Get thee to a nunnery

This article first appeared in Sunday Life magazine on

It's lucky Monica Joyce is a morning person. Every day, at 4.30am, she wakes to the persistent sound of chanting and drumming. Then starts the singsong lilt of young students reciting their lessons in the room above her. But she can hardly complain to her landlord.

Monica, a former high-flying Sydney publicist, lives in a remote Buddhist monastery in Tashi Jong, a tiny village in far northern India. Each morning at dawn, Monica peeks out her window to survey the vast valley, particularly beautiful in spring when the scarlet bougainvillea is in bloom. She has a quick cold shower, then heads down the hill to her thatch-roof office for a day of faxing, phoning and book-keeping, all part of her three-year-old job as project manager of the Dongyu Gatsal Ling Nunnery. (The 7-acre site, next to the male-only monastery, is still in construction but will open next year and eventually house more than 100 girls and women.)

Her bedroom, Monica's only retreat, is sparse but spacious and filled with little keepsakes from home. "I have an aboriginal painting on the wall and lots of books," says Monica, now in her fifties. There is also a small collection of CDs compiled by her 28 year-old son, Daniel, who visited many times when he worked with Tibetan refugees in nearby Dharamsala. "It's cosy," he says. "It's very much Mum's own space."

"At night, it's so quiet, so I listen to the BBC world service and I play music," says Monica. "On Sundays, I do my washing in a bucket and hang out my clothes on the line, except for my undies! Because it's a monastery, I can't do that," she laughs.

As an old friend and colleague of Monica's, I wonder how she copes with such a solitary life, knowing her need for social interaction. "I miss the usual things," she admits, looking around her comfortable living room - Monica is home for a fleeting visit - full of fabrics, and beautiful objects gleaned from years of travel. "My family, close friends, constant electricity, a few mod cons," she trails off. "And a good red wine," she says, taking an enthusiastic sip of sparkling burgundy.

It's a long way from the fact-paced world of Sydney publishing which Monica left in 1999 after developing an awesome reputation as one of the best and most experienced publicists in the industry. For 10 years, she was publicity director of Allen & Unwin, Australia's largest independent publishing house, and one of its board of directors for four years.

"I was horrified when she told me she was giving up her important job and I tried to persuade her to stay," says author Vicki McKenzie, who has written several books on Buddhism. "I thought she'd miss the sophisticated life, the buzz of big author tours." Years ago, it was usual for Monica to be dining with writers like Booker Prize-winner Ben Ochrie, Vikram Seth (author of A Suitable Boy) and famed chef Stephanie Alexander.

"It's a very, very demanding job," says Canadian author and environmentalist David Suzuki, who credits Monica for lifting his profile in Australia. "We were often up at some ungodly hour to catch planes; we'd tear from one appointment to another. She always created the illusion that it was a delight to work with me, and that's a wonderful achievement because I believed it."

She lived in a pretty, double-fronted Federation stone and brick house on Sydney's leafy North Shore and, although worked long hours, enjoyed the good life: wine, imported cheeses, long lunches, and shopping for shoes. I first met Monica in 1993, standing in a queue to meet writer Michael Ondaatje, who I had a small crush on. We forged a firm friendship and she even persuaded me to attend a month-long retreat together in 1998 at Kopan monastery in Nepal. We'd sit side by side during the many hours of meditation and, afterwards, I'd look at her, feeling defeated by my non-Buddhist imaginings, and say, "I thought about sex, what did you think about?"

"Shopping," she'd say, starting up her infectious laugh.

"My shopping habit doesn't have a lot of outlet now," she admits, "though I've become fond of Indian glass bangles. And carpets. And shawls."

Occasionally, Monica gives in to her Western whims and takes a taxi to Dharamsala, home to the Dalai Lama (who she's met a few times) and only 50 kilometres from the monastery. "I eat pizza, drink coffee and buy food like olive oil and cheese," she says, looking like a naughty schoolgirl. But it's the two-hour drive she really savours and I am reminded of her emails to Australia full of vivid descriptions of the countryside, spotted with mud brick houses painted turquoise blue with tiny flowers on the door frames. "I love the villages, people, buffalo, monkeys, goats and cows, the forests and terraced fields of wheat, and deep river canyons ..." she'd write, making her passion for her new home obvious.

Monica first encountered Buddhism decades ago, as a young woman travelling the world in the 1960s, although her interest then was in Eastern religion generally. Just two years out of high school, Monica headed for London and worked her way through Europe, Africa and the Middle East. She met her husband, Tony Joyce, then a history student, on a boat between Tangier and Gibraltar in the late 60s. He was hitchhiking through northern Africa, on term break from his studies at Oxford University. Deeply in love, he decided to leave London and move to Australia with Monica, although they took their time getting back, travelling overland through Asia.

They married in 1969 and, by 1974, their son Daniel was born. Tony showed a flare for international affairs and became a journalist with the ABC's current affair show This Day Tonight. As a correspondent in Singapore (the whole family lived there for years), he covered many intrepid world events and was, famously, one of the last reporters to leave Saigon before it fell in mid 1975. Then, in November 1979, while covering the civil war in Zambia for the ABC, he was caught in the crossfire and shot in the head. Tony was swiftly airlifted to a hospital in London, where the family were living at the time. "He was in a coma. I use to have Daniel's drawings on the wall, I played him music, I talked to him all the time. . . . I was very anxious to be with him to experience what he was going through as much possible but I discovered that all I could do was just be there. I wanted to be with him when he died and I am very glad I was."

After 10 weeks in hospital Tony, who never regained consciousness, died. It was February 1980, the eve of Daniel's sixth birthday. He was posthumously awarded a UN Peace Prize for his work in the media.

