My Time in Robes

In some of the earliest Buddhist texts, it is said that just the mere act of seeing a monastic can be enough to spur one to shave their head and don the ochre robes. In fact, it was upon observing an ascetic—a wandering samana of ancient India—that Siddartha Gautama, the Buddha-to-be, was first inspired to seek out a path to the end of suffering. While these stories are meant to inspire us, reading as extraordinary, perhaps even improbable, I had my own such moment during my first visit to a Buddhist monastery in 2016, and, indeed, it did eventually lead me to shaving my head and joining the monastic order.

The Sight of a Contemplative

After months of reading about mindfulness and practicing meditation on my own, I wanted to see what monasticism looked like firsthand. In the winter of 2016, I booked a spot on a short holiday retreat at Blue Cliff Monastery, a center in the Plum Village tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh. It was not too far from where I lived, tucked away in the snowy woods of upstate New York. On retreat, I spent five days sitting, eating, walking, sleeping, and even talking, albeit quietly, with mindful attention. Within the stillness of the space—picture snow-capped pines, lotus ponds, and winding walking paths—I regained a connection with myself that I didn’t even realize I had lost during a rocky romantic breakup that I had recently gone through.

Was I hurting before I arrived at the monastery? Of course I was, but it wasn’t until the first evening’s chanting period that I would realize the depths of my pain—made even more explicit by the tears that rippled down my cheeks.

And yet it wouldn’t be until later that evening that my first sighting would happen. I was shuffling to the meditation hall for orientation, rushing, eager to escape the cold, when I noticed one of the monastics walking nearby. He was also headed to the meeting, but unlike me—who was hunched over and shivering, face tucked into a scarf—he seemed to effortlessly glide toward the wooden building. I swear a calm smile graced his lips, his robes flapping in the wind. He seemed unhurried and unbothered, and I knew then that I wanted the same peace that he seemed to possess so naturally.

After that retreat, I dove into practice. I attended retreats regularly, not just in New York but at other monasteries and meditation centers around the country. I devoured many of the ancient Buddhist texts, practiced diligently, and even attended and eventually helped to facilitate a meditation group for young adults in New York City. Every chance I got, I’d conduct mini-interviews with monastics I met, wondering what life would be like if I ever took the leap.

Then Covid-19 struck. Suddenly, the world I knew had been turned on its head, and for the very first time, I became afraid of dying. More specifically, I was afraid of dying with regrets. 

I had toyed with the idea of ordaining since that first monk sighting at Blue Cliff, and with a deadly disease ravaging the world, it seemed all too likely that I could miss my chance. That fear of death morphed into a sense of spiritual urgency—samvega—and so I decided to take the leap into robes.

I approached the abbots of Empty Cloud Monastery in New Jersey, and they—having trained in the Thai Forest Tradition of Theravada Buddhism—agreed to take me in as a temporary monk. I had already attended their retreats and volunteered at their meditation center in Far Rockaway, New York, for some time, so they felt comfortable offering me this unique opportunity. 

Temporary ordination is common in Thailand, where young men often join the monastery as a rite of passage or to “make merit.” At the monastery, one learns discipline, develops a stronger spiritual practice, and gets to actively participate in the overall culture. Thai society considers ordination to be extremely praiseworthy, and if one ordains even for just a short while, the good fortune you generate as a monk is thought to follow you throughout your entire life. 

Outside of Asia, temporary ordination is rare, and even more so for Western practitioners. But even if it would be only three months in robes, I would be grateful. I wanted to taste the spiritual life just like any other Thai practitioner might have wanted, and I was also lucky it was available essentially in my backyard. So in the summer of 2020, I requested and received temporary ordination as a novice monastic at Empty Cloud, and was given the name Sumano, meaning “joyful one.”

Stepping Onto the Path

When I first ordained, Bhante Akaliko Bhikkhu—one of my monastic mentors—told me, “The change that happens is not the change you expect.” While I didn’t really understand what he meant at first, that statement has echoed in me throughout my journey. 

For starters, lots of folks come to the monastery thinking all we do is sit and meditate. In truth, meditation is only a tiny portion of most monastics’ day-to-day lives. Monastics tend to spend more time working around the property, cooking, doing chores, studying, and spending time with visitors. Sure, the romantic image of the forest-dwelling monk is something many of us aspire to, but the reality is different—very few monasteries are run like that.

Simultaneously, when I first ordained, I expected to glide onto the meditation cushion and become “perfected” almost instantly. Instead, each time I sat, all the bitterness in my mind would swell up like a tidal wave right in front of me.

When we commit to facing ourselves full-time, we quickly realize how difficult that is. Gone are the usual distractions and crutches we turn to as coping mechanisms. Alcohol? Gone. Comfort food? Nope. Social media? Nice try.

Of course, in a monastery, one has the support of a residential spiritual community. Still, considering all that monastics renounce, one has to face their problems head-on. I learned so much about my mind, my habits, and myself throughout my monastic years. Even though the task was rarely easy, it was simultaneously invaluable. I survived the tidal waves and emerged stronger because of it.

After a month at Empty Cloud, I loved being a monk so much that I asked to continue on, and with that, I was all-in. I sold my house, quit my job, and let go of lay life completely. Later, I would receive full ordination in fall 2021 at Wat Buddha Thai Thavorn in New York City.

When we commit to facing ourselves full-time, we quickly realize how difficult that is.

As a monastic, dharma became my full-time job. Even though I wasn’t sitting 24/7, I constantly practiced weaving awareness throughout all of my everyday activities, balancing formal practice with “off-the-cushion” practice. To be fair, I tried to do this when I was a layperson as well, but it wasn’t until ordaining that I realized how much energy is diverted elsewhere—with thoughts consumed with earning money and building as well as maintaining a large social circle. 

