The bell sounded as we all held our
breath. No one moved. Tim gently chuckled and said with a smile, “well, you can
talk now!” From across the room, the young man with almost-dreads who had been
so diligently and seriously meditating all week caught my eye as his face instantly
transformed from subdued and distant to wildly animated and wide-eyed. It
struck me so amusing that I laughed out loud and mirrored his exuberant
expression. And suddenly, it felt as if all the air rushed out of the room only
to fill again with laughter and language – somewhat cautious at first, but soon
gained its full force within a minute or two. I just sat and watched in
amazement. It was as if a room full of emotionless statues had just come to
life before my eyes – like a black and white movie transforming into
technicolor. And in that instant, I realized I had done it – I made it through
the 7-day silent vipassana retreat.
I probably would not have chosen to attend
a meditation retreat on my own. In fact, I had heard that retreats were not all
created equal and further, that they may not be for everyone. I determined
early into the retreat that it was one’s motivation to attend that made all the
difference. Of the 40-ish yogis attending, it was clear that the majority were
there voluntarily – they actually wanted
to be there. For me, however, it was a requirement, and that made a huge
difference. I wasn’t vehemently against the idea, but I was nervous about the
idea of a silent retreat, especially one that was a week long, and did not feel
mentally prepared for the experience. I tried to approach the retreat with
determination to complete the requirement rather than expectations. I now believe
it would have been better if I had known more of what to expect. It is quite
possible that one cannot be prepared enough for an experience such as their
first silent retreat; perhaps it is something each person must encounter for
themselves. The following is my reflection of a silent vipassana retreat
experience – my intentions going in, what will stay with me, what I wish I
could forget, and some surprising outcomes. For my retreat, I chose Cloud
Mountain Retreat Center.
Cloud Mountain is beautiful, without
question. Situated deep in a classic Pacific Northwest forest of aged cedars,
firs, and grand maples. The grounds were littered with large native ferns, vine
maples, and foreign transplants – stands of bamboo of various varieties were
broken up with ponds and gravel pathways. There was a glorious grapevine heavy
with fruit that bordered a peaceful courtyard featuring a sizeable fountain
that, when you closed your eyes, showered your ears with sounds like that of an
orchestra. A large statue of the Buddha sat conducting the scene, serenely half-gazing
at all who ventured close. I supposed that the name Cloud Mountain referenced nearby
Mt. St. Helens, the only active volcano in the lower 48 states, since its
eruption was an immense ash-cloud.
Far-removed from the violence of an
eruption, I had set my intentions for a week at this place: clarity of mind and
sitting like a mountain. I had reminded myself of the Four Qualities of Mind (ardency,
clear comprehension, mindfulness, and concentration) and how they would be good
guiding intentions as I contemplated the Foundational Truths of the Dharma
(Four Noble Truths) throughout the week. As I wrote previously, “remembering
and contemplating these truths and teachings each day is the valuable
scaffolding that is supporting my ongoing and growing practice,” (Henderson,
2018), and I expected it to be no different at Cloud Mountain. In my mind, this
was just a week of retreat, not a ‘coming to God moment.’ I was not, however,
prepared for the serious nature of the endeavor, and as I quickly discerned,
retreats are not light-hearted affairs. After depositing my bags in my room after
registration, I went about following directions to set up my place in the
meditation hall where we would be spending so much time. I felt good about my
ability as a somewhat seasoned meditator and was curious to see if I would
encounter some of the hindrances that were familiar visitors. I was most
concerned about sloth and torpor, since that seemed to be the most frequent for
me, or perhaps some restlessness. I intended to put my all into sitting
meditation and hadn’t really thought much about the times of walking
meditation. I have enjoyed doing walking meditation in the last year, so wasn’t
anticipating any pesky hindrances causing problems. Unfortunately, I had not
considered silence as being a point of concern – in fact, I never even gave it
a second thought. Big mistake.
