A dear friend of mine told me about Vipassana in Thailand. I had heard about it before but had never seriously considered doing it.
This time, while in Chiang Mai, I thought it was a great opportunity since there are so many monasteries in the area.
Finding a spot wasn’t easy. I applied to a couple of places, only to find out they were full. It wasn’t until the third monastery I applied to that I finally secured a spot.
Often, when I told people I was doing the retreat, they would say, “Oh, that’s hard.” And it was. But then again, what isn’t hard? So, I’ll just say it simply was. Like everything in life, nothing is inherently good or bad—it just is.
On the day I arrived, I was assigned my kuti, a small hut where I would sleep for the next 10 nights. Later, we had an opening ceremony with the other meditators. At first, nothing made sense. We had to repeat words and bow at certain times, and I felt completely confused. Confusion became the theme of the first few days.
I practiced over eight hours a day, alternating between walking and sitting meditation. Each afternoon, at 4:30 p.m., I would meet my teacher—a monk—who gave me daily instructions, almost like a prescription for what I needed to work on before our next meeting. I asked a lot of questions. “What if I feel lonely?” “What if I cry?” He would always reply simply, “Just acknowledge.”
So, I practiced. With every thought that arose, I would acknowledge it: “thinking, thinking,” and then move on.
It’s incredible how, once I gave my mind space, it started to feel more open, wide, indifferent, and empty. I felt a peace I had never experienced before.
I spent over 80 hours in the meditation room, just my body and my mind. When I wasn’t meditating, I was either eating or sleeping. The food was simple but nutritious and always included rice. I think rice is to Thais what maíz is to Mexicans—they even wrap it in banana leaves like tamales. Same same.
The monastery was full of life. Dogs roamed freely, patiently waiting outside the dining hall for our leftovers. I hope they like spicy food. There were also cats, squirrels, birds, and countless insects, all thriving in the lush, green ecosystem.
Birds became my most loyal companions, their songs pulling me back to the present whenever my thoughts began to wander. The trees were a feast for my eyes; I often stared at them during walking meditations.
Sometimes, Buddhist chants echoed from the megaphones, much to the displeasure of the dogs, who barked in protest.
I tried to slow down—both my body and my mind. Sitting meditation often brought physical pain. My legs would go numb, or my hips would ache. My teacher told me this was karma, perhaps from the killing of animals in Thailand. He would mimmick hitting a fish with a stick: “pock, pock.”
Although we weren’t allowed to talk much, I made a few friends. One nun even took me to a Buddha Day ceremony—a beautiful event where we offered small gifts like food and coffee to the monks.
Now that I’m back to “normal life,” I feel like I’ve embarked on an exciting journey of discovery. My life feels like it has a renewed purpose, and I’m eager to explore more. I’ll continue observing my mind and sending you loving kindness, always.
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