It’s not a bad way to wake up; it’s just so early. A Buddhist nun is ringing a brass gong, and it’s 5:00 a.m. My eyes open, then immediately close. Can’t get up. In fact, the gong sounds rather pleasant. I could easily sleep through its mesmerizing vibrations. To slip out from under my warm blanket would mean to face head-on the chilly air in my spare, monastic room. But meditation starts at 5:30 a.m, so I have to get moving—latecomers are not allowed in the Buddha Hall. Eyes open again. This time I brave the ice-cold air, wrap my ivory wool shawl over my still-sore-from-traveling shoulders, and head down the stairs of the residence onto the outdoor path leading to the Buddha Hall.
The sun is still quiet. I am now sitting on a square, navy blue cushion on the floor, in the first of eight vertical rows that stretch toward a magnificent, six-foot tall, white Buddha statue perched in a nook in the stone wall. There is a shrine of incense and flowers before it. Upon closer examination, I realize the Buddha is a salmon-pink color but the lights of the hall cause it to appear a brilliant white.
All the Sisters of New Hamlet and the visiting female pilgrims have gathered to chant, pray, breathe, and bow to the earth in reverence of the Buddha’s great teachings. Good fortune has brought me here, and yet I can’t help but wonder why the Sisters I see here chose this monastic life, essentially giving up, for good, romantic partners, having babies, café lattes with the New York Times on lazy Sunday mornings, and hot, lavender-scented baths. “And they get up at the crack of dawn every day,” I think to myself during a moment of mind wandering. Instead, I should be thinking: Breathing in, I am aware of my body. Breathing out, I release the tension in my body. “And they will most probably rise early for the rest of their days.” With this last thought, I gaze in admiration at the women sitting in meditation with me. And then I come back to the moment. Breathing in, I am aware of my body. Breathing out, I release the tension in my body. As I turn inward, my breath gradually becomes deep and slow. Attending to these languid whispers softens my body.
Later on, I will refer to nuns as women, only to be f irmly reminded by a stern-looking Sister who reminds me of a tough-as-nails-nun from my Catholic school days that Sisters are not to be referred to as women—they are to be called Sisters or nuns.
The first of my forty days is a whirlwind of beautiful bald heads, earth-brown robes, resplendent chants, and majestic surroundings. My deep curiosity touches all of it. Plum Village is another universe.
After dinner and linden flower tea with my new British friend, who had journeyed here with me yesterday, the two of us take a walk outside to see the blackest of country skies filled with masses of luminous stars. The air smells like the earth, damp and rich and cool. I breathe in the density. Three more thick breaths, and my fatigue finally catches up to me. I say goodnight to my walking companion and head back to the residence.
At the end of this long first day, the only thing I want is a shower. I am now standing in a washroom so tiny that every time I turn I bump a body part into a wall. “But this shower will be glorious,” I think. I can’t wait for the steaming, hot water to pound on my tired back. Body undressed, tap turned on, expectant delight. But instead of a forceful stream of fiery water, out comes a tepid dribble. A frown crosses my brow. Into the shower stall I go anyway, under the illusion that force of will could fire up a water furnace. But—and I know you’ve already guessed it—the very minute I am covered in soap, the trickle that was there disappears. I am buck naked, wet, and shivering cold. Did I mention I have itchy soap suds all over my body? I glance down at my goose bumps. But I am at a monastery and maybe the air is just different here. In the few moments of standing and wondering what to do, I recall Thich Nhat Hanh’s dictum, “Take refuge in your self.” “Right, that’s why I came here,” I think, “to figure out how to take refuge in myself—no matter what is going on.” I must not forget that the monk who uttered these true words is my guide on this journey. Simply recalling this relaxes me somewhat, and then my concentration sharpens. I think of my options. I can wrap my miniscule towel around my wet body and traipse down through the nun’s quarters and into one of their showers. I quickly dismiss that idea. I can stand here and pray that the water will come back on. That seems dumb. Okay, how about this? I can follow the monk’s suggestion and come back to the island that is myself.
So, here I am. It is ten o’clock. There’s not a peep in the residence. Everyone is in bed, and I’m standing here tired, cold, wet, and naked, with soap suds covering my entire body, in a beige-walled shower stall with no running water. In a monastery. In France. There’s nothing else to do but stand here and breathe. And then maybe, just maybe, some idea about what to do will miraculously appear. I stare at one beige wall of the rectangle shower box. An agile black spider crawls up one corner. She must be happy there’s no water here. I focus on her shiny, ebony spider body. In the next moment I hear my breath. I bathe in the sound of my breathing. I listen to the damp air coming into my chest. I am soaked in the sensation of the following exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Stillness. Inhale. Exhale. Stillness. I know I am breathing. Within about sixty seconds, my gooseflesh softens. I am yielding. Somehow, I begin to accept my circumstances. Whether or not the water comes back on has nothing to do with me, so why fight it with stiffness and inflexibility? “And, furthermore, why do I battle against all the things in my life that I can’t possibly control?” I am talking to the arachnid now. “I am able to rule my body, right? But I can’t control my surroundings.” I bring my face close to the now-motionless spider and examine her eight skinny, soap-free legs. “You know this, don’t you? Why don’t I always remember this?” I say it out loud, the ebony spider as my witness: “Take refuge in your self, Mary.”
- An extract from Mary Paterson's book "The Monks and Me".
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