Meeting my self at an American Zen Buddhist Monastery

September 24, 2023

I want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer
Rainer Maria Rilke

Table of Contents

The questions

Before I began my 5-week residency at an American Zen Buddhist monastery, I had so many questions. Initially, my questions were born out of skepticism, ignorance, and curiosity. As an Asian person, I felt protective over a religion that was being practiced in a modern Western context… can you do that??

What is Zen Buddhism?
What is American Zen Buddhism?
How does it differ from Chinese, Japanese, Korean Buddhism?
Why are all of the monks white?
Why is the sangha super white? TAnd relatively wealthy?
What is it like to be a part of a sangha?
Will I belong?
How does this practice apply to contemporary culture and life?
Would it be better to go to an Asian or Chinese buddhist monastery?

I also came with my own personal questions. Some of these questions weren’t even fully developed — just words, thoughts, and feelings.

How do I mourn and heal from ambiguous grief and loss (as an adoptee)?
How do I heal/address the grief and tension that I hold in my body?
What do I commit to?
What do I want to commit to?
What am I compelled to commit to?
Place of belonging?
Mortality.
Sense of self — who is my “self”?
What does it mean to be a soulmate to ourselves and others?
Feeling like I’m in it, but not of it… what is this?
How do I heal my suffering?
How do I stop running?
How do I return to the body?
Broadly and specifically, how do I approach relationships in my life?
How do I live in modern life with a spiritual practice? Or at least, a practice of discipline?

I had so many questions. The whiteness of the monastery, the sangha, and the monks made me very skeptical of what the experience could be. But my desire to commit to a deeper, more immersive experience, was stronger than my skepticism and ignorance. I was eager, maybe even a bit desperate, to (finally) meet myself in this context.

Week 1 – Adjusting to monastic life with skepticism and hope

I spent the first week acclimating to the monastic schedule. Waking up at 4:55am. Studying Buddhist texts. Sitting for multiple 30 minute periods each day (I had never sat for more than 30 minutes in my life!!). Making eye contact with people who were not shy about making eye contact (eeek). Engaging in caretaking and work practice. Eating vegetarian and vegan foods. Navigating the communal spaces. Finding joy in the small things, like the fresh honey, baked bread, crispy air, and frequent black bear sightings.

In the first week, there were so many names to learn. I mixed up two blue-eyed white boys even though they looked nothing alike. I kept forgetting the name of the gardener. I was glad that I wasn’t alone and that there were ~10 people who were also there for a month. However, I found it strange that I was the only woman. Initially, I was uncomfortable that everyone else was a white man, and that most of them had blue eyes! I had never been around so many blue eyes… By the end of the month, I never fully adjusted to being in such a white space with so many blue eyes.

On Day 3, during zazen (meditation), we had our first opportunity to meet with a teacher for face-to-face teaching, which is when we could privately meet with a teacher. What do we say?? What is the protocol? People advised the newbies like me to ask the pressing question. So, the first time I met the Abbott (the head of the entire monastery!) in dakusan, I asked him: Why did you come to the monastery? Why did you stay?

My question was fairly vague and broad. It felt kinda lackluster, but hey, that was what was on my mind. At this point, I was trying to wrap my head around why someone who grew up in the West would intentionally pick the monastic path of an Asian religion (even if it had been adapted for Western culture). It felt radical. Deeply clarifying? I wanted to know what kind of clarity and knowing he experienced to take that leap of faith. Instead of answering my question, the Abbott asked me about myself: Why did you come here?

I immediately started tearing up and overthinking. Oh no. What was happening?! As I shared a brief synopsis, I could feel my body tensing and overthinking. What is my story? What story do I tell? The pain. Is it enough?

The Abbott reminded me that nobody comes to the monastery because they are 100% fulfilled and happy in life. Even if someone can’t articulate why they are here, there is a reason. I nodded and I found his words echoing in my head throughout the month. Whenever I would talk with a monk, a month-long resident, a short-term resident, a long-term resident, a resident discerning monastic life, a visitor, or a senior student, I wondered: What brought you here? What is your story? …What is your pain and longing?

After that conversation, I thought I would cry more throughout the month, but I didn’t. I even preemptively asked one of the monks if it was OK to cry during zazen. She said, of course it’s OK to feel your feelings. But it’s also important to ask yourself, What are you perpetuating? Pain is inevitable, but suffering can be minimized (or eliminated). How are you perpetuating your own suffering?

Ack. It’s funny how the words of a monk seemed to linger a bit longer in my brain.

