Seeing People: A Lhasa Lesson on Everyday Practice and Tibetan Incense

The morning air in Lhasa is thin, cold, and carries the faint, resinous scent of burning juniper. Walking together toward the Jokhang Temple, my Tibetan guide pointed to the stone flagstones worn smooth by generations of pilgrims. As a boy, he told me, his grandmother would hold his hand in these very queues on every major festival day.

Looking up at the golden temple eaves catching the morning sun, I asked him: “Among all the senior monks here, what has impressed you the most? What do you think is their greatest gift?”

“Seeing people,” he answered quietly.

“Not foreseeing events?” I asked, surprised.

He smiled. My guide told me that when local herders lost yaks or sheep in the high valleys, they sometimes came to senior monks for guidance, and that he had seen masters point families toward where they should search. But none of that had ever truly astonished him.

He told me that over the years, locals sometimes arrive at the temple wishing to take vows. Yet monastic discipline is quiet, severe, and stripped of worldly comfort; many simply cannot endure the austere routine and eventually return to the world. Long before someone takes their vows, the senior master can often sense whether this person has the temperament and commitment for a lifetime of monastic practice, or whether worldly life will eventually call them back.

He had a distant relative who ran into domestic troubles and, overwhelmed by the messiness of life, decided he wanted to become a monk. The master looked at him and said gently: “Your worldly ties are far from finished, and your heart is still in the world. You will disrobe sooner or later. Go home, live your life well, and remember that daily life is also a place of practice.”

The relative insisted. Seeing his stubbornness, the master simply agreed.

A few years later, just as the master had known, he disrobed and returned to the village.

“Putting the poor master through so much trouble!” I laughed.

The guide chuckled: “Yeah. But the masters here are just really good people.”

A Workshop Beside the Temple

Later that afternoon, my guide led me down a narrow alley beside the Jokhang to a quiet courtyard workshop. The air there was thick with the scent of dried botanicals, damp cedar, and earth. It didn’t smell like perfumed commercial incense; it smelled deeply medicinal—crushed juniper needles, wild saffron, clove, and mountain roots traditionally blended to warm the body in the thin, cold climate.

An elderly artisan invited me to try making a batch myself. Rolling the damp herbal dough between my palms and trying to press it into smooth, even sticks was an exercise in pure humility. My lines wobbled, the dough cracked, and my fingers turned a fragrant, stubborn ochre. Watching artisans who had done this effortlessly for decades, I can comfortably and without shame admit that I am utterly all thumbs.

Yet, watching the rough incense sticks dry on wooden racks under the high-altitude sun, something about the quiet rhythm of it stayed with me.

Carrying the Plateau Home

You don’t need to shave your head, leave your home, or retreat into mountain caves to cultivate a quiet mind. The everyday world you already inhabit is the real practice.

Ever since returning from Lhasa, lighting a stick of incense has remained a quiet habit at my desk. I happily leave the craftsmanship to the monks in Lhasa, usually just asking friends to bring back boxes from the monasteries whenever they visit. There is no elaborate ritual to it—just a thin thread of earthy smoke rising beside my keyboard each morning, a quiet reminder of what that monk near the Jokhang understood: you don’t find peace by running away from your life, but by settling fully into the life you already have.