20/02/2026
When I was about 12 years old, my father and I spent time living in Thai forest monasteries, sometimes for a month at a stretch. These monasteries were so deep in the jungle that the monks relied on us to drive them into town for alms round, collecting food from the villagers at dawn.
What was meant to be a short stay, —maybe ten days—turned into nearly a month. As soon as we arrived, the lay resident who had been there quietly disappeared, almost as if he had been waiting for someone to replace him. Suddenly, we were the ones holding everything together.
Each morning we woke around 5:30 a.m. from thin mats on the wooden floor of a small temple hut. We would walk to the sala, chant for about an hour, then sit in meditation for another. After that came sweeping. Some mornings I walked behind the monks on alms round. Other days I stayed back to cook simple extra food for them—eggs, rice, whatever was needed.
The afternoons followed a similar rhythm: sweeping again, more chanting, more meditation. Simple food. Early nights. The same routine, day after day.
When another layperson finally arrived to take over, we left. I remember feeling relieved. At twelve, a month in the jungle feels like a long time.
This photo was taken yesterday —my son and I picking up a couple of hitchhiking monks in Chiang Mai, Thailand, who were moving between monasteries.
