Sit, Walk, Don't Talk
Page 2
None of this was easy. But as much as I wanted to give up, I knew that I owed it to myself to find a way to sit with my pain. I also knew that I owed it to myself to be loving and compassionate toward myself and other people during the process.
It didn’t happen overnight, but I managed to stick with it. And sure enough, something deep inside me started to shift.
I started facing the things I didn’t want to see.
I started letting myself feel the feelings I didn’t want to feel.
I started learning how to be more compassionate with myself (and others).
And I started learning how to love myself.
Despite all the work I’d been doing, however, my Shit didn’t fully disappear. It still gets kicked up—but it takes more of a backseat these days. A kinder, gentler, more compassionate inner voice is at the wheel now. And although this new voice sometimes gets kicked out of the driver’s seat, it always seems to swoop back in and take over whenever a metaphorical crash is in sight.
And sitting there, in near-gridlock traffic, in the middle of a heat wave, with no air-conditioning, teetering on the edge of Shit Land—a crash was definitely in sight.
It will all work out…The traffic looks like it’s going to ease up soon. And I can always call the retreat manager and tell her I need to arrive late if I’m not going to make it in time. Everything is going to be OK. Just breathe.
—
“Welcome!”
I’m standing in the check-in room at the Joshua Tree Retreat Center. The tall, blond, lithely yogacized retreat manager seated at the table in front of me is greeting me with an enthusiastic smile.
“There’s an orientation meeting in thirty minutes at the meditation hall. Head on over as soon as you can with your cushion so you can find a space. It’s a large group—about 170 or so.”
I feel a pang of anxiety shoot up through my torso as she explains that I’m expected to claim a spot in the beginning of the meditation retreat and maintain the same position throughout. Nibbling on what’s left of my nails, I’m eager to get moving as she then launches into what type of work duty I’d like to be assigned.
“We depend on the interdependence of the community in order to keep our costs down,” she says.
I choose dishwashing.
I’m handed a map and shown where my room is in relation to everything. Then, with another smile and bright eyes, she passes me a gallon of water, a stack of sheets, and a set of towels.
“Have a great retreat!”
I NEED TO GET MOVING. WHAT IF ALL THE SPOTS ARE TAKEN?
I’m sure I’ll find a space. Just breathe.
Taking a deep breath, I bury my nose in my map and head outside. Halfway out the door, I almost crash into a forty-something bearish-looking man with a salt-and-pepper beard. It’s Sam, a fellow student from a UCLA Mindful Awareness Practices class I had recently completed. With a sharp pang of resentment/envy, I recall that he’d gotten into the university’s Mindfulness Certification program that I applied to—but didn’t get into—last year.
WHAT DOES HE HAVE THAT I DON’T HAVE?
We toss polite smiles to each other as my nose drops back down into my map in search of my room.
Moments later, I arrive and find a small, Spartan room with two single cots. A door in the back leads to a narrow vestibule, off of which resides the bathroom. There’s just enough space for a shower stall, a sink, and a toilet. But no bureaus or shelves to place my clothes—so I keep them in my bag and tuck it under my bed.
As I settle in, I notice my throat starting to feel scratchy.
OH, GOD—KATE MENTIONED STREP WAS GOING AROUND HER OFFICE. PLEASE TELL ME I’M NOT GETTING SICK.
I glance at my iPhone to check the time, and another sharp pang of anxiety immediately shoots up through me.
SHIT! TEN MINUTES BEFORE THE ORIENTATION MEETING BEGINS! I NEED TO GET MOVING.
Scurrying around the room, I grab my meditation cushion that I’d brought from home, my water bottle, and my map of the center’s grounds before shooting out the door.
Briskly making my way through the desert, I weave in and out of the scattered fellow retreatants headed toward the meditation hall. Some of them are talking. Some not. I’m feeling rushed and anxious. And I can sense myself starting to get more and more agitated.
THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A SILENT RETREAT. WHY ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE TALKING SO LOUDLY? AND THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE A FREAKIN’ FRAT BOY. WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING HERE?
The judgments keep whipping through my mind. I can’t stop them. And just as I’m about to spiral head first into Shit Land, a tiny, dun-colored desert hare hops out in front of me, halting me in my tracks.
