By KATE TALANO

When I arrived at Plum Village for what became my year of residency, I carried a quiet but persistent belief that something was wrong with me. That I had somehow fallen out of alignment with life and had to fix myself to return to the light that I had recently touched while sitting with my grandfather as he transitioned.

But during my year at Plum Village, slowly and with great tenderness, that belief began to unravel as my practice with the Three Jewels—the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha—deepened. I didn’t just study the Three Jewels at Plum Village, I touched their living, embodied nature as truths I could rest in: that I am already whole; that the path is available in each moment; and that I am never alone.

"If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha," the monk said as we shared over cups of warm tea.

"What? Kill the Buddha?" I asked, dismayed and puzzled by this koan.

He nodded, smiling. "There is no Buddha. You are the Buddha."

In their own artful way, each of the monastics reminded me that there was no need to look outside myself for the Buddha. The very concept of the Buddha being a thing outside myself was, in fact, clouding my vision. It kept me from seeing the Buddha everywhere, as a living energy and true jewel within me and all life.

Gradually I came to apprehend the Buddha as a presence rather than an idol—as a state of being, a way of seeing clearly right here and now. My practice focused on noticing when I am and am not dwelling in that Buddha within, and on learning how to support myself in coming back to that place of wholeness when self-identification feels strong. In this way, the Buddha became a true jewel for me.

Similarly, a monastic sparked my deepening apprehension of the jewel-like nature of the Dharma. One day while perusing the quiet aisles of the hamlet library, I discovered a small book by Sister Jina—one of the elders, a radiant Irish nun whose energy could light up a stone. A few days later, I passed her near the dining hall, bowed, and said, "Sister Jina, your poetry was so beautiful."

She blinked, then laughed. "Poetry? What poetry? Oh! You must mean my little book. That’s just my diary from a five-month retreat. The Sangha wanted me to write an autobiography, but I had no interest. So I gave them my journal entries. Every morning, I’d wake up and write three lines about what I directly experienced that day. That’s what became my little book."

From that day on, inspired by her practice, I did the exactly same. I kept a small notebook in my pocket and wrote down three lines each day—based exactly on what I saw, tasted, touched, heard, smelled, or noticed arising in my mind.  For example, I wrote the following at 5:46 am on October 27 while walking from the bunkhouse to the meditation hall.

blanketed night sky,

littered with lights

so visibly empty

The silent meals, daily walking meditations, and mindful work periods all soon became part of this practice. Dharma permeated all my waking hours, and began to sink into my bones. Insights arose without my seeking out understanding. Instead of reading about emptiness, I began listening to the visible emptiness, hearing the silence which is eternally all-encompassing, and seeing emptiness as the nature of everything.   

Deepening apprehension of the jewel of Sangha happened, in part, in relationship with other laywomen living at Plum Village. We were five who called ourselves the "Cosmic Sisters" and were responsible for co-creating the Plum Village farm with all the other co-creators—the sun, wind, plants, bees, birds, boars, and other critters. We worked and celebrated joyfully, sinking our bare feet and hands into the Earth, lighting bonfires and dancing to welcome the solstice sun and full moons—sometimes too exuberantly.

One day the monastic sisters kindly asked us to be a bit more contained with our excitement because some practicing noble silence found our laughter echoing up the hill distracting. But they also thanked us for our little honey-nectar bubble of joy, for they felt it, too.

It was in the hum of this great joy, the felt sense of connection with both lay and monastic practitioners, that my appreciation of the jewel-like nature of Sangha deepened. There’s something sacred about being deeply seen and heard. It allows what is most vulnerable to surface and be safely held. For me, the embrace of Sangha allowed a deep sorrow within me to arise. I sank myself into the land and into the arms of my cosmic sangha, knowing grief needed to move through, and love needed to come home.  

Immersed in Sangha, I came to appreciate the Buddha’s teaching, “Sangha is not part of the path; it is the path.” I discovered this jewel extends in concentric circles to encompass all beings—my four cosmic sisters, the 300-person Plum Village community, the global Sangha of practitioners, the countless non-human beings buzzing and growing beside us, the ancestors behind and the descendants ahead, mother Gaia, sister moon, father Sun. Sangha became for me a living refuge. We are never alone. 

In essence, the year at Plum Village was for me a return to wholeness. I became more present, more fully myself. I learned to cultivate rootedness, which became the solid ground from which I could slowly dissolve the small, separate self and step into the vastness of interbeing. I began to see that my humanness and my Buddhanature are not two. That both nirvana and samsara are here. The Three Jewels carried me through transformation, and my gratitude deepened as the world itself became a monastery—everywhere a place of practice, of return home.

I offer this reflection with deep gratitude—for the opportunity to live this experience, and for the honor of sharing it. May these words be of benefit.