"It was an incredibly difficult time but after Daniel finished his school year in England, I wanted to go back to Australia to be near my family and to have a wider support system for Daniel and me." It was then, in the early 80s, that Monica decided to couple her love of books with her knowledge of the media and began working as a freelance publicist, and, for several years, with Hale & Iremonger. She joined Allen & Unwin as a publicist in 1985 and in 1990, soon after Allen & Unwin's Management buy out, became Publicity Director. "I will always remember Monica's acceptance of her husband's death," says friend of author Maeve Binchy, who wrote Circle of Friends. "It was her love for her son, her warmth for her friends, her hope for the world [that keep her going]."

Monica says many assume her husband's death spurred her to become a Buddhist, "but I don't see it like that. Yes, it deepened a sense of spiritual enquiry that had been developing in me for years when Tony and I lived and travelled through Asia. I had been interested in Tibet from when I was a teenager, when I read Seven years in Tibet. As for many people, the exoticism really struck a chord with me. Yet for some reason, I've always felt comfortable in the Tibetan Buddhist culture; it all feels very familiar to me."

It was 16 years after Tony died, in 1996, that Monica attended a series of teachings given by the Dalai Lama in Sydney. "That's when and where I took the special ceremony to become a Buddhist. It was a really powerful, moving and emotional time - life changing in a way. But it didn't just happen; I'd been studying it for some years. It wasn't like I suddenly went to the Dalai Lama and it all happened," she explains.

In 1997, Monica went to the Tashi Jong monastery with friend and author Vicki McKenzie, who was then researching a book that would become the best-selling A Cave in the Snow, about an English-born Buddhist nun, known as Tenzin Palmo (or "TP" to Monica).

"That's when I first met TP, and something just struck me about her," recalls Monica. "I remember one day TP said she had a lot of work, and I just said, "Maybe I should give you a hand, maybe I should come and help you. " Also, I wanted to do something different when I was still young and energetic enough."

"At a time when most people are winding down and resting on their well-earned laurels, Monica opted to start again," laughs McKenzie.

"I was free," says Monica. "Daniel was an adult, and didn't need me any more in that sense. I had enough money so I could stop working and do voluntary work. I was in a very fortunate position." Monica still owns her Sydney home, which close friends live in, and Daniel, a student, hands back her car when she returns twice a year.

Daniel realises his mother's choices seem unusual. "But when you click with something like Tibetan Buddhist culture, it seems like a normal thing to do," he says, matter of factly. "It's not exotic. When I first met Tenzin Palmo it made sense to me. They just connected."

TP was born in London and became a Buddhist at the age of 18 in 1963, and soon after headed to India. In 1964, she met her Tibetan guru and became one of the first Westerners to be ordained as a Tibetan Buddhist nun. Believing that women could achieve enlightenment, just as men, she went to a cave in Lahoul, in the Indian Himalayas. She spent 12 years there meditating in solitary retreat, emerging in 1984.

Some years later, she decided to set up a nunnery for impoverished young girls wishing to study Buddhism.Tenzin now spends three months every year touring the world and raising money for her nunnery project. At present, there are 24 young nuns, aged between 15 and 24, living and studying in the adjoining monastery, eagerly waiting to move into their new home. Buddhism is highly scholarly, but it is also sexist and nuns have traditionally had limited access to education. "TP wants to give these young women what was denied her," explains Monica. "A place they go to learn, study; somewhere they can be supported."

It's when Monica talks about the young nuns, and shows me pictures of them bunched together like kittens, that I really understand why she's there. Her face lights up when she describes the tearful farewell they gave her before she flew back to Australia this time. Despite not speaking a common language (though Monica is working on her Tibetan and Hindi) it's clear they're committed to each other. "She's like a mum to the nuns," says McKenzie, "She fixes doctors' appointments for them when they're sick, and makes sure they're not homesick when they first arrive." The young nuns come from the impoverished Himalayan border regions of Ladakh, Spiti, Kinnaur, Bhutan and Nepal. A few have trekked over the mountains from Chinese-occupied Tibet, and have seen horrific things. One teenager, having seen her mother starve to death, didn't talk for months when she first arrived. "I have unbounding admiration for their courage," Monica says. "They've all chosen freely to come here and are so committed and joyful about it all."

"When they first arrived, the nuns didn't hug because in the Tibetan culture they touch foreheads as a greeting, so they used to be shy when I would hug them. Now they hug each other too," smiles Monica. "They're always teasing me, and pulling out my grey hairs. They joke about how they're going to shave my head so I look like a nun, but they know I don't want to be one. It's just not my path." Her job requires dealing with banks, local government bureaucrats, builders and architects as well as overseeing the finances. "She's so skilful at communicating with people," says Tenzin, who believes Tara, a Buddhist goddess, sent Monica to her. "The Indian officials all love her and ask after her longingly in her absence. Her work for us is invaluable."

"My good old Aussie Blundstone boots are invaluable," jokes Monica, referring to her many trips to the work site. "The land is so wet and muddy, especially during Monsoon It's such a beautiful place. We're currently tying yellow ribbons on indigenous tress we want to make sure aren't removed in our land clearing."

"I think Monica has found, under what must be very trying conditions, a measure of tranquillity that most of us only yearn for," says Suzuki. Monica puts it this way. "When Tenzin Palmo was deciding whether or not to start work on the nunnery, she asked a priest for advice. He said you could choose the silk or the sandpaper [in life]. If you choose the silk, it's lovely and nothing much happens; if you choose the sandpaper, it's painful but you get to a different layer." And I look at Monica and, despite knowing her for years, wonder all over again at her ability to make the sand paper seem nothing but joy.

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