I watch as her little white cotton tail disappears beneath some nearby brush. My mind momentarily hushed, the sound of trickling water catches my attention. Just beyond the brush, I turn to see a fountain built from slabs of smooth, grey stone. The overlapping circles of the fountain’s pools remind me of the overlapping circle pattern on the meditation cushion in my hand.
Widening my attention further, I look up and take in the retreat center’s expansive grounds. Endless miles of sand, peppered with small clusters of cabins, countless cacti, Joshua trees, and dry brush. A row of modest—yet stately—mountains off in the distance.
Smiling, I feel grateful to the hare for helping me create the space to appreciate the beauty that’s right in front of me. The beauty that I didn’t see at first because I was too caught up in my Shit.
Trotting up ahead, I duck under the canopy of interwoven tree branches leading up to the meditation hall and find myself engulfed in a cloud of chatter from the swarm of fellow practitioners outside the main entrance. I notice myself starting to get annoyed by the noise again, but I do my best not to indulge my Shit as I attempt to find an empty space on the tall, white case outside the door, which is packed with shoes. Tucking my sandals on the top shelf, I take a deep breath and enter the meditation hall.
—
High ceilings. Hunter green carpet. A cornucopia of zafu cushions, folding chairs, and various other meditation props are lined in tight rows in front of a large brass Buddha statue on a raised platform at the front of the room. I find a small space to the side of the hall to place my cushion. I had hoped to be closer to the center, but the room’s already packed, and there’s very little floor space left. So it will have to do.
I settle into my space, noticing a row of older women seated in chairs along the wall to my right. A tall, thin, bearded hipster type sits in front of me. And a forty-something woman in a sari carrying a large zippered bag plops down on the cushion to my left. She unzips her bag and starts rummaging through it as the teachers file onto the platform.
Jack Kornfield, a slight man with greying hair and a kind face, takes a seat in front of the Buddha statue. A seminal teacher in introducing mindfulness practices to the West, Jack trained as a Buddhist monk in the monasteries of Thailand, India, and Burma, and is a founding teacher at both Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Northern California and Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts. He gently rings a meditation bell—the reverberations are low and soothing. The room slowly starts to settle, and we all sit in silence together for the first time.
After a few short minutes, the bell rings again. I open my eyes to see Jack looking out onto the room with a tender smile. He welcomes us all and begins the process of explaining how the retreat will run.
For those unfamiliar, here’s the general gist—everyone agrees to take a vow of “noble silence” while at the retreat. This means no cell phones or checking emails. This also means no talking with each other. And no nonverbal communication—which means no eye contact, hand gesturing, or writing notes to each other. Writing notes to teachers, however, is allowed if you have any questions you’d like to ask.
Jack explains the intention behind “noble silence” is to give retreat participants the opportunity to be in our own experience without any social pressures to act or be a certain way. There wil
l be opportunities to ask questions verbally at the Dharma talks every night, and we each have three meetings with teachers throughout the week where we can discuss how the retreat’s going for us. Jack also recommends no journaling or reading because it activates the mind—although this is not “required.”
Cue: sudden record scratch sound effect—my face scrunching into an unsettled scowl.
NO JOURNALING?! IS HE SERIOUS?! I HAD NO IDEA THAT WAS A RULE…THERE’S NO WAY I’M NOT JOURNALING DURING THIS EXPERIENCE—SCREW THAT!
An avid journaler since the age of eighteen, going cold turkey and not writing for nine days isn’t something I’m willing to do. But then I recognize my resistance.
Okay, maybe there’s some middle ground here. He said writing wasn’t recommended, but we’re not required to abstain. I guess I can try to cut back on the amount of writing I do while I’m here. I don’t need to write everything down like I usually do.
Taking a deep breath, I turn my attention back to Jack, now in the midst of explaining the retreat’s basic agreements (based on the five main Buddhist Precepts). These include refraining from: harming living things, taking what is not given, sexual misconduct, lying or gossiping, and taking intoxicating substances. He then goes on to give a short instruction explaining the basics of mindfulness and Insight meditation, the intention of which is to develop and build awareness using concentration as a tool.