The Experience
At first, the silence was a refreshing
change from everyday conversation and auditory input. But, by day 2, it was all
falling apart for me. I quickly discerned the reason: for the bulk of my life,
silence had been used as a punishment. Whether during my growing up years or in
my adult life, silence had been used by the authoritarian and passive-aggressive
alike, and repeatedly was a relationship-killer. In my observation and
experience, people often use silence to send messages like “I don’t have time for you,” “what
you have to say is unimportant,” “I don’t want to hear what you have to say” or
“you are an inconvenience and/or not
worth my time.” Even in business silence takes the form of non-response; not
responding in a timely or respectful manner is a loud message of “I am
more important than you.” This is my history and it has left a legacy of
trauma and pain that cannot be denied. Because of this, the silence of the
retreat felt like days of punishment without the relief of reassuring support
or interaction.
Another unexpected effect of the retreat
was the resurfacing of pain from past traumatic events, which I suspect was triggered
by the silence and lack of social interaction. This caused quite a lot of mental
anguish in addition to the challenge of sustained meditation. Goldstein stated
that “without steadiness of concentration, it is easy to get caught up in the
feelings, perceptions, and thoughts as they arise. We take them to be self and
get carried away by trains of association and reactivity. Notice the profound
difference between being aware of a thought and being lost in it” (2016, p.
268). During seated meditation, I could hold onto my concentration, but I am
not sure I was adept enough to keep from being lost in the demanding distraction
of re-traumatization. And it seemed to worsen when I was alone in my room, or
during walking meditation – I felt isolated, living with the arising pain of past
trauma, and trying to turn down the volume on voices from the past. No amount
of reminding myself that the past is past,
and that emotions are impermanent
seemed to keep the anxiety and depression from welling up. By midweek, I was a
weepy mess, alone with my pain in the midst of absently-gazing strangers. I was
plunged right back into the deep depression I had worked so hard to come out of
and longed for relief in a circumstance that provided no support. And while the
meditation teachers at the retreat had good intentions, speaking with them left
me feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable; I was not convinced they were trained
to recognize or deal with retreatants experiencing trauma reactivity or deep
depression other than to encourage them to leave (which in my case, they did). I
was teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown when I starkly realized it was
not technology (such as the cell phone) that I sorely missed, but reassuring face-to-face
connection and interaction with others. I felt immensely lonely, isolated, and helpless.
As it turns out, my experience is not that
unusual. Adverse effects or challenges associated with meditation (both in
retreat settings and individual meditation) are not uncommon (studies have
shown approximately 25% of retreatants exhibit adverse effects ranging from
minor difficulties to extreme psychosis: Shapiro, 1992; Lomas, Cartwright, Edginton
& Ridge, 2014; Cebolla et al., 2017). To understand these challenges, researchers
Britton, Lindahl and their co-authors interviewed nearly 100 meditators from
three major traditions: Theravada, Zen, and Tibetan. “The Varieties of
Contemplative Experience study investigated meditation-related experiences that
are typically underreported, particularly experiences that are described as
challenging, difficult, distressing, functionally impairing, and/or requiring
additional support” (Lindahl et al., 2017). The study recorded unexpected
experiences such as somatic changes (i.e. hypersensitivity, insomnia, and
involuntary body movement) and, more importantly, mental/emotional challenges such
as fear, anxiety, panic, or loss of emotions or identity. Moreover, challenging
or adverse effects from meditation can occur unexpectedly, even in long-term
meditators (Shapiro, 1992).
Many
effects of meditation are well known, like increased awareness of thoughts and
emotions, or improved calm and well-being … but there is a much broader range
of possible experiences. Exactly what those experiences are, how they affect
individuals and which ones show up as difficult is going to be based on a range
of personal, interpersonal and contextual factors. (Orenstein, 2017, p.1)
It seems that everyone has the potential
to react differently to meditation, or even to mindfulness-based interventions.
