Japanese Buddhism: Monk Training Review

By: Aditya D., Grade 10

Japan has always been a place rich with culture, tradition, and spiritual history. Among the many things that have fascinated me about Japanese culture, meditation and Buddhism have stood out the most. There’s something about the discipline, the serenity, and the simplicity of Buddhist practice that has always pulled me in. Admittedly, my first exposure to Buddhism didn’t come from a religious studies class or a book; it came from watching too much Ninjago as a kid. It’s funny to think about now, but those animated monks sparked an early fascination with the ideas of peace, self-discipline, and inner strength. Even if the origins of my curiosity were a little unconventional, the interest that grew from it became very real over time. So, when I finally stepped foot in Japan, I knew one thing for certain: I needed to explore Buddhism firsthand.

That opportunity came during the Kyoto leg of my trip. Kyoto, once the capital of Japan, is a city steeped in centuries of cultural and religious significance. It’s famous for its hundreds of Buddhist temples, stunning gardens, and preserved traditions. When we arrived, I was already buzzing with excitement. A simple temple tour would have been more than enough to satisfy me, but a bit of digging online led us to something even better: the chance to participate in actual Buddhist monk training. At first, I thought it would just be a light, tourist-friendly experience: a quick taste of monk life. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. What I was about to experience would turn out to be one of the most intense and unforgettable parts of my entire trip.

My day began at 6:00 a.m., earlier than I usually get up even on weekdays. But the promise of something unique got me out of bed. Before the training, I made a quick stop at a nearby café for breakfast. That’s where I had, without a doubt, the best pancakes of my life. I don’t know what secret ingredients Japanese chefs use, but their pancakes were unbelievably fluffy and paired with maple syrup that was sweet without being overwhelming. If there’s one culinary innovation that needs to be exported to the U.S., it’s Japan’s approach to breakfast.

With a full stomach and an eager mind, I made my way over to the monastery. As I walked through the temple grounds, I was immediately taken aback by the architecture. Every building looked like it belonged in a painting. The woodwork was immaculate, and the roofs curved gracefully like something out of a fairytale. The gardens were even more impressive—perfectly raked gravel, strategically placed stones, and trees trimmed with a level of care I’d never seen before. Every corner felt intentional, every breath filled with the scent of incense and pine. Just being in that environment felt like a spiritual experience, even before the training began.

When I arrived at the training hall, I took off my shoes and stepped onto the bamboo mats. That simple act felt symbolic, like I was leaving behind my regular life and stepping into something deeper. A head monk introduced the session briefly, explaining that we’d be meditating in the lotus position for two hours. Two hours. Not ten minutes, not half an hour—two whole hours. And not only that, but we were instructed to clear our minds and “think about nothing.”

The first twenty minutes went surprisingly well. My back was straight, my legs were folded, and I felt calm. However, the discomfort began to creep in. My legs began to ache. My back started to slouch no matter how hard I tried to correct it. I felt like my knees were being slowly set on fire, and every adjustment only made it worse. The real struggle, however, wasn’t physical—it was mental. The instruction to think about nothing sounded simple, but it was nearly impossible. My thoughts wandered constantly. I thought about the pancake syrup. I thought about my phone. I thought about my bed. I thought about how much my legs hurt. The more I tried to stop thinking, the more things popped into my mind.

The monks had prepared for this, though. At the start of the session, they told us that if we felt our minds drifting too much, we could signal for help by putting our hands together. A monk would then come by and—no joke—hit us with a long wooden stick. I’d assumed they were being metaphorical or joking, but no. It was very real.

After about forty minutes of struggling, I gave in. Curiosity and desperation led me to press my palms together. A monk noticed and walked over calmly, holding the stick in both hands. As he approached, I felt immediate regret. That stick looked serious. But there was no turning back. I bowed forward slightly, as instructed, and waited. The monk then delivered three quick, firm strikes to my upper back.

To my surprise, it wasn’t as painful as I imagined. It stung a bit, but not in a punishing way—it was more like a sharp reset. Afterward, I found myself strangely more focused, more present. Maybe it was adrenaline, or maybe it was the point all along. I don’t know, but it worked.

The rest of the session was still difficult, but I got through it. When the two hours were finally over, I stood up and felt like my joints were made of wood. I stretched slowly, every movement reminding me of how long I’d been sitting still. The monks then brought out small cups of green tea and some traditional sweets. It felt like a reward, a little ceremony to bring closure to what we’d endured. It also felt deeply human, like the monks were reminding us that even in intense spiritual practice, comfort and kindness still matter.

Looking back, that experience is one I’ll never forget. It pushed me far outside my comfort zone, both mentally and physically. While I can’t say I’m eager to sit in lotus position for two hours again anytime soon, I don’t regret it at all. It taught me patience, mindfulness, and even a little humility. I learned that true stillness isn’t easy to find, and that sometimes, growth comes in the form of sore legs and a stick to back.