Fire Horse- Memories from a Buddhist Monastery

Part 1.

The mornings began before I fully understood what they were doing to me. I couldn’t remember why I agreed to this experiment; I kept telling myself, ‘Remember your why, remember your why.’ But it wasn’t like in an American movie where you recite that into the mirror. We didn’t have that luxury, a mirror in a monastery, maybe it simply seemed unnecessary.

The air was cold in that characteristic way old buildings feel at night. I wrapped myself in layers and stepped into the corridor, feeling part of my past and part of something I hadn’t yet grasped. That first morning, I literally stumbled.

When I pictured the experience, everything appeared straightforward and inevitable, as if merely crossing the monastery’s threshold would suddenly bestow wisdom upon me. I thought that entering would trigger a natural transformation — I longed for clarity and insight to honestly feel like welcoming gifts, but instead, nothing happened. I was just cold, hungry, and completely exhausted.

During morning practice, I was always a heartbeat behind with every move. My understanding of their Mandarin was limited at that time — my university Chinese, which was once well-practiced, had become sounds and tones that my mind couldn’t quite grasp yet. So, I simply followed their lead. For days, I shadowed them, mimicking the angles of their spines, the lift of their joined palms, and the shifting weight through the soles of their feet. Through this, I learned—my body absorbed what my mind was not yet able to understand.

Days passed almost in complete silence. I think they had to adjust to me too — someone who didn’t match their rhythm, a foreigner, and also a woman. I sensed the dual burden of being seen and unseen. I was definitely there, but felt somewhat on the periphery, like a footnote in a text written long before I arrived. That humility — the forced feeling of smallness — humbled me more than I expected.

Eventually, I stopped trying to earn my spot. I no longer overcompensated with excessive discipline or heightened attentiveness. I merely waited—waiting for time to pass, for the days to unfold naturally, and for my self-imposed exile to end. Then, just as I had resigned myself to that harsh silence, someone finally reached out and spoke to me.

Afterward, I engage in teachings after my early morning movement practice. It’s hard to describe what I feel during these moments, and I believe words can't completely capture it. Some experiences are beyond description and tend to fade when I try to organize them. I can only share glimpses—certain images. Come, join me in these fleeting moments.

The room was simple, light filtering in through narrow windows. There was no furniture; we sat on the floor, and some of us had a pillow. The floor was cool beneath our folded legs. I remember the sound of pages turning. I remember, my impatient mind, still trained to perform, kept trying to analyze, to categorize, to understand correctly, and answer properly to questions nobody even asked. I recall feeling intense frustration as repetitive actions turned monotonous and my thoughts started to slow down. I remember staring into the candlelight for hours or observing a piece of dust dancing in the sunlight. I lost track of time, waking up with numb legs and fingers turned blue from cold I didn’t even notice.

I remember koans, lots of koans. A koan is a short, stimulating story or question used in Chan practice to challenge our typical thinking and lead us toward deeper understanding beyond ordinary logic. Its purpose is to eliminate the need for a concrete answer and to let the question itself dissolve entirely.

Two monks were arguing: one said the flag was moving, the other said the wind was moving. The master said: it is not the flag moving, not the wind moving — it is your mind that is moving.

It all began with héshí — hands gently pressed together at the chest, fingers pointing upward, shoulders relaxed, and breathing steady. The two hands coming together formed a symbol of unity, representing the end of conflict: self and other merging peacefully. Raising the hands to the forehead symbolized a wish for mental clarity. Moving toward the mouth signified a pledge for honest speech, and returning to the heart reflected a promise to act with integrity.

Although much from that time has faded at the edges, this gesture left a lasting impression on me and now influences how I approach every person and living being. My goal is to keep my thoughts, words, and actions aligned. Whether fortunate or not, I also expect the same coherence from others, and 97% fall apart relatively quickly under that standard.

I learned the meaning of bowing. You start by gently folding forward from the hips, lowering your head beneath your heart to symbolize the mind moving into subconscious awareness. In full prostration, you kneel and touch your forehead to the ground, with your body momentarily horizontal, unguarded, and your open palms resting on the floor for a few seconds. This act of exposure signifies vulnerability, showing you are unarmed and trusting that this openness won’t be misused. The ritual involves three bows: one to Buddha in recognition of awakening, one to Dharma for truth, and one to Sangha as a tribute to the community.

It’s painful to share this because today someone exploited the vulnerability I had allowed myself to show. I suppose this is the risk of bleeding among sharks. However, I shouldn't be surprised since it was through my morning teachings on Buddha's words that I became familiar with such insights. I must confess, despite how difficult it sounds, I initially hated these teachings. I resisted them with all my being. In my defense, I was only twenty and had experienced so little of life compared to what I understand now — lessons that, unfortunately, have proven themselves repeatedly.

Life is suffering. The more you love, the more you suffer. And at the time, sitting in that small room, studying those sentences, I remember wanting to escape when I first heard: The problem is, you think you have time.

