"Why I Am Not A Buddhist Monk"

Excerpt: 

My Zen name was Bopnim. Sunim said it meant something about forests and strength. Mostly I think that’s bullshit. I can’t even find it on Google Translate. But at the temple, I was Bopnim. A monk in training. Not a disaster. I hid myself in the temple as a means of imprisonment. I could limit my self-destruction. I didn’t need guns or rope or nuclear weapons. I was a nuclear weapon. But at the temple, I was Bopnim. Devout. Robed in grey. A teacher with training wheels. 

"One Hundred and Forty-One Miles"

Excerpt: 

 You should know I’m a Buddhist, though not a particularly good Buddhist, but a Buddhist, nonetheless. So when Sophie was in junior high, I thought it might be a good idea to start meditating on her departure. I’d helped these Tibetan monks for over ten years—they’d travel around the country making sand mandalas and chanting. Whenever the monks visited, they’d stay with us and talk about meditation. One of the things they taught me was to meditate on impermanence as a way to prepare myself for death. And, because my daughter’s departure for college seemed like a sort of death, I thought this was a very good idea. Get a head start. Beat the tears. I applied my very A-type way of being to the grief process.