Following a quiet journey that invited us to slow down, look up, and notice where our attention truly lives.
Many of us have quietly followed the monks on their journey by foot from Texas to Washington, DC. Along the way, some of our readers had the rare opportunity to meet them in person, to walk beside them for a stretch, or simply to pause and listen as they passed through towns and communities. Always nearby was their dog, Aloka, padding along faithfully… a gentle presence and reminder that this journey was as much about companionship as it was about purpose.
There was nothing flashy about them. No urgency. No performance. Just steady steps, calm presence, and a way of being that invited reflection.
In a world that rarely slows down, their journey felt like a long, collective exhale.
Monks live by attention. Not the kind that strains or strives, but the kind that settles. Walking while walking. Eating while eating. Listening fully, without planning what comes next. Silence is not avoided. It is welcomed, because silence is where clarity arrives.
Their days are not crowded, yet they are full. Full of intention. Full of awareness. Full of presence.
And then there is the teaching that often stops us short. The one about the phone.
Some monks have referred to our phones as our lovers. The words can sound sharp at first, but they are offered gently. They are meant to help us see, not feel judged.
We keep our phones close, often within arm’s reach, even while we sleep. We turn to them when we are bored, lonely, uncertain, or restless. We allow them to interrupt meals, conversations, and moments that will never return. We reach for them without thinking and feel unsettled when they are not there.
In the spirit of teachings often shared by Thích Nhất Hạnh, the concern is not technology itself. The concern is unconscious intimacy. Where our attention goes. Where our love flows. What we are leaning on for comfort.
A lover is something we turn toward again and again. Something we seek reassurance from. Something that soothes us when we are uncomfortable. When a phone begins to fill that role, monks gently invite us to notice.
They do not ask us to reject technology. Many monasteries use it thoughtfully and with care. What they invite instead is awareness. To hold the phone as a tool, not a companion. To put it down when we are eating, walking, or sitting with someone we love. To pause before picking it up and ask what we are really looking for in that moment.
Often, it is not information.
It is reassurance.
It is comfort.
It is presence.
The monks remind us that these things are not found on a screen. They are found right here. In the room. In the breath. In the person across from us. In the life that is quietly unfolding.
In a world that rarely pauses, I will close this with the blessing the monks return to again and again:
May you be well
May you be happy
May you be peaceful
