Inside the Monastery: A Life of Stillness
Are you curious about what is like to be in a monastery? Here I share some thoughts.
As the first glimpse of light appears in the sky, the wake-up bell is invited. It’s 5:45 AM, and I can hear the birds waking up as well. The light emerges softly, carried by the gentle, fresh morning breeze. I wash my face, change out of my pajamas, and grab my favorite meditation pashmina to head to the meditation hall, where the morning sitting begins promptly at 6:30 AM. I am at Plum Village, France, the monastery I frequent, and I’ve been here a month now. There’s something quietly miraculous about the way the day begins here. When silence wraps around me, a feeling of gratitude invades every cell of my body.
Half an hour of sitting meditation—guided or in silence—is how our day begins. We’re still observing noble silence, which is a delicious state for me to be in. If you wish, you can exchange subtle smiles with those around you, but there’s no chit-chat, no small talk. It’s the perfect way to enter the day.
After meditation, we head to the dining hall and line up for a buffet breakfast. Every day, the options are the same, but because it’s a buffet, you can personalize your bowl differently if you prefer. I like my oatmeal with extra raisins, apple, banana, and peanut butter… always the same. I even make it the same way when I’m back home. However, the taste of a meal eaten in silence, surrounded by others also in silence, is exceptionally more delicious. You notice every single bite, the textures, the flavor profiles, the sound of your teeth breaking the apples, and the sensation of the food traveling down your throat.
The day unfolds in easy steps, mindful breaths, slow walking, and deep relaxation. Sometimes noble silence continues until noon and that is my favorite kind of morning. This slow pace may seem boring, but I have never felt more awake to the details of life. I always notice the sunrays sneaking through the branches, the quiet sound of the bees when I sit under the linden tree, or the direction of the wind as it brushes against my skin. Simple, yet deeply touching.
Lunch breaks the silence, and the afternoon flows into casual conversations at the tea house, small group sharings, or free time to bask in the sun, if the weather allows. I usually like to eat with the monks; I find it easy to engage in random or profound conversations, but especially I love their siblinghood. There is always laughter and care; it’s very special to belong here, even if just for some time.
A friend asked me once,
“Who have you met that you’re excited to visit again?”
I paused to reflect. Then she added,
“That doesn’t live in the monastery.”
“Oh… I don’t know,” I said puzzeld. “I’ll have to think about it.”
I told this to a monk friend, expecting he might offer advice about making more friends. But he smiled and said jokingly,
“Well, it’s easier if all your friends are in one place.”
“I’ll take it,” I laughed.
We all have roles at the monastery: washing pots, cleaning toilets, chopping vegetables, sweeping floors, or setting up the meditation hall. Whatever it is, it’s our time for service. Sometimes we sing songs before beginning, and it brings a light, joyful spirit to the work. Then it’s dinner time, followed by evening sitting meditation, and the noble silence begins again. Because it’s summertime and the days are longer, I walk to watch the sunset just outside the monastery. It’s become my favorite ritual.
This repeats almost every day, except on Lazy Day. On that day, there are no plans. But tomorrow is Lazy Day, and we’re going to the lake with a group of friends, both lay and monastic. Yet even these are unhurried, easy adventure plans.
The craziness of the outside world feels farther and farther away. The peaceful energy we cultivate together allows me to witness the hardships we’re facing as humanity, and to explore ways in which this peace might extend beyond this territory but without anxiety or guilt.
Rooted in this presence, I can find more clarity in my thoughts. I can open my heart to let it guide my decisions. I can navigate the winds of uncertainty I’m traversing right now. I can make space for my sorrow, and also invite imagination to envision possibilities.
Before I left, I was shedding the remnants of everything that wasn’t important in my life, detaching from outdated identities. Once there, I saw how I emptied my plate, beginning anew with myself. The freedom to write a new story again. But freedom can feel vertiginous, too vast to grasp.
I was afraid of coming back home to that vastness, to a white canvas without knowing what to paint on it. With a tender heart. To noisy days.
But as I reintegrate into my routine now, I’ve come to feel that if I close my eyes and place myself back into the Buddha field, I become that field. I become the silence and the wind in the leaves, the stillness of the Buddhas, the peace of the pace. I am not separate from the monastery; I carry it within me wherever I go.
Because I, too, am the monastery.