The Monk, the Motorbike, and the Monsoon

A quiet return to a sacred past, one Dharma talk and tropical downpour at a time

I’m finally getting my energy and curiosity back after surviving the TEFL boot camp. And yes, “surviving” is the appropriate word here it knocked the wind out of my sails and left the rest of the pirate crew looking equally shipwrecked. But the tide’s turning. My fellow adventurers are starting to come back to life, blinking into the sunlight like newborn foals, or at least slightly more caffeinated humans. A few have had interviews, some have even accepted job offers, and things are finally, finally moving in a good direction.

As for me? I’m easing into the job hunt with the grace of someone who just crawled out of a mental fog. I’m planning to start looking for a part-time gig in July something to kick off with the school year in August. I want a little breathing room to settle into the city first. Time to dodge, weave, smell, bump into things, and generally get my bearings.

Because honestly, I haven’t had the chance to really explore yet. And before I commit to any shiny new life decisions, I’d like a moment to just... wander. Get lost a little. Then maybe get found.

It had been seventeen years to the day since I was initiated into the Theravada tradition here in Vietnam. Seventeen years since the buzz of the clippers, the weight of the robes, and the quiet rhythm of temple life first settled into my bones. I hadn’t been back in a long time, but something about this moment post boot camp, pre-whatever comes next pulled me back.

The timing, as it turned out, was impeccably awkward. A ceremony had just begun. I arrived as the hall was already filled with monks and laypeople, seated in rows, bowls in front of them. A soft recording played overhead while everyone ate. I was quickly and gently ushered in and handed a small meal of my own, which I accepted with the vague disorientation of someone who wasn’t sure if this was real life or a particularly vivid flashback.

I scanned the room. A younger monk with a bright, freshly shaved head and an armful of tattoos gave me a casual nod before returning to his meal. It was a small gesture, but it anchored me. That tiny moment of recognition.

The meal lasted about forty five minutes. Near the end, the abbot began to speak. His voice crackled through the speakers in Vietnamese, slow and measured, followed by soft chanting. And then I heard it—the unmistakable cadence of his speech. Slower now. Softer. The long pauses between words carried weight, not hesitation. He was behind a plant from where I sat, mostly hidden from view, but every now and then I could catch a glimpse. A flash of saffron. The outline of someone who had given his life to calm and contemplation.

I was flooded with memories. Seventeen years ago, we had spoken often. His voice back then was steady and grounded, like stone underfoot. Now, there was a gentleness to it. Still wise, but worn at the edges in the way only time can wear a person. If I had to guess, I’d say he was around eighty five. Still present. Still leading. But with the softness of a candle nearing the end of its wax.

It stirred something in me. A kind of quiet sadness, but also deep gratitude. The kind that catches in your throat and settles in your chest.

Maybe this was exactly what I needed. Not just a break after boot camp, but a moment to remember where I came from. The long path that led me here. The chapters already lived. Before I rush into the next thing, maybe I just need to sit still for a moment.

And listen.

Next came the traditional ceremony and a Dharma talk. We all moved into the main hall of the pagoda and settled in, cross legged on the floor. The abbot took his seat on a raised platform with the other monks arranged behind him like a calm, saffron robed chorus.

Meanwhile, a younger monk wandered the room snapping photos with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly runs the temple's Facebook page. Maybe even Instagram, though I refuse to investigate that possibility further.

I couldn’t help but notice a few of the monks had mobile phones tucked beside them. Discreet, but definitely there. Technology has officially made its way into even the most sacred corners of daily life. No one is safe. Not even the monastics.

As the talk began, I found myself really looking at the monks. Not just glancing at them, but observing with intention. I wondered, did they look calm? Serene? Undented by the madness of the modern world?

Not really.

They looked a little tired. A little worried. The same way the rest of us do. The difference, I suppose, is that they’ve made some kind of peace with it. Maybe they understand their place in the chaos a little better. Or maybe they’ve just stopped pretending they can control it. Either way, there was something oddly comforting in that.

