The Human Pillar: A Sacred Morning at the Shaolin Temple
The Human
Pillar
A 4 am meditation with the Shaolin monks, a son who falls asleep standing up, and a quiet lesson about what it means to feel safe enough to let go.
Very few outsiders are ever allowed into this ritual. At 4 am, in the dark, we are invited to meditate with the Shaolin monks. It is truly an honor.
It is pitch dark in the early hours of the morning. Only a few flickering candles and the lingering scent of incense fill the space. The air is heavy with history, and it feels ancient in a way I can almost touch.
My family and the other families in our group form a single file line. We snake our way into the meditation hall as quietly as we can. This is a no speaking zone, only sign language. One of the monks directs us with his hands, telling us when to stay and when to keep walking to form a new row. Grant ends up in the front row, the candle spotlights right on him. I end up standing directly behind him.
The meditation begins with powerful chants that echo through the hall, carried by the steady beat of instruments I have never heard before. It feels like we are moving through time. A deep, wordless connection.
Is He Really Dancing Right Now
A few minutes in, I notice Grant with a slight bounce in his stance. He is standing in the glow of the central altar light, and he starts swaying side to side. Grant is my 11 year old, my rambunctious one. He does whatever the moment brings. If he's feeling the rhythm, he grooves freely. I love this about him. But a sacred ritual is not the best time to feel the beat and move with it.
Is he really dancing to the temple beat right now?
I tug at his jacket from behind, gently and discreetly. At the third tug, his head falls back. He is not dancing. He is sleeping.
I swallow my surprise and try to work out how to keep him upright without causing a scene in the middle of a sacred ritual. There is no time for a lecture on temple etiquette. So I become a human pillar. Something for my son to lean on for the next hour.
As the chants move around us, I accidentally find my own kind of meditation. Holding the stillness of the ritual in one hand and my sleeping boy in the other.
We Just Know How to Let Go
I cannot blame him. To his defense, we are in a completely opposite time zone, still struggling with jetlag, and we did just do a strenuous hike up the steepest mountain the day before. It is early. I still remember falling asleep myself in a yoga class in Costa Rica. I suppose we just know how to let go. I mean really let go. And even with the unexpected zoning out, the power of those chants reaches me. I find my way into a meditative state. This is a memory I will keep for the rest of my life.
Here is what stays with me long after that morning. Grant falls asleep standing up, in an unfamiliar country, in a dark room full of strangers and chanting monks. He lets go completely, because somewhere in his body, he feels safe enough to.
Children rest like that when they trust the people around them. They surrender. They lean into whatever is holding them, certain it will hold. A child who can fall asleep anywhere is often a child who feels safe everywhere. That safety is not taught with words. It is felt in the body long before a child has language for it.
I go to the Shaolin Temple thinking I will learn something about discipline. I leave with a lesson about safety. And a story I will tell for years.
When was the last time you felt safe enough to truly let go?
My son fell asleep in the safest place he could find. Standing up, in the middle of a temple, leaning on me.
May we all have someone to lean on. And may we all be that someone for another.
Dr. Maria Grace Wolk · mariagracewolk.com