Unexpected mental or emotional effects or reactions to deep meditation can be
the result of a personal history (context) that is “less about the content of a
[past] event than about the impact – sudden and then ongoing – that it has on
our physiology … any experience that is stressful enough to leave us feeling
helpless, frightened, overwhelmed or profoundly unsafe is considered trauma”
(Treleaven, 2018, p. xx). Some
researchers, such as Trish Magyari, are addressing the possibility of
trauma-related unexpected or adverse effect of meditation through important trauma-sensitive
meditation teacher training:
Persons
with trauma histories, trauma stress symptoms, or a diagnosis of post-traumatic
stress disorder (PTSD) are likely to be in virtually all mindfulness-based
interventions (MBI) groups … trauma survivors experience a number of challenges
to developing mindfulness skills, especially regarding those practices that are
still (as opposed to moving), eyes-closed practices with long expanses of
silence. This limitation stems from the primary effect of trauma on the brain,
namely, chronic and easily triggered fright/flight/freeze reactivity. (2017, p.
340)
It
was clear that the extended silence was creating a problem for me; all the
coping strategies I had developed to deal with chronic depression from past
trauma were stripped away, which triggered reactivity in my brain and resulted
in a rather unexpectedly unpleasant retreat experience.
Since returning from retreat, I have been
diligently working to understand my experience clearly, without getting too
swept up in the anguish of the emotional reactivity. Goldstein’s discussion
about bare attention and clear comprehension has helped in this regard. Even
after several weeks, it is still at the forefront of my awareness. Yes, it was
difficult and not something I would want to repeat, but the knowledge that has
come from the experience has been worthwhile. Goldstein stated that bare
attention is “naked and bare because it is simple, direct, noninterfering, and
nonjudging. It’s not making up stories about experience; it’s just the simple
awareness of things as they are” (2016, p. 230). Seeing my retreat experience
just how it was, without embellishment or judgment has been an exercise
requiring authenticity and honesty. I suppose I could pretend that it was not
as bad as it seemed at the time, make up excuses, or fabricate justifications
about the experience, but I don’t feel that would be as beneficial as
acknowledging the pain of the experience with bare awareness and curiosity. The
coping strategies I had developed were obscuring a deep, dormant wound that has
now been revealed. I consider that a beneficial thing, as awareness always is, because
I can now address it directly. This goes hand-in-hand with Goldstein’s
definition of clear comprehension as “seeing something precisely, thoroughly,
from all sides. Clear comprehension broadens the practice of bare attention
from a narrow focus to one that sees things in context” (2016, p. 231). Objectively
taking into account my personal context (as a person with a history of trauma,
as well as the requirement to attend the silent retreat), and the context of
the retreat (silent and rigid to provide a ‘container for group practice’), will
reveal wisdom. That wisdom – that retreats are not for everyone, and that there
are a certain number of retreatants (like myself) that will experience adverse
effects from deep meditation – expands my own practice of compassion, both
toward myself and others.
Tim taught that wisdom and compassion are
the “two wings of the Dharma” and that they need to be fully integrated; wisdom
without compassion is a distortion of knowledge taken as wisdom, and compassion
without wisdom becomes lost in the narrative. He stated that “the journey of
knowledge to wisdom is through compassion,” (Geil, 2018). Now that I am aware there
may be some (as many as 25% of any given group) who may experience adverse
effects to deep or sustained meditation, and may even be unaware they are at
risk, it is wisdom to compassionately practice prudence when encouraging others
along the path of mindfulness, meditation, and retreats.
Teaching & Takeaways
Despite my difficulties, I did take refuge
in the nightly teaching; the offered dharma-talks were the most interesting and
engaging for me. I didn’t choose this retreat because of the title, which was Awakening, but because of the teachers
and time it was offered. As it happened, the theme of awakening seemed to occupy much of my contemplations. I had some
pressing questions: what exactly is awakening?
How does an awakened person act? How do they, or anyone else, know that they
are awakened? These were persistent questions, especially after Narayan’s opening
narration of the oft-quoted discourse between the brahman and the Buddha:
Then
the Blessed One, leaving the road, went to sit at the root of a certain tree —
his legs crossed, his body erect, with mindfulness established to the fore.
Then Dona [the brahman], following the Blessed One's footprints, saw him
sitting at the root of the tree: confident, inspiring confidence, his senses
calmed, his mind calmed, having attained the utmost control & tranquility,
tamed, guarded, his senses restrained, a naga
[a great being]. On seeing him, he went to him and said, "Master, are
you a deva (a god)?"
