The funniest looking Christmas party I ever saw

An Irish Buddhist monk writes home

Please excuse the recent slowdown. The past few weeks have been filled entirely with Letters Live at the Royal Albert Hall (proudly in aid of the RNLI) and the delivery of my next book, Diaries of Note, which will be published late-2025. I cannot wait to show you all. Wishing everyone the merriest of holidays.

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Maura O’Halloran

Born in 1955, Maura O’Halloran was an Irish Zen Buddhist monk whose brief but luminous life left was marked by an extraordinary spiritual journey. In 1979, after graduating from Trinity College Dublin, she travelled to Japan, immersing herself in the rigorous discipline of Zen Buddhism at the Toshoji Temple in Tokyo and later at Kannonji Temple in Iwate. She became one of the few Western women to be ordained as a Zen monk, achieving kensho—an initial awakening—and eventually receiving transmission from her roshi, a rare honour.

Tragically, Maura’s journey ended abruptly in 1982 when she was killed in a bus accident in Thailand at just 27 years old. Her letters and diaries were posthumously published¹ and I can’t recommend them highly enough. In the following letter, written in January 1980, Maura reflects on her first Christmas away from home.

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January 13, 1980

Dear Family,

How was Christmas for yis? I missed you. Christmas Eve was very cold and glum without a sprig of holly or a sniff of turkey. I was feeling decidedly on the wrong side of the Pacific. Word went around the monastery that I was down in the dumps, and they all rallied round: One monk did my chores for me. Another one wrapped me in a big woollen coat (it was freezing), popped headphones on me and played tapes, his prize being hymns from Notre Dame. The abbot went out and bought a ‘Christmas cake,’ and the cook bought champagne. They were going to give me a Christmas party. Well, it was the funniest looking Christmas party I ever saw. Five monks and the cook huddled in the cold around four wooden benches. The plastic tree and yule log looked strange sitting on a ‘Christmas cake’ of whipped cream and fresh strawberries. They lit birthday candles on the cake. But they didn’t know what to do with them, so they turned off the light and patiently waited for the candles to melt down. Then they played ‘Silent Night’ in Japanese and took turns singing English songs. Then Tetsuro-san leaps to his feet in full monk’s regalia, hips swinging, and in choppy Japanese accent he does his rendition of Elvis Presley. Then there was ‘Home, home on the range.’ Great cheer all around, though you could see everyone’s breath as each sang his song. The party ended at 8:00; we all had to be up at 4:30. It wasn’t quite Christmas, but it was certainly the Christmas spirit.

All the while there was the build-up to going begging this month. A couple of days before we were to leave for the north, one of the monks came to my room with an armful of bandages. I asked what they were for. ‘Your wounds,’ he replied solemnly. We both consulted our dictionaries to make sure bandages and wounds were the right words. They were. I closed the door and wondered just what I’d let myself in for this time. I felt as if I was going off to war.

It’s funny, the begging isn’t bad at all. I wear literally ten layers of clothes and once the fingers and toes are numb, you don’t feel a thing. It’s nice walking through the streets singing at the top of your lungs. It’s like going Christmas carolling every day. Then the little wooden door rattles and slides across, and an old woman, bent over, clutching her shawl, shuffles in the snow to drop whatever she can in your bowl, then bends her head reverently waiting for the blessing I can’t give.

This amulet that I’m enclosing was especially commissioned by the abbot for you. It is a New Year’s blessing to bring health and happiness to the home. On the right is our name, on the left is the temple and the monk that wrote it (the same one that did Elvis on Christmas Eve). They say it should be hung in a special place.

When you mentioned coming to Japan, I must say, selfishly, I’d love you to come over; it’d be great to see you, but in fact if you’re going to spend the money you’d get better value anywhere else. Prices are ridiculous. $20.00 for a steak, $13.00 for a melon, $1.50 for a cup of coffee . . . it’s all true. But then you could eat tofu and mandarins and drink green tea instead. Little was left of old Japan after the war; now it’s mostly ugly concrete rabbit warrens, but for me it’s grand because I’m living in thirteenth century Japan and it’s fascinating.

Love,
M.

1. The book is titled Pure Heart, Enlightened Mind: The Life and Letters of an Irish Zen Saint.