How am I perpetuating my own suffering?

Week 2 – Realizing that I was surrounded by love… I am love?

By week two, I was surprised by how every interaction seemed to remind me of love. I wasn’t expecting this.

I had never been a part of a sangha (Buddhist community), where everyone was really committed to their own growth and development. Even though I was skeptical, I grew to really appreciate the sangha. People were really good at making eye contact, listening, and holding space. It was the pauses between their sentences. Their presence. It felt so consistent. Genuine. Warm. I hear you. I see you.

People seemed to really care (for me), even though I was only there for a month.

After I shared my adoption story with one resident, she organized a gathering for all of the adoptees at the monastery to connect. It was a small gesture, but a really meaningful act of care.

It was also super helpful to connect with several Asian women in the sangha. I always felt some sort of unspoken uneasiness and discomfort with sitting in the zendo (meditation hall) or eating in the dining hall with mostly white people (even though we were engaging in an Asian religion). It was interesting. Part of it was constructed in my mind. But it was also very real and my reality. I’m grateful that I was able to express my concerns to the monks. I appreciated the sangha’s introspection and genuine desire to improve. I am glad that I was able to connect with other people of color in the sangha. I was not alone in this experience.

One afternoon, I remember sitting outside with another resident and I told her about how I felt uncomfortable when someone recently called me “beautiful, smart, and successful” because even though I know they were complimenting me, I don’t really know what they meant or saw. She smiled and explained that there totally can be a disconnect because even if those words may be “true,” it’s also coming from that person’s ideas, perceptions, and understanding of the world. Their idea of beauty, intelligence, and success may be different from yours. This really hit me. It brought relief and understanding. It reminded me that even compliments are coated in a person’s perception and inherent delusion.

One of my favorite places was the garden. I spent a lot of time weeding and planting vegetables. Before we started working, we would give an offering — It was a really nice, tender moment. The head gardener liked to pick ripe blueberries from the garden and share them with everyone. Every day he would say, Welcome to nirvana.

I wondered, what would it be like to experience nirvana more consistently in the ‘real world’?

The garden was filled with gladiolus and it became my favorite flower in the garden. The garden was filled with so much diversity. It made me wonder about why there is so much diversity in the world, even amongst flowers. It felt kinda extra. Superfluous. It made me wonder about God.

One evening after zazen, as I was walking back to my room, I saw one of the month-long residents staring at a beautiful sunset. It had just downpoured, and now the sky was a burning pink, blue, and yellow. He stood as still as a statue, just staring at the sky. I remember thinking, What is he doing? Why isn’t he moving?? And then I thought to myself: What is love? Taylor, that is love.

Even today, I still don’t really know why my brain said those words. It felt like a reminder that I didn’t want to forget. From that day onwards, I always made it a point to stare at the sky, stars, and moon after evening zazen.

Throughout the month, in addition to love, I was reminded of so much:

Hope
My light
My power
My favorite job (camp counselor)
What I want for myself
The stories I tell about my life
The truth
The grief and mourning
The messiness
The things I desire, but can’t (or won’t) let myself believe is possible

During daison, another face-to-face teaching opportunity, I sighed and told one of the teachers about how I feel like I keep having to remember just to stay afloat in life. How many times do I need to be reminded before I can just remember?

She told me: You don’t need to remember… just recognize. You don’t need to make decisions. Let things quiet (by sitting zazen). Then move from your Buddha nature. Your non-self is impermanent. Your Buddha nature is like the sun — bright, shining, sharp, and expansive — it is always there.

Week 3 – Meeting more parts of my self

During the first two weeks, I experienced general challenges in zazen… Stuff like physical discomfort from sitting multiple hours a day and staying focused with counting my breath. I mostly struggled with dozing off and falling asleep. I realized that I really didn’t like staring at a blank white wall for hours on end — I deeply craved external stimulation (or distraction??). One of the monks asked us to look into why we were falling asleep during a time that is dedicated to meeting ourselves. Ugh, haha. I think there’s definitely some truth in how I’ve used sleep as a coping mechanism to turn away from the pain and suffering I was experiencing. Oomph.

During week 3, I started experiencing physical sensations that were much more difficult and painful than just getting distracted and dozing off. This was beyond the basic discomforts of sitting zazen. I was having trouble breathing. My chest was tightening and contracting. My ears were ringing. My body was shaking and twitching. It reminded me of when I’ve experienced a panic or anxiety attack, and that freaked me out. I worried that I was losing control. “Going crazy” (again). Falling apart.

