Maybe the Monks are the Reason I'm Here

I’ve decided to believe that I am in Petersburg so that I could see, in person, the Buddhist monks who are doing the Walk for Peace across our divided nation. Sure, sure, I’m experiencing other things that I never would have experienced anywhere else. But, being handed flowers by Bhikkhu Paññakāra, the leader of the group, is up there with having taken part in Hands Across America back in 1986.

Truly, the experience was profound.

What’s interesting to me, though, is that it wasn’t just that the very brief interaction with the monks was meaningful for me, it’s the content of my thoughts before and after.

For context, last week, or really, the last two weeks…or really the last several months…

Oh, for fucks sake.

Since December of 2024, I’ve been riding waves of depression and anxiety. Perhaps we all have been to some degree. One day I think I’ve got it licked, and then the next, something seemingly small happens and I find myself gripping my little raft while we (my heart, emotions, mind, and blood pressure) navigate a tsunami.

Last week in particular, though, my empathy was full-tilt (which is why I didn’t have anything in the tank to write or post a piece to Substack). The beginning of the week pulled me under a bit because of the killing of Alex Pretti. Not just his killing, though. What really weighed me down was the response to his killing by the administration and its sycophants. That Monday, I posted a video on the Instagram page for the wine shop that was very similar to others on social media. The gist for my post and many others was: “I can’t just do what I normally do and ignore what’s going on.”

One person’s response to my post was basically, “It wasn’t ICE, it was DHS.”

For fucks sake. Really?! The guy said more, but that was enough. Just that seemed to sum up the apparent lack of humanity, empathy, and compassion so many people seem to have. Just that was enough to put me into an empathic spiral.

Also at some point during the week, my estrogen patch had fallen off. I’m not taking estrogen because of hot flashes or night sweats. I’m on estrogen primarily for the mental health aspects of peri-menopause. Before getting on the patch, not only was my body in pain for no reason, but I was angry to the point of rage and crying at even more random things than usual.

Since I’m a frugal rule-follower, I decided to wait a few days until I was supposed to put a new patch on, which would be Sunday.

On Saturday, when we got home from Costco, I had a breakdown. And not just any breakdown. No. This one was different than before. Before, I didn’t have words, didn’t understand, hadn’t read the books, and hadn’t done the work. This time, I had the backing of months of self-reflection, self-help books, more focused journaling, and all the work I’ve done on myself. One would think that would alleviate my anxiety and depression. Instead, what it did was create more clarity. Months ago, I was swirling and wondering what the hell was wrong with me, why can’t I just be fucking happy here, etc etc. Now, I’m past that. Now I know what I want and I know what I need.

The thing that has been like a straight-jacket to me though, is that I can’t see the way out. What I’ve been waiting for is that feeling of a path opening up. It’s a feeling I’m familiar with, and maybe that’s also part of the problem.

You see, back in 2019, I felt it. I wasn’t looking for it, though. Well, I wasn’t looking for the path that I found, let me put it that way. I knew something in my life needed to change. After a series of circumstances, I ended the long-term relationship I was in. Doing that allowed other options to come forward. By the end of the year, I was packed and ready to move to Missoula. It was hard work, but everything in the universe felt like it was standing at the ready for me. I knew what I wanted to have happen, and it all worked out.

Things just kept going from there. My life not only just fell into place, but it fell into a really great flow.

That is such a satisfying and freeing feeling. The feeling of becoming unstuck.

So my breakdown on Saturday, which really should be called a breakout, was probably the most honest I’ve been with myself and with Clint for over a year…because of all the work I’ve done with myself. After our conversation in the kitchen, my emotions weren’t done. Frustrations and emotions were released but nothing was particularly solved.

Clint went to pick up our weekly CSA bag. I went upstairs, laid in bed, and just kept crying.

It feels like I cried for several hours on Saturday. I don’t even remember eating lunch. All I knew is that I was due to work at the shop at 4PM. At 1:30, I was still puffy-eyed and there were still some tears stuck in my heart. Not only was I emotionally and physically exhausted, I knew the release wasn’t done.

For a couple of days, Petersburg had known the monks were going to come through. The back and forth of trying to figure out where I’d go to see them, if the shop would be closed, if I’d be off or take off work and how to make it all happen was stressing me out. The irony of being stressed out about the logistics of getting to see Buddhist monks isn’t lost on me. Just even getting to put my eyes on them was an act of patience and letting go in and of itself.

This is why I say I practice Buddhism.

Then add the element of figuring out how to close the shop at the right time and release my employee, Essie, so she could see the monks, too.

