Can a film be a meditation? An image of a majestic stag standing in a harsh winter landscape. Ladybirds scurrying around a wooden window frame. Ants beavering away on a verandah. The sound of raindrops. My senses came alive from the cinema seat.

‘Walk With Me’ is a documentary following the Buddhist monastery, Plum Village, in rural France. The film was three years in the making and eagerly awaited for by mindfulness practitioners around the world. British film makers Marc Francis and Max Pugh gained unprecedented access to the community, describing the making of the film as a mindfulness practice in itself.

It was experiential, sitting beside the monastics and sharing in deeply private and sacred, as well as ordinary and mundane moments; dressing in robes, the hair cutting ceremony, studying, cooking, walking. The Buddhist concept of impermanence was reflected through the flow of time, day and night, the changing seasons and weather. Mindfulness is a non-judgemental awareness of the present moment and the film reflected this by focusing on the here and now, without seeking to explain or give background information.

Benedict Cumberbatch narrated excerpts from an early journal by Thich Nhat Hanh, the monastery’s founder. Thich Nhat Hanh himself was a gentle, yet powerful presence throughout the film, but hardly a leading role. I was a little disappointed not to find out more about his life, but the creators intended to make the whole community a character, rather than individuals, respecting Thich Nhat Hanh’s wish not to be idolised in any way. This community character was calm and grounded, yet emotionally alive and vibrant. Feelings seemed to flow without any stickiness, clinging or resistance. There would be an expression of joy one moment, and tearful empathy the next. Every time they heard a bell, they paused, they breathed, they became aware, breaking the habitual autopilot of doing. The collective stillness and presence they dropped into was palpable.

There was a shift in dynamic as coach loads of summer ‘tourists’ arrived. I found this a shock, having settled into the slow, peaceful ways of the monastery. I wonder how the monastics felt? It looked like a holiday with idyllic days spent outside, but it clearly had a profound effect on the visitors. It was heart-warming to see children included, and there was a touching moment when a young girl told Thich Nhat Hanh that her doggie had died and asked him how she could take away the sadness.

If the visitors arriving was a shock, there was an even harsher juxtaposition when a group of monastics visited New York. It was a world of two extremes; one appeared to have everything, but in many ways had nothing; the other had nothing material to show, but in many ways had everything. There was a glimpse of the life some of the monastics had left behind as we saw emotional visits to families. How did they reconcile the pain of leaving their loved ones with the path they had taken? What had led them to that choice?

Whilst the film was rich in mindfulness and the qualities that arise from it, it was more an impression of monastic Buddhist life than an explanation of mindfulness, and in many ways it felt far removed from the secular practice of mindfulness that so many of us, myself included, draw upon in our daily lives. Some argue that mindfulness has become too far removed from its Buddhist routes, diluted down to make it relevant to modern Western life. Perhaps this film goes some way to remind us of its heritage?

I found it beautiful, intriguing, strange and hopeful. It raised more questions than it answered, something I experience time and again when I explore Buddhism, but maybe that was the point? It got me thinking. It made me curious. It encouraged me to dig deep and to explore answers within myself. I found myself breathing with it, feeling immersed in the monastic world. It was a cinematic meditation.