Eventually the ceremony ended. The monks filed out, the locals followed, and I was gently guided over to the abbot by one of the assistants. Up close, he looked even more frail than he had from across the room. His eyes searched mine without recognition.

He didn’t remember me.

Seventeen years is a long time. So I pulled out a photo I showed it to him, quietly.

This... this was me.

He took my arm, steadying himself, and motioned for me to walk with him. We moved slowly over to his small meeting table tucked in the corner. It was a quiet, simple space just a table, a few chairs, and the soft rustle of robes behind us as the rest of the ceremony faded out.

We sat.

I pulled out a few photos from my time at the pagoda. Images that had traveled with me through years and continents, now curling slightly at the corners, like they were exhaling with age. He looked at them carefully, one by one.

Then I showed him the document from my initiation my name written in both Pali and Vietnamese, a symbolic thread tying me to this place, this tradition, this strange and sacred chapter of my life.

There was a flicker of recognition, or maybe just familiarity. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. The silence felt full. Not empty, but known.

Two people, seventeen years apart, sitting across from each other with the same quiet question hanging in the air.

Was that really me?

He was so soft spoken. Just this calm, weightless presence sitting across from me. A stillness that seemed to anchor the whole room. But he didn’t remember me.

I hadn’t expected him to, not really. It had been such a long time. And he wasn’t just any monk. He’s a highly respected figure in the Theravada community a delegate, a leader. Back then, I understood that in a vague, reverent way. But sitting with him now, I really felt the scope of it.

There were monks quietly stationed around the room like guardians. If he needed something, one would glide in almost invisibly, attending to him with the kind of practiced grace that only comes from years of ritual. I noticed pictures on the wall him with the new King of Thailand, him being honored by the Vietnamese government. His life had clearly left a large footprint in places I can only imagine.

And I’ll be honest. There was a tinge of sadness tucked into the back of my throat.

I had built up this small, cinematic fantasy in my head. That I’d return to the pagoda, and he’d see me, pause for a moment, then break into a warm smile and offer a subtle bow of recognition. Something poetic. Something complete.

But life rarely lines up with the movie version we play in our heads.

Instead, we exchanged contact info. We’re Facebook friends now. A sentence I never thought I’d say about a senior Theravada monk, but here we are. I told him I’d come back again this week to see him.

I’ve spent enough time around aging loved ones to recognize the signs. The quiet fading. The way energy thins out and presence becomes lighter. The abbot is in the final chapter of his life. I don’t know how many more conversations we’ll share, but I hope I get a few.

Not for closure. Just for presence.

Just to sit with him, while he’s still here.

After my meeting with the abbot, I lingered outside the pagoda, waiting for my Grab motorbike and making small talk with a few of the younger monks who spoke some English. They were curious about me. About my journey. About what it meant to return to the pagoda after all this time. Their questions were kind, thoughtful, a little wide eyed. It felt good. Like something had landed where it was supposed to.

Then my ride showed up, and I hopped on the back of the bike like I hadn’t just had a tiny existential morning inside a sacred hall.

We made it about three minutes down the road before the sky decided it had something to say.

A storm rolled in out of nowhere the kind of tropical downpour that doesn’t ask permission. We pulled over just in time, huddling under a shop awning as the rain exploded around us. I put on my rain poncho, jumped back on the bike and off we went. It was not drizzle. Not sprinkled. Exploded. Buckets. Gallons. Whole rivers falling from the sky.

The grab driver and I were soaked and laughing.

It was the kind of storm that doesn’t just wash the city—it scrubs your brain, your lungs, your soul a little too. The kind that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, the universe is helping you hit a soft reset button.

The streets were cleaner when it was over. I felt a little cleaner too.

And just like that, here we are.

Back in the city. Ready to wander again.

LOVE & LIGHT

MM

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