That line frightened me more than anything else; now it’s tattooed on my arm as a permanent reminder not to wait. Not to postpone that call, not to delay love because it feels inconvenient or too intense—live while you can, love while you can, say it while you can, say it too soon, say it too loud—just say it, because you never know which hug or goodnight kiss will be the last before everything shifts, which phone call will be the one to separate the “before” from the “after” in a blink of an eye.

When I left the monastery months later, I found the city to be surreal and hostile with its overwhelming brightness. The sounds were painfully sharp, the lights appeared overly artificial, the conversations moved too quickly, and the smells were unpleasant. I felt uncertain about how to reconnect with people. Reintegration into a world that seemed endlessly overstimulating was confusing. Food, especially, seemed exaggerated; the sweetness was artificial, so I avoided flavors that once felt familiar. It was as if I was looking at everything through glass or from inside a bubble — present but detached from it all, not truly part of anything.

I recognize that sensation now.

New York — the city that once drew me with its promise — now occasionally leaves me feeling disoriented. The towering skyscrapers, glass facades, and polished shine, combined with the relentless noise and the way everything is pushed aggressively at you — larger, brighter, faster, richer, shinier. The spectacle itself dulls the senses, as if this glare exists to hide the real cost.

People often describe it as beautiful, grand, and limitless —the center of the universe. Wow, this city definitely has an excellent marketing team. But OK, let’s assume that’s true. I sometimes still feel it’s true. However, underneath its brilliance, there’s a structure that demands more than human effort just to sustain. Productivity becomes as essential as oxygen, and exhaustion becomes a normal part of life. Even the carrots are made to seem sweeter because raw reality feels too intense for people to handle; the pure flavor of unfiltered truth would be overwhelming.

Sometimes, it feels like the city intentionally blinds you with its brightness, leaving you unaware of your inner loneliness and the difficulty of forming genuine connections amid the rush. In NYC, there's always more—more excitement, more options, or just something different. It exposes how fragile the safety net is and how thin the line is between merely surviving and breaking down. It’s almost ironic that in one of the world's richest cities, people may hesitate to call an ambulance when necessary because of the cost.

And they endure in silence. We do too. We carry our pain, analyze it, and hope it will pass — whether it's the bill, the injury, the panic, the night, or life itself. We long for an end to these struggles: the discomfort, the fear, the isolation. Sometimes, we're unsure which ending we're actually seeking. God Bless New York. I desire to be fully present, not anesthetized by your dazzling lights.

Later, I completed my thesis on Chen Buddhism, became fluent in the language, and graduated summa cum laude. I worked as expected—a Chinese-speaking psychologist was an ideal match for the Chinese Bank. However, I disliked the job, left it, and gradually forgot most of the language, as I never really used it afterward, aside from those three months—the only time I was an employee.

When I took refuge, I did it in my own awkward, stumbling Chinese, carefully explaining that my Christian identity still mattered to me, that I could not renounce it without losing something essential, and that if taking refuge in Buddha required erasing that part of myself, I would not be able to commit — and what I received in return was surprising spaciousness, assurance that I could remain Christian and still walk a Buddhist path, that perhaps my faith was never about choosing one camp but about carrying forward what is true and alive in each tradition for me.

When you take refuge, you are asked three questions, and you must answer “wǒ néng” — I am capable — are you capable of taking refuge in the Buddha, in the Dharma, in the Sangha?, and you say yes, I am capable.

This past year, as many of you now know, has been the hardest and most demanding year of my life, filled with challenges I once believed I was not strong enough to navigate. I remember standing in front of my apartment door the day my little dog died, collapsing before I could even turn the key, unable to cry, unable to move, my hand refusing to function because I knew that once I stepped inside, she would not run toward me with his tail wagging, and I felt incapable — incapable of walking in, incapable of meeting the eyes of my other dog and watching him understand what it means that I’m coming alone, incapable of carrying my own grief and his at the same time — and I stood there for minutes, repeating to myself, in myself, stubbornly, fithout really feeling it, just kept repeteing it: yes, I am capable, I am capable; wǒ néng, and somewhere in that repetition I realized I have no choise, I have to be capable, I have to f@cking wǒ néng. This time, it’s not a question of decision. And just as of today, I realized that I’m not only capable of bearing his pain, but also I am capable of protecting him from more of it, capable of keeping him from attaching to someone unworthy and breaking his heart, and I’m capable of guarding myself as well.

The phrase “Wǒ néng” has guided me throughout the year. Today, I want to remember how it feels to bow, breathe deeply, relax my head below my heart, and then rise steadily. It’s now 4:35 a.m., and although I haven’t finished what I want to say, I’m exhausted, so I’ll split this into two parts. This is a teaser for you and a reminder for myself: I still want to share the story of the Fire Horse. Much love.

To be continued