The whole situation was giving me diarrhea.

Logistical stress aside, though, by 1:30, I knew the monks were supposed to be walking along the street only a quarter of a mile away from our house. I just didn’t know when. The guesstimate was somewhere between 3 and 6 PM.

That was just enough time for me to get too deep inside my own head. Even though we’d known about this for a month and I had submitted an offer of food donation to the Walk for Peace organizer, I still fell into the thought: I’m not worthy of being in their presence. I’m in too much of a negative space to be around them. I don’t want to taint their positive energy.

At 1:30, I was completely willing to curl up on my couch and let them walk by. I created all sorts of excuses to tell Essie as to why we wouldn’t close the shop and why I didn’t need to see them. My own thoughts of not bothering to go see them because of not feeling worthy enough comforted me. Even though I knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Even though this had been very important to me. Even though Clint said he’d man the shop so Essie and I could go up and see them.

This was just like my first marathon. For 19 weeks, I had trained for it. At mile 18, my quads were on fire, but I was still running. In fact, my body was pretty sure it couldn’t do any other motion at that point. At mile 25, my mind gave out. “I’m 100% willing to just step off the path and walk back to my car. I’m totally fine with wasting 19 weeks of training with just 1.2 miles left.”

Then I saw my running buddy who was injured and had to sit out the race. He was all alone on the sidewalk, cheering. All he yelled to me was, “Good job, Burg! You got this!”

And that was the power-pellet I needed to make it to the end.

At 2:45, Cindy became my power pellet. She texted, “The RV with Aloka the Peace dog just drove by!”

My heart jumped. “What?! They’re here already?”

Before she could text back and tell me the monks were likely a few hours away, I had texted Essie to make a sign and we went down to the shop to get her.

When we got there, only one customer, a regular, was in the shop. He was sitting at the counter with a mug of tea that seemed to be finished. Since I knew him and he looked like he was done anyway I said, “OK! Let’s wrap it up! The monks are almost here! Let’s go! We’re going to go see them!”

Essie ran around like a headless chicken trying to figure out what to do.

“Just get your shit!,” I told her. “We’ll come back later to close up the shop.”

We put up the, “Closed to see the monks” sign and walked out.

On the sidewalk our customer laughed and noted, “I’m the only customer to ever get kicked out of Burgundie’s.” I laughed and then said, “Ok. Let’s go.”

We got in Clint’s car, drove up the street, and parked in the perfect spot.

Three hours later, the monks showed up.

At 5:50, Essie looked at the map and noticed congestion that indicated they were turning the corner onto the street where we were parked. Before we got out of the car Essie said, “I may cry a little, but I’m still a thug.” I hadn’t told her I had been crying all day - though she could probably see it in my eyes. All I could do was snort.

In the few moments we had while we waited on the sidewalk, Essie also said that the whole thing they were doing, this walk for peace, kind of made her sad. She hated the thought of what the president would say to them, or if he would even talk to them, once they made it to DC. She said she was afraid that all of this wouldn’t make a difference.

I get it. But we were there. And so were a lot of people. Petersburg really turned out, I’m happy to say.

Once the lead car came through, everyone grew silent. Any fear that someone would cheer or say something stupid vanished.

The moment they came into view, I snapped one picture and put my phone away. I wanted to experience them without my camera in the way. I wanted the experience to be burned into my memory the natural way.

Going into this, I knew I was going to cry. That’s probably needless to say. If I’m anything, I am a crier. What I didn’t know was how many tears I still had left to get out. By the time I put my phone in my pocket, they were already just feet away. I hadn’t thought about what I would do when I saw them, and so, without thinking, I dropped to my knees. My hands covered my face in prayer. And that’s when my heart broke open.

Once again, I sobbed.

But this time, it wasn’t for my situation here in Petersburg. It wasn’t for my own self-made suffering. It wasn’t for my pain. Not necessarily. I sobbed because my heart was breaking for our country, for the reason these monks felt the need to start their walk to begin with. I sobbed because just 2000 miles up north, there were people experiencing federally approved violence, and down here I was experiencing silence, peace, and a swell of compassion.

The contrast of the moment crushed me.

And as soon as it started, it was done.

The monks moved fast. And I don’t blame them. It was cold, they were close to the end of the day’s journey, and their message isn’t that peace comes by easily. These guys have suffered for us. One monk lost his leg. Aloka is recovering from surgery. They get treated by a medical team regularly. They’ve seen more of America than most politicians or regular Americans ever will.

I had watched the videos and yet I didn’t realize just how fast they walked until they had all walked past me.