“We do this by focusing on the breath and clearing the mind,” he explains. “Let thoughts and feelings pass like clouds—don’t attempt to push them away—just do your best not to grab ahold of them and indulge in them. Gently acknowledge their existence when they arise and let them move through you. Then refocus your attention back on the breath. There’s no wrong way to meditate. People think they have to keep their minds clear through the whole process. But the practice isn’t about not thinking. It’s about recognizing when we get caught up in our thoughts and feelings, acknowledging them, and then letting them go and returning our attention to the breath. Over and over again. Rinse and repeat. One technique you can use to help yourself do this is called ‘labeling.’ ”
I first came across the notion of labeling thoughts in Pema Chödrön’s book When Things Fall Apart. Through her writings, Pema has been a teacher to me, her voice helping me cultivate the kind voice I now use to respond to my Shit.
Jack’s method of labeling suggests gently saying the label twice in a row to describe what you find yourself doing, like, “Thinking. Thinking.” I decide to give this method a try as he announces that our daily schedule is posted on a bulletin board in the hall foyer. We then sit together for a few minutes, and the silence officially begins.
—
DAILY SCHEDULE
5:30 a.m. wake up
6:00 a.m. sitting meditation
6:45 a.m. breakfast
7:45 a.m. walking meditation
8:45 a.m. sitting meditation
9:45 a.m. walking meditation
10:30 a.m. sitting meditation
11:15 a.m. walking meditation
12:00 p.m. sitting meditation
12:45 p.m. lunch
1:30 p.m. walking meditation
2:30 p.m. sitting meditation
3:15 p.m. walking meditation
4:15 p.m. sitting meditation
5:00 p.m. walking meditation
5:45 p.m. dinner
6:15 p.m. walking meditation
6:45 p.m. sitting meditation
7:15 p.m. stretch
7:30 p.m. Dharma talk (meditation teacher gives a talk)
8:30 p.m. walking meditation
9:00 p.m. sitting meditation
Back in my room, I notice my roommate has arrived. She’s fast asleep, tucked under her cot’s covers. I toss a surreptitious glance her way, but all I can make out is a cascade of long, red hair on her pillow and the glow of a neon yellow earplug sticking out of her ear.
I shut my cell phone off and slip it into my bag under my bed. And as I do this, it occurs to me that I’ve never kept my cell phone off for more than a few hours during the entire time I’ve owned one—since back in the late ’90s when I was a twenty-something, go-getting movie publicist at a major motion picture studio.
Wow. Is that really possible?
(Thinking. Thinking.)
And with that, I slip into my hot pink flannel PJs, turn off the light, and go to sleep.
Saturday, May 4
Day One
DIIIIIIIIIING. DIIIIIIIIIING…
The high-pitched sound of a bell rings, and my eyes flutter open to see a figure slowly walking outside the window, gently tapping a cymbal-shaped pair of brass bells (known as tingsha) together.
I barely register this as our 5:30 a.m. wake-up call before noticing something’s horribly wrong. Wincing in pain as I swallow, it feels like tiny shards of glass are lacerating my throat. My nose is completely stuffed up, and the back of my head feels like someone slammed a two-by-four against it. It’s excruciating.
OH MY GOD, I’M SICK. I’M SO TOTALLY FUCKED.
(Worrying. Worrying.)
Stumbling out of bed, I feel around in the dark and make it over to the bathroom, where I notice a small spot of blood in my underwear and sense the familiar dull ache in my lower belly.
AND I JUST GOT MY PERIOD. FOUR DAYS EARLY. AWESOME!
(Sarcasm. Sarcasm.)
I zip open my toiletry bag, frantically searching for the bottle of Advil I was so sure I had remembered to pack.
REALLY? I FORGOT TO PACK PAIN RELIEVER? FUUUUCK! HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO MAKE IT THROUGH NINE DAYS OF SITTING WITH ALL THIS PAIN?
(Beating myself up. Beating myself up.)
But something suddenly shifts within me after labeling my Shit and gaining a moment of distance from it. Because it then occurs to me…
Maybe learning how to sit with pain is the reason I’m here.
