Silent Sanctuary: Meditating Alone at Chogyesa

by accident, probably

The door to the office on the first floor was locked when I arrived at Chogyesa, the Korean Buddhist temple on Central Park West. My fourth visit. My second time attending the early morning meditation that starts at 6 AM.

For now, I have the luxurious privilege of living in West Manhattan, where I can reach the temple with a simple 30-minute subway ride. One of my greatest flexes. I’m moving in about two months, and knowing this privilege is short-lived somehow makes each trip even sweeter.

I expected to be greeted by the monks I’ve met before—Ingoong Sunim, the Korean one, and Bosung Sunim, the white American one—but the office door remained locked. From the other side, I heard loud snoring. Could the monks have overslept?

I climbed the stairs to the temple room, where golden Buddha statues stood in silent presence. No one was inside. The doors were unlocked, but no incense burned. Outside, the sky was still dark, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the soft glow of the electronic candles flickering mechanically on the altar.

This morning, I had the whole sanctuary to myself as I sat down to meditate.

After a few bows, I settled in, making myself comfortable—like I was home.

Cross-legged, I tuned into the quiet hum of morning traffic and the soft whimpering of heating pipes within the building.

I slowed my breathing.

Buddhist monks speak of emptying the mind, but honestly, I don’t know how to do that. So instead, I focus on the empty space within.

Twenty minutes pass. No one enters to start the chanting. No movement, no sound beyond the quiet world outside.

When I leave, I take my coat and bag off the hanger in the foyer. The morning sun is beginning to rise over Central Park, painting the sky a brilliant blue. My steps feel lighter. Everything feels lighter.

I wish I could come back here every day.