by Kalika Yap

Hope you’re all having a wonderful spring break!

I recently spent a morning at Deer Park Monastery, a 400-acre Buddhist monastery in the chaparral hills of Escondido, California.

It was founded in 2000 by Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh, one of my greatest teachers, and it’s home to a community of over 60 monks and nuns who live and practice together year round in the Plum Village tradition.

On most Sundays, the monastery opens its gates for a Day of Mindfulness, when the public is welcome to come, practice alongside the monastics, and experience the rhythms of monastic life. Advance registration is required, and these days do fill up. Everything is offered on a donation basis.

This particular Sunday was special. It was the very first Day of Mindfulness of 2026.

The monastery had been closed to the public for the past three months while the monks and nuns observed their annual winter Rains Retreat, a period of deep, inward practice that dates back to the time of the Buddha.

For three months, the community turns inward together. No public events. No visitors. Just practice.

So when the gates opened again, there was a palpable sense of joy and freshness in the air. The monks were coming back out into the world. We were coming back to them. It felt like the first day of a new season, and in many ways, it was.

I want to share what the day looked like and what stayed with me, because it connects so deeply to why our Mindfulness Club exists.

The through line of the entire morning was this: peace doesn’t start somewhere out there. It starts with you. And every small act of mindfulness ripples outward to everyone around you.

The Schedule

• 9:00 AM Walking meditation in noble silence with the monks
• 10:15 AM Mindful movement
• 10:30 AM Dharma talk
• 11:30 AM Dharma sharing (group reflections and deep listening)
• 12:30 PM Vegetarian lunch in noble silence

Followed by a visit to the bookshop

Walking Meditation

The morning began in noble silence.

We walked slowly alongside the monks in brown robes and sandals through the monastery grounds, coordinating our breath with our steps.

In the Plum Village tradition, you might take two or three steps with each in-breath, and three or four with each out-breath, adjusting to whatever feels natural for your body.

Thich Nhat Hanh taught a practice of silently saying “I have arrived” with the in-breath and “I am home” with the out-breath. “Home” meaning right here, in this present moment.

Not somewhere you need to get to.

Already here.

There’s also a beautiful gatha (a short practice poem) for walking:

“The mind can go in a thousand directions.
But on this beautiful path, I walk in peace.
With each step, a cool wind blows.
With each step, a flower blooms.”

The grounds are stunning.

Quiet pathways wind through gardens with Buddhist statues and lotus pads.

Everything about the monastery is simple and understated, but there’s a real beauty in that simplicity.

You feel it as you walk. And you start to realize that this, just this, walking with full attention, is already an act of peace.

Not only for yourself, but for every person walking beside you.

The Practice of the Bell

One of the most powerful practices at Deer Park is the bell of mindfulness.

Throughout the day, a bell is “invited” to sound (in this tradition, they never say “ring” or “strike” the bell, they say “invite” the bell).

When you hear it, you stop whatever you’re doing. You stop talking. You stop moving. You take three conscious breaths.

The bell brings you back to yourself. Back to the present moment. The gatha that goes with it is:

“Listen, listen. This wonderful sound brings me back to my true home.”

I watched an entire dining hall fall silent at the sound of a single bell. It was extraordinary how quickly everyone returned to stillness.

And here’s what I noticed: when one person stops, the people around them stop too.

The calm spreads.

That’s how mindfulness works.

You practice it for yourself, and it reaches the people next to you without you even trying.

Imagine if we could carry that into our daily lives.

The phone rings. The school bell goes off.

Instead of rushing, we pause. We breathe.

We come back to ourselves. And in doing so, we change the energy of the room.

The Dharma Talk: Peace Starts With You

At 10:30, one of the monks gave a dharma talk that I haven’t stopped thinking about. He began by acknowledging that this was the first day back after three months of retreat. He admitted he was feeling a little rusty, a little nervous.

He laughed about how during retreat, the monks take care of each other. “Big bachelor life,” he joked. “No mom, no wife. You take care of yourself.”

He said many of the brothers came back from their hiking retreat in the mountains feeling so energized and inspired.

But even with that lightness, you could feel the weight of what he was carrying.

He said that coming out of three months of silence and stepping back into the world, he was hit with the reality of what had been happening.

“This is an amazing moment in history,” he said.

“War is going on in the Middle East, in Ukraine, in Africa.”

He named the weight of it directly. And then he said something that reframed everything:

“There are a lot of things happening that maybe make us feel really helpless. What can we do?”

Rather than answer that question with politics or activism alone, he turned it inward.

Toward each of us. Toward the one thing we actually have control over: ourselves.

When the Tears Came

And then something happened that I will never forget.

He began talking about a school that had been bombed. And as the weight of it hit him, he started crying quietly.

He wept openly, in front of all of us. “I guess my tears came out,” he said. “I think we feel it together. I know I’m not alone.”

The room was completely still. No one tried to fix it or rush past it. We just sat with him in that pain.

And then, something beautiful.

Even through his tears, he was smiling.

He said that in suffering, you can still find joy.

The two can live side by side.

The Bike With Rainbow Streamers

His grief about the school brought him right back to his own childhood.

He started telling us about leaving Vietnam as a refugee when he was about eight years old.

His family was on a boat with maybe a hundred other people, including many children.

And instead of the terror of that moment, what came to him was a memory of his bike.

A bike with rainbow-colored streamers on the handlebars. He remembered how he used to grab the brake and skid, and how much he loved that.

He smiled telling us this. You could see the boy in him.