At some point, the lead monk had placed flowers in my hands. They were the flowers he had taken from a woman just a few people away from me. I knew that was something they usually did and it didn’t bother me. It didn’t diminish the gesture. Their blessing was stuffed in there nonetheless.

While I was kneeling in the snow and sobbing, it occurred to me to open my eyes and look up. Though I still didn’t particularly feel worthy, I still didn’t want to have done all the work to get here and then not even look upon them. Plus, in my years of studying Buddhism, I knew I had a part to play in my own blessing. It’s not like Christianity where people “let go and let God.” In Buddhism, the whole basis is that there’s suffering in the world, much of it is because we want things to be something that they aren’t (i.e.; self-made), but the teaching is that there is a way out of it.

To stop suffering, you have to put effort into it. It may be the act of non-doing. But usually there’s some tough work that needs to be done. Monks aren’t going to just give me a blessing because I’m on my damned knees. I need to want the blessing. I need to want to end my suffering.

And so I looked up at them. I looked at their feet. I did my best to notice.

They each wore different shoes. I could see the brown skin on their ankles. Their robes were each slightly different - in a varied range of oranges, browns, and maroons - but also in how they wrap themselves. Their beanies were each different. Some monks were taller, some were shorter.

What struck me the most was the sound of their shoes crunching and squishing over the slushy, gravel created by the salt the city had thrown down to make sure they had safe passage. They walked fast. They didn’t walk in step. It wasn’t a slow, pensive pace, like a monk meandering in a garden. No. These steps held a calm weight. Each step was made with intent and purpose.

I could listen to the sound of monks walking on slushy gravel all day.

The next morning in my journal, despite my own meaningful experience, I wrote that I was worried, like Essie was, that what they were doing wouldn’t make a difference.

I wrote that, and then I paused.

No. Fuck that. If I feel that way, that means I believe that hate is stronger than love. And I actually do not believe that.

If I’m worried that our president will say something idiotic to these monks, if he even bothers to meet with them (if they even want to meet with him!), then that means I think he is more powerful than these 20 monks. And I absolutely do not believe that.

Sunday morning, I chided myself. Burg, no. Reframe this. Don’t come at this from a place of fear, anxiety, depression, and exhaustion. Tap into the monks’ energy. They’ve walked 2000 miles and still had days to go, and look at the peace in their faces. Listen to the energy in their steps.

No. What I believe is that love, compassion, and empathy are far stronger than anything our president can dish out. I do believe that these monks are making a difference. It may only be one person at a time. But what if it’s one city at a time? Sure, they’ve run into a lot of assholes. This is America, after all. We seem to breed them. But so many people have come out to support them. People walked with them in Richmond. Christian churches have hosted them. Every town has fed them. Each county’s police have escorted them.

The American South has been hosting and taking care of these Vietnamese monks for several months and for a long 2000 miles.

If that’s not something to feel hopeful about, then I don’t know what is.

And, I’ll tell you what, I needed this. I needed these monks. I needed the hope they brought along with them in that extended moment of peace. I’ll admit, I’m selfish. If they’re handing out blessings and messages of compassion, mindfulness, and peace, I’ll take it. I’ll take all they’re willing to put out there. That’s the beauty of a blessing, it’s not like a piece of bread. They aren’t finite and singular. The great thing about a blessing is that it’s limitless and unending.

On Monday, I told a friend of mine that I saw the monks. I told her what I’d been feeling recently and I told her about my experience with the monks. She said, “Oh, Burg. No wonder you cried when you felt the presence of the monks. Something is calling you.”

And I believe she’s right.

I want to believe, now, that I needed to be in Petersburg so that I could be in the presence of the monks. It’s an experience that means something to me whereas many people were just hoping to see them because they’re something like celebrities. Like, yeah, if Beyonce was going to be walking through Petersburg, I’d go and see her, and though I think she’s amazing, I know I’m not her biggest fan.

Me. I’m like the monks’ biggest fan.

What I hope to come from this is the illumination of a path. Or at the very least, I’d like to find the trailhead. I’ve taken so many paths in my life where the sign is covered in weeds, and sometimes even poison ivy. The path to take isn’t always as obvious as I’d like. But if I’ve found the trail head, that means I’ve figured out where I want to go, I got myself there, and I’ve cut away all the hindrances.

Metaphors are important to me. If I can’t come up with a metaphor, then the thing I’m trying to do probably isn’t big enough.

P.S. On Sunday I replaced my estrogen patch, for those of you worried that I’d forgotten. And I am making sure I’m taking my daily anti-depressant.

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