The
Buddha answered no to all the Dona’s queries – he was not a deva, a gandhabba [a low-ranking deva], a yakkha [a nature spirit], or a human
being. The Buddha stated,
The
fermentations by which I would go
to
a deva-state,
or
become a gandhabba in the sky,
or
go to a yakkha-state &
human-state:
Those have been destroyed by me,
ruined, their stems removed.
Like
a blue lotus, rising up,
unsmeared
by water,
unsmeared
am I by the world,
and
so, brahman,
I'm
awake.
(Thanissaro, 2005)
The
Buddha did not consider himself a ‘a person, place, or thing’ - an identity or
a label – but an action. In
destroying the “fermentations” of the identity or self, he had simply become
awake. All roots of wanting to become (or be) something such as a deva, a gandhabba, or a yakkha, had been pulled out and done away with. Further, forsaking
all conditioning and experiences, he was unscathed by the world in which he was
born into like the lotus that is unchanged by the water through which it grew. But
then the question remained: what did that
really look like in action?
This question would be addressed by Tim in
his teaching based upon the Bahiya Sutta. Bahiya “of the bark cloth,” was
seeking the Buddha to learn the path to arhatship
(an arhat is an enlightened
disciple of the Buddha). Urgently desiring this teaching of the Buddha, he even
suggested that there is no way to know what will come or how long he had to
live. The Buddha relented after several requests and gave him this concise summary
of the path Bahiya sought. It also provides me my answer of what being awake
looks like:
Then, Bahiya, you
should train yourself thus: In reference to the seen, there will be only the
seen. In reference to the heard, only the heard. In reference to the sensed,
only the sensed. In reference to the cognized, only the cognized. That is how
you should train yourself. When for you there will be only the seen in
reference to the seen, only the heard in reference to the heard, only the
sensed in reference to the sensed, only the cognized in reference to the
cognized, then, Bahiya, there is no you in connection with that . When there is
no you in connection with that, there is no you there. When there is no you
there, you are neither here no yonder nor between the two. This, just this, is
the end of stress. (Thanissaro, 1994)
In
sensing only what is sensed, and not attaching or judging the experience,
Bahiya would no longer create a self-identity in relation to the experience. And,
when there is no self or identity continually created and confirmed through
judgments of experiences, then there is the “end of stress” or awakening. So,
when one is awake, there is no attachment or judgment placed on any experience
entering through the six ‘sense doors’ – seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting,
touching, and thinking. In John Martin’s teaching on this sutta (2018), he made
the distinction between consciousness as a conditioned arising (of self) and
the practice of open awareness that is empty of self. Goldstein stated that “it is exactly in these six sense spheres
that we either get caught by desire or aversion or delusion, or remain free.
This is why the Buddha gave such importance to understanding and being mindful
of them” (2016, p. 210). The intent is to be aware of how and when I get caught
in a sense-experience and of the subsequent judgment, attachment, and the
delusion of a self. Only when I am aware can I choose a different response.
This line of thinking is all very
abstract, and I had plenty of time during walking meditation to contemplate, so
I decided to find a quiet, isolated place on one of the many trails and put
sensing without attachment or judgment to the test. Sitting mindfully, I sensed
all that was around me – the colorful leaves and grasses around me, the feel of
the ground, the vibrations of the breeze through the high branches, and the
smell of the earth. I watched my thoughts come and go without attachment,
letting them float like the sparse clouds in the sky. Could I just sense
without creating judgments about those sensations? I remembered Tim’s teaching that
the farther the distance between the sense-experience and the ‘knower,’ the
closer one was to awakening. It was a new and rather strange feeling for me to
just see a leaf for what it was without noting the type of plant, how beautiful
its color was, or how enjoyable it was to watch a dragonfly chose it as a
landing place. I recognized my craving attachment to the sound of the wind and the
warm feeling of the sun on my face. I could see how those judgments – what I
liked, what I didn’t like – created who I was, piece by piece. It was pure
awareness, and I think, a moment of awakening.