His parents didn’t tell him, that he was leaving for good. That he would never go back.

That the bike, the streamers, the skidding on the street in the sun, all of it, was something he was saying goodbye to without knowing it.

“This is a kid”, he said. And he laughed a little.

What struck me was how naturally he moved between sorrow and joy.

The bombed school and the children who would never ride another bike brought up his own childhood. The pain of the present connected to the tenderness of the past. And he didn’t push either one away.

He held both.

That, I think, is what it looks like to be at peace with yourself even in the hardest moments.

Where Does War Begin?

He asked us to consider the roots of conflict. Not just between nations, but inside ourselves.

He talked about how in moments of pain, our instinct is to find someone to blame.

To look for a cause outside ourselves and attack it.

And that this very pattern, this impulse to make someone “the other,” is where war begins.

“War is happening in our families, our friendships,” he said. “We do this to ourselves, and we do this to our colleagues.”

He pointed out that the same cycle of blame and division that plays out between countries also plays out in our own relationships, our own self-talk.

“In the moment of crisis, we will also react and attack,” he said.

That’s the pattern.

And recognizing it early, before it escalates, is the real practice.

A Story From Palestine

He shared a story from a visit to the West Bank, where he met a Palestinian man who ran an arts school for young people. Theater, painting, creativity. Despite living surrounded by military presence, checkpoints, and cameras, this man was alive with purpose.

When the monk asked him what kept him going, the man said:

“I teach my children to love life, to love the arts. And they will never pick up a gun.”

The monk paused on that. He said you don’t have to go against anyone or anything. You just have to support life. And that energy, that love of life, is far more sustainable than anger.

This man, surrounded by conflict, had found his own peace. And from that peace, he was changing the lives of every child who walked through his door. One person’s inner steadiness, rippling outward.

Peace in the Smallest Moments

What struck me most about the whole talk was how the monk defined peace. Not as the absence of conflict.

Not as something you achieve after the war ends.

But as something you practice, right now, in the smallest moments of your day.

“Don’t wait for a protest. Every day, every morning, can be an act for peace.”

“When you’re in line at Costco, and it’s very busy, and you yield for another person. That’s peace.”

“You take a cup of water, you water a plant with full attention. You will be different. And you radiate awareness.”

He even talked about washing dishes. Thich Nhat Hanh was a fierce activist who protested the Vietnam War, spoke to world leaders, and challenged every structure that worked against peace. But he also insisted that washing your dishes without rushing, and actually enjoying it, is its own form of engagement.

“Engaged Buddhism is powerful, and I love it,” the monk said. “But me, washing my dishes in peace? So boring. Who’s going to write about that?” The room laughed. And then he said:

“This is the important thing.”

And he’s right. Because when you are at peace doing the dishes, you carry that into the next conversation you have. You carry it into how you respond to your child, your partner, your coworker. Your peace doesn’t stay with you. It moves outward. Always.

The One Child Revolution

Toward the end of the talk, he described a vision he called the “one child revolution.” The idea is this: you don’t need a massive movement to change things. You need one young person who has learned to take care of their own mind and heart.

That person goes into the world grounded. They become a CEO, a teacher, a politician, a parent. And they carry that inner stability with them everywhere. They’re not easily swayed by algorithms, by narratives designed to divide, by fear.

“Someone who is happy, who knows themselves, will never harm or exploit another person,” he said. “Or the land.”

He said we need to look at education not just as a school’s responsibility, but as a community effort. Parents, teachers, neighbors. Everyone plays a role in raising young people who are aware, compassionate, and hard to fool.

“The only defense is your mindfulness,” he said. “You’re aware. ‘I don’t need that. This story is making me more hateful.’ And you take back your own power.”

This one landed for me. Because this is what we’re doing in our Mindfulness Club. Every single one of you could be that one child.

When You Love Yourself

The thread that ran through the entire talk was this: peace starts with you. When we truly take care of ourselves, when we love ourselves, we show up differently for everyone around us. And that showing up differently changes everything.

“When you love yourself, you would never harm,” he said. “Because you know that you respect life.”

“Everything we do, if you’re not doing it for world peace, you need to look at it again.”

“What role will I play in this? The crisis that’s happening, in the family, in the climate, in the world?”

That question, asked honestly, is where real change begins. Not out there. Right here. In you.

Dharma Sharing and Lunch

After the talk, we gathered for dharma sharing, where everyone in the circle shared their observations and reflections from the morning. No fixing. No interrupting. Just listening. It was powerful to hear how differently the same talk landed for each person.

Then we sat down for a vegetarian lunch at 12:30, served in noble silence. The meal was a delicious spread: Thai curry with brown rice, mixed vegetables, and coconut milk with bananas for dessert. All of it prepared with care by the community.

The Bookshop

Before heading home, I stopped at the bookshop and found a beautiful calligraphy by Thich Nhat Hanh. It now has a home in my tea room.

Why I’m Sharing This

This is exactly why our Mindfulness Club exists. Not to escape the hard stuff, but to build the inner strength to face it. To learn, like the monk who cried and smiled in the same breath, that sorrow and joy can live side by side. And that when we take care of our own peace, it doesn’t stay private. It touches every person we meet.

Every time we sit together, every time we practice being present, we’re doing something real. We are each a stone dropped in water, and the ripples move outward whether we see them or not.

The monk put it simply: “It must come from a place of love.”

If you ever get the chance to visit Deer Park Monastery for a Day of Mindfulness, I can’t recommend it enough. You can register at deerparkmonastery.org