An Ohio Girl in a Burmese Buddhist Monastery

Jessica shares the following reflection with us:

I still remember the first time I saw the monastery. It was like stepping into a dream, so far removed from anything I'd ever seen before. The wooden beams, the clay-colored walls, the endless hum of chanting—it was a place out of time, and I was right in the middle of it. I had just arrived in Myanmar—Burma, as some still called it—and I was ready to start my gap year teaching English. My name is Jessica, I was 19, straight out of high school in Ohio, and I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But it was thrilling, terrifying, and amazing all at once.

The monks were kind, but they were so silent. They barely spoke a word to me, and I was never sure if I was doing anything right. My room, if you could even call it that, was more like a little hut. It had a thin mattress on the floor, a mosquito net dangling from the ceiling, and no electricity—just candles flickering in the night. The window was just a hole covered with fabric, and as I lay down that first night, I thought, "Can I really do this? Can I live without Wi-Fi, without AC, without everything I'm used to back home?" But there was a part of me that was excited by the challenge, by the unknown.

The next morning, I joined the monks for breakfast. Just rice, with a tiny bit of spicy paste. I thought, "This can't be it, right? This can't be all they eat." I assumed that maybe they had a bigger meal later in the day, something more elaborate. But no, it turned out that this was it. I found out later that they only ate twice a day—once early in the morning and again before noon. They called it alms food, offered by the villagers who brought whatever they could—mostly rice, sometimes vegetables, occasionally a piece of fruit. I had thought for sure there would be a feast at some point, maybe something like a communal dinner, but it never happened. The monks accepted everything with such gratitude, bowing their heads as they murmured their thanks. Meanwhile, my stomach was growling, and I was trying to smile through it. It was humbling, realizing how much I took for granted.

One of the strangest things to get used to was that the monks didn't speak to me directly. At first, I thought it was because I was a woman, that they just weren't allowed to speak to women at all. I assumed they wouldn't even acknowledge my presence. But later I learned it was also a matter of respect—a way of keeping boundaries, regardless of gender. I didn’t really understand it, but I went along. The novices, these boys no older than ten or twelve, would grin shyly, taking my awkward English and turning it into Burmese, then relaying the monks' answers back to me. It made teaching a circus act sometimes, but it also made me appreciate the patience they had for me, and for each other.

One evening, the sky turned this wild, burning orange, and the chants from the hall filled the air. I was sitting outside, just watching, trying to take it all in, when one of the novices came over. He handed me a small clay pot and gestured for me to open it. Inside were a handful of tamarind candies. I smiled so wide I thought my face would crack. I assumed he was just being friendly, but I later learned that sharing something like that was actually a special gesture, almost like a little ceremony of acceptance. It was such a simple gesture, but it meant everything. It was like they were saying, "You belong here, even if you get things wrong." I popped one in my mouth, and the sourness made my eyes water. The novice laughed, and I laughed too, and suddenly, it didn’t matter that we couldn’t speak the same language.

There were plenty of times I messed up. Like the time I walked straight into the main hall with my shoes on, and all the monks looked at me like I’d just done the unthinkable. I thought it was just a minor faux pas, like forgetting to take your shoes off at the door back home. But no, it was more than that. I realized later that shoes in the hall was an insult, a huge breach of respect. Or the time I accidentally touched a monk’s arm while passing him a book. The horror on his face was enough to make me want to crawl into a hole. I knew physical contact was forbidden, but in the moment, I forgot. I assumed it was just a simple mistake that could be laughed off, but I could see how uncomfortable it made him, and I spent the entire night replaying that scene in my head, feeling like I was never going to understand their ways.

There was this one time that still makes me laugh when I think about it. I had been trying my best to fit in and follow all the rituals, but sometimes my brain just couldn't keep up. One day, I saw some monks gathering in the courtyard and thought it was time for one of their meditation sessions. So I grabbed my mat, slipped into the back of the group, and tried to imitate what everyone else was doing. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and folded my legs under me, trying to look serene and focused. A minute later, I heard a strange rustling sound. I peeked out of one eye and realized that the monks weren't meditating at all—they were actually lining up to feed the monastery's chickens. There I was, in deep meditation mode, while the monks were busy tossing grains to the clucking birds. When one of the monks saw me, he just smiled and shook his head. I could see that he was trying not to laugh, and eventually, I couldn't help but laugh too. The novices giggled, and I felt my face flush, but in that moment, I realized that not everything had to be perfect. Sometimes you just had to laugh at yourself. I still don’t know if the monks were really feeding chickens or if I just made it up to tell a story!

But then there were moments of pure wonder. The monastery was surrounded by thick, wild jungle, and sometimes I’d wander through it in the afternoons. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers whose names I didn’t know, and monkeys would swing through the trees while colorful birds flitted overhead. The monks would sweep the pathways slowly, their movements so deliberate it was like a dance. I tried to help once, but I did it too quickly. One of the older monks just shook his head, smiling at me, as if to say, "Slow down. Life isn’t a race."

And maybe that’s what I took away from my time there—to slow down, to stop rushing through life. The monks moved with such a quiet grace, and at first, I couldn’t understand it. I thought they were wasting time, but then I realized they were savoring it. Life at the monastery wasn’t about getting things done. It was about being here, in the moment, fully present. Even in the hard times, even when I felt lost or out of place, there was beauty in just being there.

I know I made a lot of mistakes. I still don’t know if I ever really understood everything they tried to teach me. But I think that’s okay. Because when I think back, I don’t remember the mistakes as much as I remember the kindness, the patience, and the small, beautiful moments of connection. I remember the chants echoing through the evening, the taste of tamarind candy, the warmth of the setting sun over the jungle. And for a girl from Ohio, that was more than enough.