After five days of contemplation, I had
come to an awakening, of sorts. Perhaps it was just this simple: awakening is the
clear awareness of how and when self is created – to see things as they are
without attachment, judgment, history, or narrative. To be awake is to encounter
the flow of experiences without attachment or judgment, without creation of an
identity. To sense without a self is to
be awake.
Another teaching that totally captivated
me was Narayan’s discourse on bowing (Liebenson,
2018). I recall her saying that bowing (and meditation, I assume) was not necessarily
a Buddhist practice, but a human practice. I had made note that most of the retreatants
were bowing before entering the meditation hall. And clearly there were a few
retreatants who had spent some time in formal Buddhist settings (such as
extended Buddhist retreats or time at a monastery), as they were performing the
more formal, prostrating bow. I was curious about my mixed feelings about all
this bowing, so it was wonderful that Narayan addressed it directly. Frankly,
if people want to bow, I have no desire to judge (I have witnessed and
participated in many bowing rituals in my life in various traditions). I did
notice, however, that the longer the retreat went on, the more people were
bowing. I suspected that mirroring behavior or peer pressure may have had some
influence – or perhaps they just wanted to experience the sitting meditations
as a more sacred affair, delineated by bowing as they entered and left the
hall. Or maybe they self-identified as Buddhist and that was their spiritual ritual.
All the bowing didn’t bother or distract me, I was just fascinated and curious
about the ritual aspect of all this bowing.
Narayan stated that external bowing was
nice but optional in our Western context. She was personally convinced,
however, that internal bowing was not
optional (Liebenson, 2018). Internal bowing, as I understood her to say, was an
acknowledgment and surrender to what was arising, surrender to others, and
surrender to the Triple Gem (the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha). I spent some time
contemplating this internal bow. I initially conceded that I could bow
internally if that meant to have faith (or confidence) in the Buddha (that he
was indeed enlightened) and his Dharma (the truth of his teachings). I can most
certainly bow to the ideals of the Dharma and the precepts, especially the
precept of ‘do no harm,’ which has
been a driving force in my life always. But I had difficulty having confidence
in, and surrendering to, the Sangha. Why
should I have confidence or trust in the Sangha? Did that mean these people
here at this retreat? I didn’t even know them. Should I have confidence in them
because they meditate or are on the ‘path’? In actuality, I have had faith
and trust in other groups. In my past, I have completely surrendered for the
good of the group to the point of sacrifice. Unfortunately, it has been my
experience that participation in organized groups or communities end in substantial
suffering for a myriad of reasons. This makes it a challenge for me to trust,
much less ‘surrender’ or bow to a group or ‘sangha.’ In the end, they are all
impermanent.
I brought up these questions to Narayan in
one of our meetings. She suggested that ‘surrendering’ to the Sangha could mean
something far beyond having ‘faith’ in those meditating next to me. She
explained that I could have confidence in all those who have walked the Dharma path
ahead of me, and I could have faith and appreciation in those who had furthered
understanding of the path. Now, this was something I could embrace – there have
been those who have been immensely helpful to me in my journey along the path,
even when I didn’t completely understand or acknowledge the Dharma.
I continued to contemplate this idea of
surrender and the concept of ‘sangha.’ Even considering ‘surrender’ while
struggling with arising depression and feelings of isolation, was difficult. During
one of the times of walking meditation, I sat to meditate in the surrounding nature.
As communed with the trees, I looked up toward the tallest branches and the
clear, blue sky. To my amazement, directly in my line of sight, the branches had
grown together to outline a perfect, sky-blue heart. In that moment I realized
that nature had always been my trusted Sangha. Like many people throughout
human history, I have retreated into nature to find solace, comfort, connection,
and answers. Whether it was long, solitary strolls alongside the curling waves
of the Pacific Ocean, mindful meanders along a trail in native forest, or feeling
the expanse of a rolling prairie with an endless sky overhead, nature has
served as my refuge. The loving message of the trees reminded me of that
steadfast Sangha – welcoming, accepting,
non-judgmental, and honest. Nature just is and never tries to be something it
is not. Nature is pure and true. I can accept that my faith in the third part
of the Triple Gem could consist of those that have gone before me who have
generously shared their wisdom, along with the ever-enduring natural world that
surrounds and supports me. At that moment, I accepted and understood Narayan’s
concept of that inner bow as an acknowledgement and surrender to the wisdom of
the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sanga. I need the promise of awakening, the
path that leads to that promise that others have trod, and an accepting and
authentic Sangha. That is the path to freedom: forgiving
myself and others, accepting things
just as they are, knowing and having
confidence in the path, loving connection
and belonging, and being authentic.
