Reflections on My Four-Day Stay at Tilorien Monastery

Last week, my friend Katelijn invited me to spend a few days at Tilorien Monastery, a Theravada Forest tradition monastery located in the village of Houffalize in the Ardennes Mountains, Belgium. I have been closely connected with this Sangha and community since I returned to the Netherlands from Asia three years ago. At that time, I was already a devoted Theravada Buddhist, following the teachings of the well-known British Thai monk Venerable Jayasaro. Katelijn introduced me to her good friend, Venerable Anopama, a German Theravada nun who is part of the Tilorien Monastery Sangha. We first attended a 10-day meditation retreat together organized by the monastery, and since then, I’ve become a close member of the community, regularly participating in Dhamma contemplation and online meditation sessions with the Tilorien iSanga lay members. Last December, I spent 10 days at the monastery, where I became well-acquainted with the resident nun, Venerable Vimala, and the monastery manager, Danny.

We arrived together on Wednesday by car from Brussels, where Katelijn lives, and settled into our respective rooms. Katelijn stayed in the Upekka (Equanimity) room in the main building, while I stayed in the “cave room” (Karuna) in the basement, near the storage area for food, garden, and repair tools. The main building of the monastery is built on a valley slope, so the basement, located under the main terrace, has windows facing the opposite side of the valley.

My room, about 7-8 square meters, had a comfortable mattress on a wooden plank, with a pink mosquito net hanging on the wall, a round bamboo chair, a small closet, a tiny cupboard with a boiler and some tea, and a black meditation cushion on the floor. A tiny Buddha statue and an electric tealight were placed on the window sill above the meditation cushion. The basement also had a toilet and shower. I had to keep the basement door closed at night to prevent raccoons from sneaking in to steal food.

Life at the monastery is simple. We rise before 6 a.m. to meditate in the main Dhamma hall until 7 a.m., joined by the online iSanga community. The resident nun who leads the meditation concludes with morning chanting and a brief Dhamma reflection. Breakfast is served at 7:15 a.m., typically consisting of milk, non-dairy milk, yoghurt, muesli, oatmeal, dried fruits, seeds, and fresh fruits. The nun chants before the meal, and we sit together at the dining table, discussing the day ahead or reflecting on our practice over a cup of coffee or tea unless urgent work demands immediate attention after breakfast.

After breakfast, there’s a work period until 11 a.m., where everyone is assigned house chores or administrative tasks, such as cooking, cleaning, arranging flowers for the Dhamma hall, or sweeping the terrace. Every Friday is cleaning day, a time for thorough cleaning of all the rooms, and once a month, there’s a gardening day when many volunteers arrive early to help.

Lunch, the only cooked meal of the day, is between 11 a.m. and 12 p.m., always vegetarian and sometimes accompanied by dessert. Before eating, lay residents offer the names of their loved ones or all sentient beings, and the nun chants blessings for them. Afterwards, the nun takes her meal and retreats to eat alone. No solid food is consumed after noon, except for allowable items like cheese and dark chocolate.

Afternoons are free for everyone. We could read, write, meditate, walk in the mountains, nap, or simply sit and enjoy the serenity. There’s no obligation, just the gentle expectation to keep voices down and respect the tranquillity of the environment and the needs of others.

During my stay, I participated in all the morning and evening meditations, cooked one lunch with Katelijn, and took part in both the cleaning and gardening days. On Saturday, more lay practitioners arrived for a Dhamma contemplation session in English and French, which I found deeply inspiring.

My Reflections:

1. The Abundance in simplicity

The structured routine, simple and frugal environment, slow pace of daily activities, and peaceful surroundings allowed me ample space to pause, check in with my body and mind, and reflect. With minimal distractions, I found richness in simple tasks. Cooking, for example, became a meditative practice, where I could focus on each step—cutting, stirring, washing—much more than I would at home. Sometimes, I’d sit and enjoy a cup of tea while waiting for something to boil or bake.

During cleaning day, I felt rushed as I moved my belongings out of the Karuna room for another guest. But Ayya Anopama, walked to me with a gentle smile. She reminded me, “You can slow down. There’s no need to rush. Have a cup of tea and relax. Enjoy your time.” Her words brought me back to the present, making me aware of how often we’re driven by habitual mindsets focused on productivity and efficiency.

Though my stay was only four days, it felt much longer when I hugged everyone goodbye. I finished reading the entire autobiography of the courageous Ayya Khema, took daily naps, wrote, meditated for two hours each day, and even sat in the garden doing absolutely nothing for long stretches. I also walked in the mountains daily and had deep conversations with Katelijn, Ayya Anopama, and even Remy, a young Lithuanian I had just met. I asked him about changes in his mind during meditation. He took a day and a half to contemplate before replying, “I don’t know.”