What if I fall apart… and “lose it” in front of everyone?

For several days, I tried to ignore it and push it down. But unlike in the ‘real world,’ I couldn’t run away or deny the experience. For several days, I judged myself harshly for struggling so much in zazen. First, there was a part of me that felt like I had to count my breath no matter what, because that is what we were instructed to do from Day 1.

There was another part of me that feared I was perpetuating my own suffering, and I could feel myself dogpiling on myself (again). I also feared that I was too deluded to be aware of this, and I worried that in the ‘real world,’ I might repeat the same pattern.

It was only until I talked with several monks and other residents, that I gave myself permission and grace to change things.

For the remaining weeks, I stopped counting my breath. Initially, it felt wrong because we were instructed to hold our hands in lotus position and be as still as possible (so that we could quiet our mind). But I just couldn’t. And more importantly, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to spend my zazen counting breaths! Instead, I did body scans. I observed my desire to figure out the “right way to do zazen” and stick with it, even though it wasn’t working for me. I would try to relax and observe how my body twitched, tightened, contracted, and moved during each sitting period. I met the tightness in my chest and stayed with the sensations. I observed the ringing in my ear. I followed my breath.

In addition to changing how I approached zazen, I was reminded that I needed to prioritize taking care of myself so that my body could handle the monastic schedule. In a perceived and somewhat comedic frenzy, I recall trying to immediately drink more water, eat more food, and stretch daily.

Zazen became a completely different experience. I sat on my zafu (cushion) and observed myself getting to the verge of my fears. I found myself meeting the part of myself that was scared of falling apart… Of shaking so much that my body might actually scatter into a million pieces.

What was going to come true? What was true? What was real?

I found myself looking forward to zazen.

What was going to happen this time?

Week 4 – What is true? What is real? What is delusion?

Until the monastery, I had never been around people who believed in the Buddhist concept of no self and were constantly asking the following questions:

What is true?
What is real?
What is delusion?
How am I deluded?

As a result, I found myself constantly ruminating on what was real and true.

As a newbie to Buddhism and Zen Buddhism, I realized that this practice was “hardcore.” This particular monastic lifestyle was deeply radical and unconventional. Zen was very philosophical and hurt my brain. The koan teachings were overwhelming. There were so many paradoxes and seemingly ambiguous teachings. Whenever I would begin to “freak out” or get “carried away” by my spiraling stories, I would be advised to sit and let the water and sand settle. Before the monastery, I liked letting the water and sand settle, but it felt different to do it in the Zen Buddhism context.

Time seemed to really blur at the monastery. On paper, the monastic schedule seemed monotonous. In reality, every day felt wildly different. I was never bored. I frequently found myself getting into a flow state. One of the residents talked about how the past, present, and future are constructed. These are just words and ideas.

Time is a concept. Space is a concept. The fourth moment transcends all of this. When you experience water, you become the water.

My mind was blown.

Every day, I would read from 7am to 8am on the same bench with my hot peppermint tea, and somehow, each time felt different. I sewed ditty bags in the stitchery for hours each day, and even though the task was the same, I found myself experiencing a fresh thrill with each bag. Every night, I walked home next to the same creek, and marveled at the crispy gurgling water — it never got old.

By the end of the month, I knew that monastic life was not for me. But I think I better understood why it could be so compelling for others.

Every day, I felt alive.

Week 5 – The final week in total silence

During the final week, we went into sesshin, which is an intensive week of silence. During sesshin, we didn’t read, write, use technology, or talk for 6 days. We kept our gaze facing downwards to avoid making eye contact with others which reminded me a lot of Asian culture. We experienced unique rituals like oryoki that were quite special, and surprisingly theatrical for such a seemingly stoic practice.

As someone who is constantly journaling, I struggled with the no writing part. I tend to rely on my journaling to validate my reality, process my experiences, and determine how I want to move forward. Over the past year, I’ve had periods of time when I stopped journaling and just tried to experience life unfolding one moment at a time… so it was interesting to experience it again during sesshin.

I had a lot of anxiety and nerves going into sesshin. I was nervous about sitting zazen for multiple hours each day and the possibility of falling apart. As the week unfolded, I realized that it wasn’t so bad. I really liked that we could do face-to-face teaching everyday because I got to ask a lot of questions!

Throughout the week, I remember asking lots of “Why” questions, and the teacher told me that I don’t need to know why. I will drive myself crazy asking why. Just see what is.

Another day, I remember her calling something wild, and that word stuck with me. Wild. I love being wild. I want to be wild and free (and also tethered and held). Oh, the paradoxes of life.