And while I am not culturally conditioned to bow, nor am I motivated to
participate in a retreat ritual such as bowing upon entering the meditation
hall, I can bow and surrender internally to these things that are very close to
my heart.
What
Doesn’t Kill Us Makes Us Stronger
During the second half of the retreat I
felt as if the difficulties I was encountering were so distracting that it was
hindering my practice. I remember thinking, “I
can hardly get past the challenge of it all in order to actually practice!”
I diligently set an intention to put aside any attention to emotional arising
during formal sitting practice and sought to simply focus on the body and
breath. And those became the most settling times for me. In fact, the
suggestion to use the body as a stabilizing anchor (the breath, if that is not
triggering, or other bodily anchors such as feet on the floor, hands in the
lap, or sitting on a seat) can be a way to establish a sense of stability, safety
and distance from re-experiencing the emotional reactivity of a traumatic event
(Treleaven, 2018, p. 112-126). Using a stabilizing anchor can sometimes offer
mindful space to explore whatever is arising in a ‘window of tolerance’ (a
framework of understanding symptoms of hyper-reactivity to triggered traumatic
memories; it is learning the “signs that someone may be exceeding their window
of tolerance and begin to offer modifications [that] can help people thrive in
their [mindfulness] practice, and help ensure they avoid re-traumatization,”
Treleaven, 2018, p. 88). I see now that I was utilizing the body as an anchor
to offset adverse effects during seated meditation but was having difficulty
staying within a ‘window of tolerance’ during walking meditation sessions. In
addition, several nights during the retreat I experienced panic attacks due to
the re-activation of memories and emotions during the day.
In further consideration of my challenges,
I looked at what Goldstein called the three distortions of experience (Goldstein,
2016, p. 342-3) - distortion of
perception, distortion of mind
(when we think and ruminate about our mistaken perceptions), and distortion of view (when we become
convinced of a truth that we are reticent to see things another way). I must
consider that I could be delusional about my recollections of the experience. At
first reading these, I noticed aversion arising – the retreat experience was painful
for me, and his words felt rather arrogant or non-feeling, in my view. But for
clear comprehension, I must think about these distortions with equanimity and
ask myself the hard question: was my
perception of the experience a distortion?
My perception of the requirement of
silence, at first, was fine. However, after a day or two, I realized that
extended silence was causing pain and harm. Was
that a distortion of perception? It was a perception, certainly, and at
this point, I am uncertain whether I would call it a distortion, even though
others may have viewed the silence differently. I then had to deal with that
pain – did I experience a distortion of
mind by ruminating about that pain? Again, I am uncertain. I knew I was
uncomfortable and experienced aversion to the lack of communication. Further, was I reinforcing a distorted view by
refusing to see how the silence could be a benefit to practice? Well, no –
for some, the extended silence is a welcome respite from their hyper-busy
lives, without question. However, I found the extended silence and lack of
support to be a hindrance to my practice. Perhaps silence would be better if it
were in a different circumstance, such as a shorter retreat situation, or even
a personal retreat, rather than a week-long silent retreat at a center.
In Tim’s teaching about wisdom and
compassion, he stated that “any thought you think is, at best, can only be
partly true or point to what is partly true” (Geil, 2018). I agree with this,
and I must seek to understand and see clearly how my interpretations, beliefs,
and reactivity could be only partially true – not in a judgmental way, but in a
fluid, compassionate way.
This
is what makes trauma so cruel. Instead of integrating a traumatic experience,
we become forced to re-experience it – over and over again – through the body.