Without these concerns of greed and distress with reference to the outside world, a huge portion of mental space is freed up for practice. Therefore, I began to study more deeply and see dimensions to the practice that I could not understand as a layperson—especially what it meant to live in dependence upon the generosity of others the way I did as a Theravadan monk. Moreover, I had the privilege of seeing people at their best. Supporters, visitors, and even curious passersby brimmed with generosity and vulnerability when visiting the monastery. When we walked with our bowls on our alms round, people gave whatever they could, perhaps a banana or a loaf of bread, giving simply for the sake of giving. People who clothed, fed, and cared for us did so for no other reason than because we were in need and that it was good to make merit. Did I deserve that? I don’t know, but these people sure thought so, and so I tried to live up to the ideals they had for me.

Monastic life involves disengaging from the world to cultivate oneself; then, one can be of benefit. The monk goes up the mountain to train and leaves village life behind. When they reach enlightenment, they return to share their newfound insights.

In the monastery, we rose before dawn for meditation, drank tea, swept the halls, and ate lunch from our begging bowls. We tended gardens and chickens and invited the community to learn about Buddhism and our way of life—online, on the weekend, and on retreat. Although the temple had its roots in the Theravada tradition, we wanted to move beyond sectarianism and simply practice and offer Buddhism to all. Indeed, listening, learning, and sharing from my experience brought me so much joy. Quickly and over time, my fellow monastics and I formed a small family, which was not at all what I thought would happen. It dawned on me one day in meditation that this kind of community was something I had been seeking all my life.

Bhante Akaliko was right. The change that happened was not the change I expected.

Changing Paths

One spring afternoon, my mom visited. Over tea on the monastery patio, she shared that my dad had contracted Covid and had been hospitalized. The hospital had released him after a week of observation, but they hadn’t told me because they didn’t want me to worry. I realized up until that point that I had never really considered the prospect of my parents’ death, even though they of course continued to age. I called him later that day, comforted by his raspy voice. From that moment on, I made death a frequent subject of my meditation, and it motivated me to practice even more diligently.

The fear of death that spurred me to ordain had evolved, and led me to the conclusion that I wanted to be with the people I loved for this brief time we shared on the planet together—my parents, my friends. I came to see how being a friend, a child, and even a stranger, can also be of benefit, and I also wanted to connect with more folks like me—people of color, queer people, and people who were interested in an expansive, freeing sense of who and what they could be.

By peeling back and examining the many layers in the mind, I saw more clearly those aspects of myself I wanted to transform but also those I wanted to nurture.

I’m not like the monk on the mountain: I didn’t reach enlightenment, but slowly I realized I wanted to return to the village. For months, starting in winter 2021, I contemplated my decision to leave monasticism, and in May 2022, I disrobed.

I never intended to ordain for life. When I requested ordination at Empty Cloud, it was with the intention of doing so for the summer. I was not quite sure for how long I wanted to ordain, and I had promised myself that if being a monastic ever stopped feeling right to me, after deep reflection, I would honor my feelings and disrobe.

I also never thought I’d “discover myself,” as a monk. Wasn’t I supposed to be dissecting and freeing myself from the illusion of self? By peeling back and examining the many layers in the mind, I saw more clearly those aspects of myself I wanted to transform but also those I wanted to nurture. While one may never find a “true self,” I realized this new “I” was like a plant I could water, prune, and grow. Ironically, this exploration allowed me to see lay life as another expression of the concept of selflessness, my belief that we are forever changing and growing, and, it is hoped, doing so with consideration and care. 

Love in Action

As a monk I learned just how resilient and kind I could be. Unsurprisingly, the practice of the four brahmaviharas now form the core of my practice, on and off the cushion. While love, compassion, joy, and equanimity may seem like simple, straightforward skills on the surface level, I’ve found that it is these very habits of mind that are tested each and every day.

A few months ago, my mother called me, frantic. One of my younger brothers had climbed out of his bedroom window and ran away, convinced he was being chased by someone who wanted to murder him. He’d had a psychotic break. Fortunately, he returned home unharmed, but my parents entered him into psychiatric treatment at a residential facility for a couple of weeks. He was depressed, anxious, and sad. Eventually, doctors diagnosed him with schizoaffective disorder and he returned home, with medication and regular therapy to treat the condition.

What do we rely on when things go awry in life? What can we offer to the people in our own lives? For me, sitting with him, talking to him, being there for him, meant I needed bucketloads of loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity to offer—tangibly and not. Showing up, taking time out of our busy lives, making sure we don’t get consumed by grief and worry—those are the kinds of skills I built up throughout my practice.

Being a monk taught me many things, but what I value the most is how I learned to see and appreciate people for their complexities—beings who are often resentful and afraid, yet also kind and hopeful—and this grew my heart and my metta immeasurably. 

Basking in Gratitude

Japanese-American artist Hikaru Utada said in a recent interview that “happiness is only a concept . . . the only way anyone can really feel happy is by feeling fortunate and grateful.” That resonates with me deeply. I am grateful for all the friendships and connections I made throughout my ordination, which saved me in some of my most desperate moments. If it weren’t for the overwhelming curiosity, trust, and generosity of all the people I met along the way, living as a monk could not have lasted for even a month. But it lasted for years, and that is something I do not take for granted.

I do feel happy. And that’s because I am lucky to have experienced and learned all that I did. Because of that, the phrase that graces my lips whenever I think back on my time as a monastic is simple but indescribably profound. It’s “thank you.”