I Lived Like A Monk In A Monastery For 30 Days. Here’s What I Learned.
No, I didn’t shave my head.
When I heard about a Buddhism monastic-life program taking place in a Ningbo, China, I applied for a spot instantly. I told no one but my parents primarily out of the fear that I would be judged, ridiculed or misunderstood. And even then, statements from my parents included- “Are you sure this is the right decision?”, “If you’re in pain, try therapy instead?” So, before I get into this, let’s clear some things up. I wasn’t going through a quarter-life crisis. There weren’t any exes I had to forget about. And I absolutely was not looking to start over. The reason I went was simple: I was drawn to Buddhism, had some free time and wanted to learn more. So here’s what I learned.
Mindfulness is a way of life, not just about meditating daily.
A significant chunk of my average day at the monastery involved meditation. Every day there would be morning, noon and evening sittings. However, it didn’t stop there. Standing and walking-meditation was also part of my daily routine, the latter of which involved walks around the entirety of the monastery while focusing on one’s breath.
In addition to this, I was required to eat every meal in noble silence. As I sat quietly in the dining hall, I was permitted to use non-verbal signals so the servers could serve me more or less food. At the end of the day, after the final meditation, our teachers would strike the gong in the temple. This symbolised that all of us were to maintain the aforementioned noble silence until after next morning’s meal. The reason for curtailing communication to this degree was so we could begin to face our own thoughts.
The aim was to bring oneself into a permanent state of awareness- to broaden that awareness from meditation sessions into everyday activities. This state is also known as Mindfulness.
By permanent awareness, I don’t mean I had to fight or suppress any of the thoughts I was having across the day. Instead of controlling them, I was told to observe my thoughts as they naturally arose and subsided.
Non-violence extends to the food you consume.
Ahimsa or non-violence is one of the cardinal principles of Buddhism. Practising mindfulness cultivates a sense of compassion necessary for incorporating Ahimsa into one’s life. So why should non-violence stop at one’s food? Almost every Buddhist monk, by virtue of their practice, is vegetarian. In fact, one of the best ways to avoid meat-based food in China is to visit Buddhist temples and eat there. The monastery I lived in was strict enough to cut out dairy as well. A majority of our meals were completely vegan.
This hones in the point that Buddhist practice extends to every aspect of a monk’s life. Ahimsa is inspired by the belief that hurting another living creature is equivalent to hurting oneself. Hence, one’s food should not be sourced in an inherently violent manner. While there are sects of Buddhism that consume meat (some Zen schools, for instance), the majority of Buddhists live by the belief that eating meat is a violent act.
Those Buddhists who do consume meat justify it thusly: if the animal was not killed on their behalf (if it was served as an offering, for example), then it is acceptable to eat it. This still holds with the principle of Ahimsa as no creature is being intentionally harmed by the consumer.
There is no self.
This one is hard to explain. Another way of putting it is certain Buddhists believe that there is a set of functions that runs our body and gives us the illusion of a self. These functions are known as the five skandhas: body, sensations, perceptions, motivation, and awareness. In tandem, these functions make us believe that we have an enduring self or, perhaps, a soul residing within our body.
However, for Buddhists, this illusion of permanence is dangerous for achieving spiritual Nirvana. The idea of the permanence is a major contributor to dukkha or ‘suffering’. Believing that your own self (or any self) is permanent makes people form attachments to what they love. Being attached is described by Buddhists as one of the three poisons of existence since it convinces us that the object or person in our life will never leave. It brings us immense pain to eventually lose that object or person.
Hence, most Buddhists on their path to Nirvana shun the existence of a self as a permanent entity. Instead, they attempt to become cognizant of the impermanence within everything.
If you are afraid to stay present with your thoughts, you most likely need to.
One of the biggest worries of people today is that they aren’t busy enough. Having idle-time for leisure is looked down upon. Those moments in bed right before falling asleep are probably the most frustrating parts of our day. We finally have our mind to ourselves… but it’s not pretty. In fact, it’s anxious enough to conjure up the least relaxing thoughts possible. If this sounds like you, perhaps beginning to practice staying with your thoughts (by meditating or journaling before bed) is the best way to improve the quality of your sleep.
There are lots of thoughts we push away. “What if I don’t have a stable career in the next five years?”, “What if I’m too old for grad school?”, “Will I ever get married?” And guess what, the more you push them away, the harder they slingshot back.
At the end of the program, we were required to go on a 7-day silent retreat. That’s right; no words exchanged and no non-verbal communication with anyone but yourself. I couldn’t stand the idea of constantly being with myself. I was worried my thoughts would overwhelm me enough to break my silence. I was afraid to fail.
And yet, those seven days were the most beneficial aspect of the program for me. On day two, I broke down from the mental exhaustion and gave up during meditation. I was convinced I couldn’t go any further. Nonetheless, later that day I chose to continue. The following few sessions were among the best I’d ever had.
I realised I am capable of good and bad experiences and neither one is a reflection of my abilities. I ended up not breaking my silence for the duration of the retreat. After the retreat was announced as completed, words felt strange in my mouth. I now valued what I said out loud to people. I wanted to be very careful with what I chose to say to someone.
The truth is it never got any easier. What changed was my approach.
I began to see my meditation sessions as something I was progressively improving upon instead of set in stone.
A week later at the airport, while waiting in an abnormally long queue for checking-in, I discovered that I was calmly meditating my way through it. After all the training, mindfulness had finally become my default. Before completing the silent retreat, I doubted my abilities to master my anxiety. Now, I knew that my approach to petty frustrations was to calmly accept them, something I had practised for hours on end, instead of responding anxiously.
I left Ningbo having learned how to be more compassionate and patient. My resolve had improved, not because I was fighting my thoughts, but because I was choosing to surrender to them. I left with a deep understanding that things are perpetually in flux and nothing will truly last forever, as much as I’d want it to. Finally, my approach to life shifted from viewing my actions as rigid successes or failures to works-in-progress. Bob Ross said it best, “Over here there are no mistakes, only happy accidents.”
