through his example, we learn that true productivity doesn't come from rushing frantically through our days, but from moving through life with awareness and intention.
第9章
The Alchemy of Suffering: No Mud, No Lotus
Tormented in the chilly meditation hall one morning, I found relief by taking the elevator down into my body through breath awareness. Though my shoulders remained like cement blocks, my relationship with pain became balanced as I stopped fighting reality. This allowed me to hear Thay's teaching that happiness blossoms from suffering like a lotus from mud-"Happiness is made up of non-happiness elements."
A good gardener transforms mud into compost for flowers; without muck, there's no joy. I recalled my friend Doug who understood this while portaging canoes-embracing both the painful path and the joyful river. Thay explains that understanding our suffering gives rise to compassion and love, the foundation of happiness. As I meditated on this teaching, I visualized a white lotus that breathed and bloomed with me, bringing gentle joy.
The non-dualistic look reveals that happiness and suffering inter-are like two sides of a coin. Looking deeply at our historical concerns while addressing ultimate ones helps us understand that suffering, like everything else, is impermanent.
This teaching was embodied when my flu worsened dramatically, forcing me to skip all activities and remain in my room. Though I knew this suffering could lead to insight, I struggled to dive deep into the pain, feeling sorry for myself instead. When I ventured to the kitchen for ginger tea, a gentle touch landed on my shoulder-a lithe Vietnamese nun with a radiant glow had come looking for me.
This angel took my hands and offered a healing massage. As I sank into my cot, she applied tiger balm with a ceramic spoon along my aching muscles, creating a golden glow throughout the room. Her touch came purely from goodness, and the love flowing from this nun I barely knew nearly brought me to tears. This was the epiphany-the lotus in the mud, joy in suffering.
第10章
Finding Home: The Journey's Completion
On my final day at Plum Village, I stood outside New Hamlet with my suitcase, having completed my forty-day pilgrimage. As a gesture of forgiveness toward Vanna, a pilgrim with whom I'd had conflicts, I picked a purple wildflower, practicing the Sister's "Beginning Anew" ritual for healing relationships. Though I couldn't find her before departure, I left the flower with her roommate, feeling immediate relief.
This Buddhist practice of blessing "enemies" with flowers represents a profound shift from Western thinking. I recognized that authentic kindness brings relief regardless of response, and this Eastern skill would enrich all my relationships back home. As I bid farewell to Sister Hanh Nghiem with a long, wordless embrace, I reflected on Thay's teaching that compassionate thoughts heal both ourselves and the world.
During a mindfulness walk with Thay and about two hundred practitioners on my thirty-sixth day, we encircled a lotus pond. Unexpectedly, Thay looked directly at me and waved. In that magical moment, his face transformed into that of a cherubic five-year-old child. As I waved back, I too became my pristine five-year-old self-two innocent beings connecting beyond time.
This transformation came from Thay's teaching: "When you walk on the mother earth you must walk with reverence. You are walking on your mother." I practiced Thay's walking meditation poem: "In, out. Deep, slow. Calm, ease. Smile, release. Present moment, wonderful moment." My mind and body united in perfect concert.
The pilgrimage fulfilled my yearning for a true Home-that strong, wise place to dwell that transcends pain and navigates life's turbulence. Looking at the French countryside from the train window, I silently vowed to remember Thich Nhat Hanh's inaugural words: "In the stormy ocean of life, take refuge in your wise self."
I had never left my Home.