I remember asking her about faith, and writing down “commitment → faith.”

I remember asking about freedom, and writing down “your inherent Buddha nature.” Is that freedom?

Another day, the teacher said: Be unpredictable. You don’t need to let samsara dictate what will happen. You don’t know.

One day, I expressed how certain kinds of responsibility have felt like a heavy burden in my life. The teacher responded with: Responsibility can be a pleasure. Sensing your senses can be a pleasure. Sensing your anxiety. Sensing your pain. No stories. Just awareness.

Her response reminded me of how zazen is an opportunity to meet ourselves, again and again. And each time we sit, it’s like we are attending a tea party and get to meet all of the different parts of ourselves. In a similar way, I wondered how meeting my emotions at a tea party might shift my experience.

During the last few days of sesshin, a thought popped up: fear of loving myself. Is it safe (to love myself)? What is safe love?

The teacher asked me about what I thought about love and I said: Love is like a hammock. Not the kind of hammock that sinks and makes you feel entrapped. Those suck. No. The kind of hammock that allows you to feel free to breathe and sway. You can feel the breeze. It’s like a hand lightly holding a baby chick. You are warm. Held. Not clenched. Not manipulative. You are held.

Another day, I asked her about my fears of experiencing another low point in life. Right now, things felt OK and the waves were calm. But what if I entered another period of hopelessness and despair? I feared delusion to my own detriment. What if I am in it and don’t even realize I’m in it?

She paused and then pulled out her rakusu that was hanging around her chest, and recited a part of it. Rain. Clouds. Anger. Sadness. Joy. All impermanent. They come and go. Lasting happiness is within.

A part of me accepted the answer. Another part of me was skeptical. How am I going to remember to remember? Recognize.

The teacher responded with practical advice. Remember your medicine bag / tool box. Buy flowers. Have a drink! Take care of yourself. If loving yourself is difficult, try metta loving kindness. Or, maybe for you right now, love isn’t the ‘right’ word. Maybe it’s compassion and care?

And lastly, I remember the teacher said: every day is a good day… And I quietly finished the sentence with: Because I am alive… I am living.

Since then, I’ve recited these words to myself even if I don’t believe it. Especially when I don’t believe it.

Taylor, everyday is a good day because you are alive. You are living.

Life after the monastery

Once sesshin silence was lifted, I remember telling people at the monastery that I felt like a loaf of bread that just came out of the oven. I just wanted to let myself rest and settle. I was warm and sensitive. I was unsure what exactly was going to stick.

I hoped that there would be some continuity from this experience. I knew that I needed to sit zazen in the ‘real world,’ but I really hoped I would want to sit. I knew that I wanted to explore other types of Buddhism. I hoped that I would return to the monastery, but I wasn’t sure when.

In the first month post-monastery, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the experience. When people would ask me about the monastery, I found it difficult to explain, but also quick to clarify that it was not a “relaxing silent retreat experience.”

It’s been almost two months now, and I finally feel ready to look back.

During those 5 weeks, I asked so many questions, and got some clarity, but I still hold a lot of the same questions I came to the monastery with.

What I know for sure is that I didn’t have any big epiphanies. During residency, I frequently judged myself for not having big breakthroughs or aha! moments like some of my peers. Intellectually, I knew that it was OK, but there was definitely some disappointment and envy. I remind myself that it’s OK that I didn’t reach enlightenment. Even if I became an official Buddhist, I don’t think my goal would be to reach enlightenment anyway.

Instead, I’ve tried to appreciate the small joys and little nuggets of wisdom that have stayed with me.

When I have caught myself being mean to myself, I hear one of the monk’s voices saying, “Taylor, what’s the problem?” I remember her staring at me with her piercing blue eyes and it reminds me that yes, the problem exists. But Taylor, YOU, yourself, are not the problem. For so long, I have taken the problem personally and thought that I’m the cause of the problem. I’m realizing that it’s not always caused by me, and even if I caused the problem, it doesn’t make me bad or shameful. Can the problem just be a problem?

Overall, I’m really grateful to have spent time in a space that was filled with people who were figuring out how to live, love, and heal. I am grateful for all of the honest conversations and connections. Despite my own insecurities, I think people really saw me for me. Or, at least a version that felt fairly true and real. And for whatever reason, they generously offered their time, love, wisdom, and compassion.

It was a radical, weird, and special month. I’m grateful to have experienced life, moment by moment, in such a special space. This made it more than worthwhile and enough.