Returning Home to the Mind: A Chan Retreat Journal

By Jiang Xin (Ivy Yanjing)

This year, I had the opportunity to attend a seven-day Chan retreat in Berlin, Germany, led by Venerable Guoxing, Vice Abbot of Dharma Drum Mountain, together with Venerable Yanjin, a graduate of the Chan Meditation Department at the Dharma Drum Sangha University two years ago.

Every year, this is the period of time I look forward to the most—a stretch of days that belongs entirely to myself. Free from the distractions of the outside world, I can set aside the responsibilities of work and daily life. For a brief while, I step away from my usual role as one who cares for others and become someone who is cared for instead. It is a rare opportunity to allow both body and mind to truly come to rest.

To help myself settle into practice more quickly, I deliberately arrived two days early. During those two days, I stayed at a Sri Lankan monastery with more than a century of history, said to be one of the earliest Buddhist temples established in Europe. Every morning before dawn, my roommate and I would quietly make our way to the meditation hall for seated meditation. Before I knew it, an entire incense period—an hour—had passed.

Those mornings became the clearest moments of the entire retreat. My body felt light and relaxed; my mind was calm, lucid, and spacious, almost entirely free from wandering thoughts.

On the third day, we moved to the Tibetan monastery where the Chan retreat was to be held. The change of surroundings, together with the constant distraction of mosquitoes, noticeably affected my meditation. I found myself recalling a saying often quoted by Venerable Changchun: "In the Dharma-ending age, the forces of delusion seem stronger while the Dharma appears weaker." Although I understood intellectually that external conditions are simply external conditions, I nevertheless experienced firsthand how easily the mind and body can be pulled along by circumstances. It took another three days before my mind gradually settled and found its stability once again.

Throughout the retreat, Venerable Yanjin guided us each day in the practice of the Eight-Form Moving Meditation, walking meditation, and seated meditation, while at the same time attentively caring for everyone's daily needs. His warmth, meticulous attention, and genuine thoughtfulness created an atmosphere in which each participant felt truly seen, supported, and cared for.

Among all the practices, what touched me most deeply was the daily walking meditation.

As our pace shifted from brisk walking to slow walking and eventually to extraordinarily slow walking, the entire meditation hall seemed to merge into a single field of silent energy. Then, at one unexpected moment, Venerable Yanjin suddenly called out with great force:

"How much longer are you going to remain trapped inside this body?"

The words struck me so profoundly that tears welled up in my eyes.

All day long we identify this physical body as "myself," without realizing that what truly imprisons us is not merely the body, but the five aggregates, our delusive thoughts, and our attachments. Our Buddha-nature has always been complete, yet it resembles the kernel hidden deep within a walnut, enclosed by layer upon layer of a hard shell. To break through those coverings often requires tremendous force. The shell may crack with great shock, accompanied by pain, as though everything were being shattered. Yet only through such breaking open can the true life within finally reveal itself.

This retreat also became an occasion for me to be "disciplined" by the monastics.

One evening, because several of us had failed to observe one of the retreat regulations, we voluntarily accepted the practice of kneeling through an incense period as repentance. The moment my knees touched the floor, tears began to flow uncontrollably. It had been such a long time since anyone had seriously taught me the importance of discipline.

At that very moment, I suddenly thought of my father.

Since becoming an adult and living far away from my parents, many years have passed without anyone correcting me so directly. Day after day, I had unconsciously allowed my habitual tendencies to accompany me wherever I went, scarcely noticing them. Yet a practice center is founded upon discipline. Having come here to cultivate the Way, I should naturally receive its guidance with reverence and follow its regulations wholeheartedly.

Looking back, I felt no grievance whatsoever. Instead, what gradually filled my heart was gratitude and quiet emotion. To have someone willing to point out one's shortcomings, rather than allowing one's habits to continue unchecked, is itself an expression of profound compassion and a genuine blessing on the path of practice.

Venerable Guoxing was responsible for leading the morning and evening services as well as the daily Dharma interviews.

The time I anticipated most each day was the evening Dharma talk. With remarkable ease, humor, and clarity, he unfolded profound Buddhist teachings in language that everyone could understand. His interaction with the audience was lively and natural, and his ability to engage the entire assembly was truly admirable.

One teaching, in particular, has remained vividly in my memory.

Using the metaphor of the ocean and its waves, he explained the nature of Buddha-nature. Waves continually rise and fall, appearing and disappearing without cease, while the water itself neither increases nor decreases. Our wandering thoughts, emotions, and afflictions are like the ever-changing waves upon the sea. Our intrinsic Buddha-nature, however, is like the vast ocean itself—boundless, unmoving, and unchanged from beginningless time.

This simple analogy transformed an otherwise abstract teaching into something immediately vivid and deeply understandable.

Venerable Guoxing also introduced Dharma Drum Mountain's two principal methods of Chan practice: Silent Illumination (Mozhao) and Huatou practice.

My own understanding is still quite elementary. Silent Illumination begins with relaxing both body and mind and resting fully in the present moment. Rather than suppressing thoughts or chasing after them, one simply allows them to arise and pass naturally, releasing delusion through continuous awareness. Huatou practice, by contrast, centers upon deeply investigating a fundamental question of existence—for example, "Who am I?"—again and again returning to the living sense of inquiry itself. The essential point is not to arrive at an intellectual answer, but to break through habitual patterns of thinking and directly realize one's own true mind.

Every Chan retreat feels like pressing the pause button on life.

Away from the noise of the world, I return to the present moment, quietly keeping company with myself. There, I discover once again the strength to continue walking the path ahead.

May I continue, year after year, to reserve such precious time for solitude—to rest and recalibrate through meditation, to draw near to wise teachers through wholesome conditions, and, with every breath, gradually find my way back to my own heart.

Practice is not about becoming someone else.

Rather, it is about patiently peeling away, moment after moment of mindful awareness, the countless layers that obscure our original nature, until we finally return to the person we have always been.

Slowly.

There is no need to hurry.

Have a little faith in yourself, and allow yourself a little more time.

With deepest gratitude to the venerable teachers who traveled thousands of miles to Europe to share the Dharma and support our practice. Your compassionate guidance and steadfast encouragement are gifts I shall never forget.

With deepest respect and gratitude,
Your humble disciple,
Ivy Yanjing