After my sister was killed, I married a violent idiot, tried to drink myself to death — again — went back to a twelve step program, found an incredible shrink, an apartment, a sponsor, a job, and some tiny hope that I might live despite all the mayhem and chaos and humiliation and lack of sleep and starving myself. I needed a higher power. God was not something I had ever trusted. God didn’t keep my father from drinking, me from drinking, my best friend alive, my sister safe, or anything about the terrible state of the world. Religion was the enemy in my childhood; laced with fear, guilt, remorse, and boredom. Church was a place my cranky grandmother loved beyond anything — including her own children — where we were dragged to mass on the rare occasions of a visit, doilies pinned to our hair, face washed with her spit, to be bored senseless in a cold building filled with suffering saints.

It was hopeless until I found the monk. The monk was a Rinzai Zen master who took one look at me sobbing in his yoga class and said, “Come, write, study, and heal.” He had already figured out I was a depressed, confused-but-published novelist who would gladly move into his monastery in the Catskills part-time, commute to my creative writing job in New York, and devote myself to what — Zen Buddhism — well maybe, but more likely him. I was sent to bowl orientation where a wonderful, gay, ex-opera singer monk taught the finer points of eating a silent Zen meal complete with wrapped bowls put into descending order, chopsticks, unfriendly-to-chopsticks food, an obligation to finish everything or hide the remains in the sleeves of your robe, resist eye contact, etc. I failed bowl orientation so many times he finally decided I just had to do my best.

The monastery was made of wood, beautiful wood that needed to be polished by people like me. There was bread to be baked, maple syrup to boil, and yoga classes. We chanted for two hours before breakfast and were then given a single cup of green tea. I didn’t hear anything about not having a coffee maker, not eating chocolate bars, not reading anything but Buddhist texts, so I happily pursued articles in Vogue and various books I never had time to read. I left every Monday, taught my classes, spent the night in my NYC apartment, saw all my crazy friends and then drove back to the monastery to polish wood and not write. How could I write? It was like some weird Disney movie with chipmunks crashing our morning sits to chitter and stare and throw nuts, hours and hours of meditation, going to see the Roshi who said little I understood but somehow it was all comforting and everything smelled good. I had sexy fantasies about the monk during our endless sits, but he assured me it was normal. Soon, he promised, my mind would completely clear.

One day I was hurrying to the evening sit, leaving bread rising, my shoulders no longer bowed with grief, my body lithe with yoga and things you eat with chopsticks and I stopped and thought, “I need to go back.” Go back to the imperfect, flawed, wild world that helped make me a writer, to NYC where there were homeless people, loud neighbors, pizza, and the struggle which made for great stories. I drove down to my monk’s house where he was playing the Zen flute. He looked delighted to see me.

“I’m going home,” I said.
“Darling,” he said, “this is your home.” He opened the door and behind him I saw a roaring fire, wonderful art, books, and Zen instruments he would probably teach me to play. Or not. I was terrible at music.
“No,” I said. “I need to live in the world.”
“The world is a terrible place,” he said.
I nodded. A lightning bolt lit up the sky. He was right. The world was a terrible, beautiful place. I went home.

—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach

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