It was in 2011 when I first visited Plum Village, in France.
Plum Village is a Zen Buddhist community founded by the late and deeply revered master Thich Nhat Hanh.
It wasn’t my first encounter with him. A few months earlier, I had attended one of his, at the time, frequent visits to Spain. But being with him in his own community was something else entirely.
Plum Village is one of those places you go to restore yourself, to heal, to be cared for. A space of welcome. A return home.
It is a large community, organized into different hamlets, where hundreds of Zen monks and nuns live contemplatively what has come to be known as “engaged Buddhism”—a form of Buddhism that does not withdraw from the world, but opens to it and seeks to alleviate suffering wherever it appears.
Plum Village is, quite simply, a haven of peace.
At five in the morning, the great bell would wake us. Then came the chanting of mantras which, although I did not understand them, I somehow understood.
After a brief, silent awakening, several hundred people would make their way to the meditation hall, where monks and nuns were already waiting for the morning practice.
The image of hundreds of people walking in silence, under the soft light of a day that was reluctant to appear, remains forever etched in the memory of those who experienced it.
Pure poetry.
The day did not seem to hold much in Plum Village. And yet, it held everything.
When we walked, we did so slowly and in silence. We always arrived.
When we ate—simple, healthy, just enough—we did so slowly and in silence. We were always nourished.
When we spoke, we did so without rush. We communicated clearly.
When we listened, a respectful silence prevailed. We understood.
When we worked—because work is part of the practice—we did so with attention. We always completed our tasks.
When we slept, we rested.
I returned to Barcelona by car, sharing the journey, the silences, and the conversations with a fellow participant from the retreat. It was a calm and beautiful trip.
We said goodbye without rush. We were, in some way, still imbued with presence. The city was not.
I parked the car and walked toward my apartment. Barely a hundred meters. They were the strangest hundred meters of my life.
People seemed to bump into one another—and into me. Conversations overlapped harshly in my mind. The constant noise of cars felt aggressive. Everything was crowded, yet no one seemed truly there.
I sat down on a bench.
One breath in. One breath out.
Then I continued home.
Sitting on the sofa, I wasn’t trying to recover from the long journey, but from those last hundred meters.
Between Plum Village and the city, there was a distance that was hard to ignore.
In Plum Village, there was never any rush—even when there was. In the city, there was always rush—even when there wasn’t.
I had just finished eating. I was full. But I couldn’t quite remember the taste of what I had just eaten. And that saddened me.
I observed my day.
Eating without tasting. Listening without fully hearing. Arriving, but not being there. Nothing serious. Nothing unusual. And yet, something felt slightly out of place.
The rush had returned.
Solving problems that don’t exist. Speaking louder than the other. Wanting to be heard first. Crossing the street before the next car arrives. Running to catch a train that is already leaving. Becoming impatient with those who don’t run. Feeling annoyed at someone who simply stops to look. Not tolerating thirty seconds of waiting.
The rush had returned. And with it, a subtle form of disconnection.
I remembered a conversation with one of the monks.
We were speaking about rush in the modern world. About how it had become the norm, pushing aside presence.
We were looking for a solution. Something that could help us not fall back into that deeply ingrained habit.
The monk looked at us with a gentle smile.
—Rush is not bad —he said—. At times, it is necessary. But not always.
He paused.
—There are two options. We can patiently wait for the world to rebalance itself and for everyone to meditate —he smiled—. Or we can understand something simpler: the rush is not in the world, but in how we relate to it.
We remained silent.
—Sit every morning. In silence. Breathe. Inhale and exhale. In time, you will discover that you can choose: to rush… or to savour. Do not blame the world for it.
In the empty mountains, no one is seen,
yet echoes of voices are heard.
The setting sun enters the deep forest
and shines again upon the green moss.
— Wang Wei
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