Despite sleeping little, I felt a remarkable clarity of mind. My energy and physical condition improved significantly; even climbing steep slopes felt like walking on level ground.

2. The Joy of Giving

Everything at the monastery is an act of Dana (giving), from donating food and money, doing house chores and keeping shared spaces clean to walking and talking softly, and sharing the merits of our meditation practices with all living beings. There’s a constant sense of togetherness. Even when we practice in solitude and silence, nobody feels alone. There’s no pressure to be better, faster, or stronger—every form and level of practice is accepted and embraced.

When working in the garden, I was mindful that my efforts were not just for the plants and animals, but also for creating a beautiful and serene environment for the Sangha and anyone who comes to practice at the monastery. The merit of these practices benefits the world, and this brought me immense joy.

During Dhamma contemplation, I noticed that my friend Katelijn, who speaks both English and French, was a bit anxious about translating, as the depth of the discussion sometimes eluded her. But Ayya Anopama reassured her with a smile: “Just do what you can to help, even if it’s not perfect. If it comes from your heart, it’s enough.”

3. The Art of Not Doing

I shared with Ayya Anopama the sense of groundedness and focus that emerged during the final days of my stay, contrasting it with the restlessness I felt when I first arrived. She rejoiced this shift with me and introduced a new challenge: “Forget the meditator and the meditation.” Though I initially found this perplexing, she elaborated: “When you sit, just notice that you are sitting. Find a focal point in your breath, then simply sit and enjoy the act of sitting—without doing anything.” She was guiding me toward mastering the art of not doing.

In the practice of formal sitting meditation, the concept of doing nothing with one’s thoughts is central to a potent technique in the Buddhist tradition. Tranquillity meditation involves a gentle detachment from thoughts—neither chasing after them nor resisting them, including thoughts about “wanting to meditate” or “aiming to achieve specific meditative states.” Meditation, Ayya Anopama emphasized, is not a means to an end, as if it were a tool for reaching enlightenment. She reminded me that enlightenment is found right here in the present moment; there’s no “there” to arrive at—just let the flame gradually extinguish, allow the warmth of the water to soothe your feet…(Source: Thig 5.10.Patacara )

The art of doing nothing is far from passive. As Buddhist scholar Joseph Goldstein explains, “Grasping at thoughts is like trying to catch the wind—it’s futile. When we stop grasping, the mind becomes like an open sky, vast and free.” This metaphor highlights the futility of clinging and the spacious freedom that arises when we let go.

Indeed, Ayya Anopama provoked us with an intriguing question: “Why do you want to be a pink cloud when you can be the sky?” Drawing from the Dutch saying roze wolk, this metaphor reminds us not to limit ourselves to fleeting moments of joy or temporary states of mind, when we can instead embrace the vastness and freedom of simply being.

In the realm of meditative practice, the act of doing nothing can manifest as a type of mental letting go, embodying a state of effortless action, instinctive response, and openness to the ever-changing flow of life. At its most profound level, it can be experienced as a deep sense of completeness, where there is no need for action or pursuit.

4. The Harmony of Living Together

One of the most profound experiences during my stay was witnessing the harmony that naturally emerges when people live together with shared intentions and respect for one another. The simplicity of life at the monastery creates an environment where cooperation and mutual support flourish. Each person’s contributions, whether through chores, meditation, or quiet presence, are valued, and everyone is encouraged to participate at their own pace.

There was a beautiful balance between solitude and community. While each of us had time for personal reflection and practice, the shared meals, work periods, and meditation sessions fostered a deep sense of connection. Even in silence, there was a feeling of togetherness, an unspoken understanding that we were all supporting one another on our spiritual journeys.

This harmony was also evident in the way conflicts or misunderstandings were handled—with patience, kindness, and a focus on maintaining the peaceful atmosphere that is so essential to the monastic way of life. It reminded me that true harmony arises not from the absence of differences but from the ability to navigate them with compassion and mindfulness.

Conclusion

My four-day stay at Tilorien Monastery was a journey into simplicity, giving, mindfulness, and communal living. Each day they offered so many rich insights. These experiences not only deepened my practice but also provided me with a clearer understanding of how these principles can be integrated into everyday life.

As I left the monastery, I carried with me a renewed sense of peace, clarity, and gratitude. The time spent in this serene environment, surrounded by like-minded practitioners, allowed me to reconnect with my inner self and reminded me of the importance of mindfulness and compassion in every aspect of life. These teachings, though rooted in monastic life, are universal and can guide anyone on their path toward a more fulfilling and harmonious existence.

This reflection is written and shared by our Kalyanamitra Liu Yan