Why Am I So Emotional? Unraveling the Tears and Gratitude on the Path to Awakening

The moment I arrived at the Root Institute, a nun spotted me, her face lighting up with a serene smile. “We have been expecting you,” she said softly. Her words landed like a gentle embrace, and before I could stop them, tears welled up in my eyes. It felt as though the universe itself had paused to acknowledge me, affirming every step of my journey to this sacred place. I am here—I had made it.

Though I’d booked my stay in advance, her words touched something far deeper than logistics. It was as if she had been waiting for my arrival, not just at the Root Institute but in this very moment of my life. As I looked at her, recognition bloomed. It was her—the Singaporean nun whose courage had inspired me years ago during my second visit to Bodh Gaya. I remembered her story vividly: how she had left everything behind to follow the path of spiritual awakening. Her strength had lingered in my memory like a beacon, and now, here she was again, guiding me without even knowing it.

The Root Institute had always been a haven for me, a sanctuary introduced by my dharma brother, Vincent. It was here, during a past visit, that I’d embarked on my first self-imposed retreat—a transformative experience that had filled me with quiet fulfillment. Coming back felt like returning to the arms of an old, trusted friend.

Lunch was simple yet divine. I’d worried about food before arriving, but those fears melted away as I savored the hot vegetarian meal. The dhal curry soup, watery yet perfect for drowning the rice into a warm, porridge-like comfort meal that nourished my body. But the star of the meal was the banana raisin coconut cake. Its soft, spongy texture and slightly over-baked crust made my heart sing. Cake has always been my emotional refuge ever since swallowing became harder for me. Cake wasn’t just food—it was solace on a plate.

Then, with awareness, I reminded myself: Wake up, Kyle. You’re here for meditation, not dessert. Still, the sweetness lingered, grounding me in the present.

I hadn’t told my mother about this journey, wanting to reach Bodh Gaya safely before sharing my plans. When I finally called her, I braced myself for worry or frustration. But instead, she answered me with a grace that left me speechless. “Go do your retreat,” she said simply. “Stay safe and healthy. Maybe the retreat at the Buddha land can do some good to your health.” Her calm acceptance, her quiet blessing—it was more than I’d dared hope for. I cried again, overwhelmed by gratitude for her support, the most unexpected gift of this trip so far and I have barely started.

The journey to Bodh Gaya had been smooth, almost charmed. On the flight from Bangkok, I found myself surrounded by monks and samaneras—nearly 80% of the passengers. Their presence created an unspoken atmosphere of peace and reverence, as though I was already on sacred ground before the plane even landed.

After the nun checked me in and left me to my room, she mentioned a Medicine Buddha Puja scheduled for later tonight. My heart stilled. This wasn’t just any mantra—this was the one I’d been instructed to chant 1,000 times before my operation. It felt like the final piece of a puzzle falling perfectly into place. 

Tears filled my eyes once more, but this time, they carried a deep certainty and peace. I knew, without a doubt, that I was exactly where I was meant to be.



Comments

Popular Posts