<p>From my earliest years, though, I wanted to leave England. Outwardly there was no reason. My family are lovely, my school was great. I had a wonderful job as a librarian. But inwardly I had a strong feeling that I had to go where I belonged; for a long time I just didn’t know where that was.<br /><br />I studied Christianity, Judaism and Hinduism, but as I didn’t believe in a creator God most religious paths were closed to me. Then, when I was 18, my mother and I were delayed at an airport for eight hours. The only book I had with me was ‘Mind Unshaken’, about Buddhism. Halfway through the book, I said to my mother, “I’m a Buddhist.”<br /><br />She replied: “Oh are you dear? That’s nice.” When I told her I was going to India to look for a Buddhist teacher, her first question was: “When are you leaving?” She felt I needed to lead a special kind of life, even if it didn’t include her.<br /><br />I had read about Freda Bedi, an English woman teaching Tibetan refugees English in Dalhousie, in India. When I wrote to her she replied: “Come, just come.” So, at 20, I moved to India and on my 21st birthday I met my guru. Three weeks later I became a nun.<br /><br />Although I’d had boyfriends, I never wanted to marry. I never wanted children. Clothes, who cares? Food, who cares? Television, I’m glad not to have to watch. And as for sex — I couldn’t care less.<br /><br />Isolation<br /><br />My guru, Khamtrul Rinpoche, told me to go and practise in the mountain region of Lahaul. It was a lovely monastery, but it wasn’t always quiet. I’d heard about a nearby cave and wanted to go there, but local people said it wasn’t safe.<br /><br />I explained the situation to my guru, who said that if the cave faced south and was fairly dry it would be fine. From that point on, I didn’t worry. After all, for centuries, hundreds of thousands of hermits have done exactly the same.<br /><br />I moved into the cave when I was 33 and was very happy. In most places in the world it would be impossible to feel so safe and confident in isolation. The day was very structured: four times a day I would sit and meditate in a traditional meditation box for three hours, and that’s where I slept, sitting up.<br /><br />At first I’d go down to the monastery to listen to teachings, get food supplies, visit my guru and discuss how I was getting on.<br /><br />But after nine years, I was ready to do a long retreat — three years in complete solitude. Once we had a huge blizzard that raged for seven days and nights, the snow covered the door and window and the whole cave was in complete blackness. I thought: “This is it”. Looking back, I’m amazed I wasn’t claustrophobic. I felt perfectly calm and resigned. Then I heard a voice say, “Shovel out.” I used a saucepan lid and dug a tunnel out. It took an hour or two and I did it three times but survived to tell the tale.<br /><br /><em>(Tenzin Palmo spoke to the writer), The Guardian</em></p>
<p>From my earliest years, though, I wanted to leave England. Outwardly there was no reason. My family are lovely, my school was great. I had a wonderful job as a librarian. But inwardly I had a strong feeling that I had to go where I belonged; for a long time I just didn’t know where that was.<br /><br />I studied Christianity, Judaism and Hinduism, but as I didn’t believe in a creator God most religious paths were closed to me. Then, when I was 18, my mother and I were delayed at an airport for eight hours. The only book I had with me was ‘Mind Unshaken’, about Buddhism. Halfway through the book, I said to my mother, “I’m a Buddhist.”<br /><br />She replied: “Oh are you dear? That’s nice.” When I told her I was going to India to look for a Buddhist teacher, her first question was: “When are you leaving?” She felt I needed to lead a special kind of life, even if it didn’t include her.<br /><br />I had read about Freda Bedi, an English woman teaching Tibetan refugees English in Dalhousie, in India. When I wrote to her she replied: “Come, just come.” So, at 20, I moved to India and on my 21st birthday I met my guru. Three weeks later I became a nun.<br /><br />Although I’d had boyfriends, I never wanted to marry. I never wanted children. Clothes, who cares? Food, who cares? Television, I’m glad not to have to watch. And as for sex — I couldn’t care less.<br /><br />Isolation<br /><br />My guru, Khamtrul Rinpoche, told me to go and practise in the mountain region of Lahaul. It was a lovely monastery, but it wasn’t always quiet. I’d heard about a nearby cave and wanted to go there, but local people said it wasn’t safe.<br /><br />I explained the situation to my guru, who said that if the cave faced south and was fairly dry it would be fine. From that point on, I didn’t worry. After all, for centuries, hundreds of thousands of hermits have done exactly the same.<br /><br />I moved into the cave when I was 33 and was very happy. In most places in the world it would be impossible to feel so safe and confident in isolation. The day was very structured: four times a day I would sit and meditate in a traditional meditation box for three hours, and that’s where I slept, sitting up.<br /><br />At first I’d go down to the monastery to listen to teachings, get food supplies, visit my guru and discuss how I was getting on.<br /><br />But after nine years, I was ready to do a long retreat — three years in complete solitude. Once we had a huge blizzard that raged for seven days and nights, the snow covered the door and window and the whole cave was in complete blackness. I thought: “This is it”. Looking back, I’m amazed I wasn’t claustrophobic. I felt perfectly calm and resigned. Then I heard a voice say, “Shovel out.” I used a saucepan lid and dug a tunnel out. It took an hour or two and I did it three times but survived to tell the tale.<br /><br /><em>(Tenzin Palmo spoke to the writer), The Guardian</em></p>