—
The next sixteen hours are, quite literally, hell—a crippling mixture of diabolical cramps and what feels like razor blades cutting the inside of my throat. Every. Time. I. Swallow.
I can’t see or feel anything past the agony.
And, of course, my Shit continues to shout at me full force, berating me for all the things I didn’t do to take care of myself when I had the chance. I’m buried beneath an avalanche of aversions. And there’s no letting anything go. The kinder, gentler me remains silent, lying trapped under it all. Nothing—and I mean NOTHING—feels good.
From 5:30 a.m. until 9:30 p.m. I do nothing but sit with misery. Walk with misery. And eat with misery. I notice I’m struggling with struggling—but I’m completely incapable of finding a way to focus on anything but the pain.
And, to top it all off, “Sari Woman” sitting next to me keeps zipping and unzipping her damn bag and scooting her beanbag cushions left and then right. Left and then right. Over and over again.
During EVERY sit.
Just when I think she’s settling in and I finally start to find some semblance of peace with my pain, she makes yet another loud noise, and I break my concentration. I keep noticing that I’m judging her (Judging. Judging.), but I’m so miserable, I don’t even care.
REALLY? DOES SHE HAVE TO MOVE EVERY OTHER MINUTE? JESUS, WHY CAN’T SHE SETTLE THE EFF DOWN? DOESN’T SHE KNOW SHE’S SUPPOSED TO BE SITTING STILL? HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO RELAX SITTING NEXT TO THIS?
The judgments gallop through my head, momentarily carrying my attention away from the physical pain in my body. But the second the pain eases up, my body reminds me, yet again, how much agony it’s in.
Between all the pain—and my mind’s incessant judgments—I’m caught in a whirlwind of suffering. I just want to jump up and run the hell out of there. I have no idea how I’m going to make it through the week.
Then it occurs to me that maybe I could switch positions, find some floor space in the back of the room away from this woman. The only problem with the idea is that I don’t know proper retreat “etiquette”—if it’s
“OK” to move once I’ve claimed my spot or not. So I continue to sit with this (and my neighbor’s incessant fidgeting) for a few more meditations before finally getting so fed up that I decide to take action and post a note asking for advice.
To: Any of the Teachers –
The woman sitting next to me is making so much noise during the meditations. I can understand my “working” with this annoyance/distraction to a certain extent—but nine days of it seems extreme. Thoughts on how I should handle this?
Thank you!
Jennifer
This is the response I get back:
Hi Jennifer –
Wow. Slow down! It’s still early in the retreat, and she’s probably still getting settled. Give her some time. AND, feel free to move to another spot where you might feel more settled.
Sunday, May 5
Day Two
Sunday morning arrives. I’m in my new position in the back of the room, where I’m now seated next to an older, thin, austere-looking woman with a severe grey bob. She looks every bit the part of the stern spinster.
(Judging. Judging.)
I’m still feeling horrible. And now I’m coughing and sneezing and clearing my throat through each sit. I’m doing my best to muffle the sounds—but I’m also completely oblivious to the fact that I might be disrupting anyone around me. That is, until “Grey-Bob Woman” starts making these subtle but frequent “Hmmm” grunts. I notice they seem to be coinciding with my coughs and throat clearing, and I start to wonder if she’s making the noises as some sort of negative reaction to the sounds I’m making.
Cut to the end of the day.
It’s the 9:00 p.m. sit, and Grey-Bob Woman is no longer sitting next to me. She’s now seated up front against the left wall. When I notice this, I also notice a rush of resentful energy shooting up through me. Here comes my Shit.
SERIOUSLY? SHE COULDN’T HANDLE MY COUGH? I’M SICK FOR EFF’S SAKE! I CAN’T HELP IT. IS SHE REALLY THAT IMPATIENT? WELL, SCREW HER! SHE’S JUST GOING TO FIND SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE NEW PERSON SHE’S SITTING NEXT TO AND THEN MAKE SOME EXCUSE TO MOVE. YET AGAIN. I BET SHE’S GOING TO END UP MOVING ALL OVER THIS DAMN ROOM—ALWAYS RUNNING AWAY FROM HER PROBLEMS.