What was meant to be adaptive, short-term response to a threat becomes
maladaptive and problematic over time. Our main navigational system – our inner
body sensations – becomes compromised, and our ability to correctly assess the
present moment vanishes. Our ability to detect what’s safe versus what’s
threatening is lost, and we can come to mistrust our own experience.
(Treleaven, 2018, p. 132)
I
need to be aware, honest, and compassionate (with myself) about how my body and
mind are hyper-reactive to those experiences that re-trigger a trauma reaction.
I cannot affirm that it was a purposeful distortion of perception, mind, or
view. And, it was a challenge not to feel embarrassment and shame at my
inability to be stronger and just ‘sit’ with my arising emotions. My own
expectation of calm equanimity was hijacked at times by the trauma reactivity
that was burned into the memory of my body-mind.
Not everything was unpleasant, and there are
good things to remember and replicate from the retreat experience. I am very
grateful for the gems I took with me, but honestly, I was very glad and
relieved when it was over. I cannot deny that the after-effects were beautiful
– I felt so calm, peaceful, relaxed, and mindful for several days afterward. I
wonder if that is not one of the reasons people choose to attend meditation
retreats. Putting oneself into an uncomfortable situation can give a glorious
sense of relief when it is over. And, it is true, challenges that don’t do
irreparable harm do make us stronger and more confident of our capabilities.
Moreover, as a result of this retreat I
have increased my daily sitting meditation from 20 – 30 minutes to 30 – 40
minutes. I am certainly more committed to creating a mindful and peaceful home
environment; I make a more concerted effort to slow down and mindfully complete
tasks, rather than just hurry up and get things done. I realized just how
frantic and grasping my days had become. After retreat, I find myself slowing
down and taking opportunities to be fully aware of my surroundings and
companions. I have attempted to identify and eliminate unnecessary concerns and
tasks, such as time spend keeping up with social media or trying to fill every
moment with ‘doing.’ I have also committed to planning short personal retreats
away from school, family, friends, and technology to reconnect and center my
practice.
Part of that practice is the realization of
what is important. The joy of living, for me, comes from sharing experiences
and life with others, always with the intent of helping myself and others
suffer less. I will never be an ascetic, nor have I ever aspired to be. A 7-day
silent retreat only confirmed that conclusion for me; silence while in a group
is awkward and unnatural, in my view. Humans are social beings, and we need
support and care from others. For some, sitting a retreat to make their practice
more robust is just what they need. But there are other ways, and retreats may
not be for everybody. I am glad I was able to complete the retreat in full and
can now say that I have completed one. Many memories of the retreat will remain
with me, one of which happened during a meeting with Narayan. I had shared that
I thought I was working too hard at being mindful and found myself repeatedly asking
the question ‘am I being mindful right
now? Am I mindful enough?’ She smiled and reassured me. “The answer to that
question is always yes. Whenever the
question arises, just tell yourself yes.”
Then came the last day of the retreat. The
sun was shining and for me, everything was wonderful. It was over. After
packing our belongings and finishing our yogi tasks, I realized Chuck and I
were among the last to leave. Later that afternoon, there would be a new group
of yogis arriving with the same nervousness and anticipation of their time at
Cloud Mountain as I had experienced. I thought about them as I walked toward
Yogi Hall one last time. I passed the young man with almost-dreads perched
cross-legged on a large stone. He was serene and happy – his gaze no longer
subdued and distant. I didn’t speak to him, but I wish I would have. Clearly this
was not his first retreat, and I suspect it would not be his last. I found
myself wishing that I could have had more time to get to know these fellow
retreatants – where were they from? How and
why did they find themselves attending this retreat? What was their perceptions
of the retreat experience? Perhaps we would have had much in common, and I
might have taken away a much different perception from those interactions. I
felt that there was a great opportunity for connection that had been lost – it
made me sad. As we drove down the gravel driveway and out onto the country road
leading away from Cloud Mountain and back to reality, I remember marveling at the
deep quality of mindfulness that saturated my mind and body. I was certain I
wouldn’t be returning. And I didn’t ask
myself if I was adequately mindful. The answer was yes.
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October 2018
