The Buddha, forests, and the art of having less
I moved to Bhutan in 1997. When people come here from outside, many ask me what I miss from the US. I always make up something like “salmon from Costco,” or “tailgating parties,” or “Mardi Gras,” or “Mexican food,” because if I say I don’t miss anything, that cravings eventually go away, they look like they don’t believe me. They seem disappointed.
Mind you, I’m not a buddha; I like hot showers, indoor plumbing, and a bit of mass consumption as much as the next American. But I came here and fell in love—not just with a thangka painter (although yes, that happened too), but with a way of life. Bhutan, tucked high in the Himalayas, may be the last functioning example of a society that still mostly values compassion more than consumption. And this has changed me in ways I’m still learning from, resonating with, and laughing about every day.
For one thing, Bhutan is landlocked and super remote. It takes four plane rides to get from my home in Nashville to my home in Thimphu. What comes in and goes out of Bhutan is self-limiting. It costs a lot to get things here and that’s reflected in their price. So it’s better to pare down and use what we can source locally. Anyway, we can’t always get a lot of things.
Gross National what now?
You probably know of Bhutan’s most famous export—no, not Himalayan singing bowls: Gross National Happiness (GNH). Yes, it’s a real thing. The fourth King of Bhutan, His Majesty Jigme Singye Wangchuck, once said, “I’d rather have, Gross National Happiness than Gross National Product for my people,” and everyone in Bhutan liked it and thought it was a really good idea and took him seriously. So seriously that Bhutan now has government policies based on GNH. For any policy to be enacted by Bhutan’s Royal Government, it must hit on at least two of the four pillars of Gross National Happiness, which are: equitable economic development, cultural preservation, environmental protection, and good governance. I don’t know about you, but I find this revolutionary in an age of creeping authoritarianism and social media addiction.
In Bhutan, well-being isn’t something you squeeze in between jobs. It is the job. The Bhutanese understand, in a way most of us who come from or live in capitalist cultures have forgotten: that a good life isn’t about what you have, it’s about how you live.
Living with less (and mostly loving it)
Bhutan is a place where your neighbors are more likely to weave their own clothes than judge your fashion choices. People still walk to temples just to turn prayer wheels. Every afternoon, I walk to a mani wall near an ancient monastery on a hillside above our home and do rounds. I get a little exercise and I also do something conscious to gain a little merit. It’s such a small thing. But it is a start.
Occasionally, I encounter an old, withered-looking Bhutanese man with some kind of battery-powered microphone, a kid’s toy, and as he walks around the mani wall he chants prayers. The microphone is cranked up to eleven. Sometimes he stands on the edge of a nearby cliff overlooking the hamlet of Hejo and chants prayers so that more people can hear. It’s really loud. The other day he and his microphone arrived while I was doing rounds, and I left in a huff. It felt invasive. I came home and told my husband Namgay about it. “That’s wonderful!” he said. “He’s praying for everyone!” I was skeptical. Then Namgay said, “All sounds are Dharma sounds.” That’s what I needed to hear.
The Bhutanese constitution requires that 60 per cent of the country remain forested forever. It’s illegal to cut down a tree in Bhutan without official permission. Think about that. It’s like if the US passed a law that every citizen had to recycle and smile at their UPS delivery person—and mean it.
Living in a non-capitalist culture means there’s way less pressure to achieve and more opportunity to be. And let me tell you, being is wildly underrated. You start to notice little things: clouds, teenagers with bright smiles and non-rolling eyes, the miracle of drinking tea in the woods without anyone else around.
Buddhism for the bashful
I’m not a card-carrying anything. If there were a club for people who don’t like joining clubs, I might join. Then probably quit because they wanted matching t-shirts. So it suits me just fine that in Bhutan, Buddhism is beautifully private. It’s not broadcastable or performative. People here live their faith instead of tweeting it.
A Canadian once asked me what three things tourists should do in Bhutan. I said:
1. Shut up.
2. Pay attention.
3. Don’t be ignorant.
Which sounds harsh until you realize that it’s just shorthand for “be present and respectful,” which is pretty much the Bhutanese motto. That and “have another cup of tea.”
Faith without the fuss
I’ve met Westerners who come to Bhutan like spiritual treasure hunters, eager to collect rituals, mantras, and possibly a lama or two. That’s fine for them, and I think it’s really a reflection of where they came from; a capitalist society. But here, people don’t ask what kind of Buddhist you are. They assume you’re just doing your thing and doing your best every day, and that’s enough.
When I told a Bhutanese friend that I skipped teachings because I didn’t understand the language, he said, “Listen anyway.” Not because I’d magically learn Dzongkha, but because wisdom doesn’t always arrive through words. Sometimes it shows up through patience, or silence, or watching a monk feed stray dogs, or through an old man with a toy microphone.
There’s something wonderfully disarming about being in a place where you don’t have to know everything to be okay. Where faith isn’t a debate. It’s in the air. Like incense.
Isolation, humility, and the great unlearning
Life in Bhutan can be quiet. Very quiet. Like, “Is that a dog barking or just the wind?” quiet. But isolation teaches you things, like how much of your ego was wrapped up in your stuff and overbooking your Google calendar. When you’re the outsider, humility stops being optional. You either learn to bow (literally and figuratively), or you’ll knock your head on every low temple door in the Himalayas. Trust me on this.
Bhutan humbles you. Not in a self-deprecating way; in the “you are one grain of sand on a very large mountain, and that’s a good thing” way.
Why I keep writing
Together with my husband, Phurba Namgay—a talented painter who spends more time with deities than I do with my Instagram, I’ve dedicated my life to sharing Bhutan’s stories with the world. Not because I think Bhutan is perfect (it’s a developing country with its own challenges), but because I think Bhutan remembers something that the rest of us have forgotten: that real wealth comes from cultivating what’s within.
Before we go green, or go global, or try to fix the mess we’ve made out there, we might want to pause and go inward. Maybe stop trying to buy happiness, and start cultivating it. Based on what I know of tariffs and supply chains and global economies, now is definitely a good time to make moves in that direction.
So if you’re wondering whether happiness can be measured, whether faith can be quiet, or whether you can really live a good life without Amazon Prime, I’m here to tell you: yes. Yes, you can.
And maybe you could practice a little Bhutan where you live. Just bring your sense of humor, your curiosity, go into a place where there are trees, and leave the credit card at home.
Related features from BDG
Buddha in a Teacup: Metaphors
Buddha in a Teacup: Sip. Smile. Enlighten!
