Sit, Walk, Don't Talk

by Jennifer Howd

  —

  DING…

  The bell rings, and I pop up from my cushion feeling impatient and edgy.

  Cue Shit.

  I MISS KATE. I’M HORNY. I’M HUNGRY. I WANT DARK CHOCOLATE!

  The rest of the morning is spent trudging through the Shit storm flooding my mind. I’m witnessing it as it’s happening. And it’s almost like I want to get swept away.

  Despite my genuine curiosity about what I just experienced during the last meditation, there’s a part of me that’s still clearly wary of it. I’m feeling shaky, and I’m missing my girlfriend more and more with each passing moment. Thinking about her gives me the illusion of somehow being with her. So I indulge, grasping at the comfort the indulgence provides. I welcome the distraction from my fear, knowing I’m veering off course but convincing myself I need the quick fix. My trusty labeling method goes out the window. And, before I know it, I’m completely hijacked.

  I’M SO EFFING READY TO GO HOME. MY THROAT HURTS. MY BACK ACHES. I’M SICK OF THE DESERT—IT’S TOO DAMN HOT. AND I HATE WALKING MEDITATION! WHAT’S THE POINT OF WALKING BACK AND FORTH IN THE SAME PLACE AT A SNAIL’S PACE OVER AND OVER AGAIN? ONLY INSANE PEOPLE DO THINGS LIKE THAT. I KNEW ALL THE HAPPINESS I WAS FEELING WASN’T GOING TO LAST. THIS IS ALL SUCH A LOAD OF BULLSHIT!

  This mindset persists, gaining more and more momentum as I allow myself to get sucked deeper and deeper into the abyss. My morning meditations all feel uncomfortable and interminable. I feel heavy and dark, bitter and jaded.

  I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE THREE MORE EFFING DAYS OF THIS.

  —

  Lunchtime finally arrives, and I quickly grab my food and make my way out of the dining hall. Searching for a spot to sit, I eye an unoccupied wooden bench, scurry over to it and take a seat—pausing for a brief moment to admire the reddish brown mountaintops peeking up from behind the nearby guest cottages.

  Feeling my system start to slow down, I close my eyes and set the intention to focus on my meal. Then, taking a slow, deep breath, I raise a small cube of cheddar cheese to my mouth. The sharp, pleasant saltiness tastes delicious, and the creamy texture on my tongue feels soothing as I chew.

  A few moments later, I slowly open my eyes and look down to see a flurry of red ants on the cement pathway a few inches from my feet. I proceed to watch, mesmerized, as they scurry across the gap between the slabs of concrete. Then the scope of my attention soon widens to note various people’s feet and legs walking past. Some fast. Some slow. All of them stepping directly onto the ants.

  And then I remember one of the five agreements from Jack’s opening remarks: “We all agree not to harm or kill any sentient beings while we’re here.”

  Brow now furrowed, I look up and continue to watch the people passing.

  THAT WOMAN’S COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS. SHE LOOKED DIRECTLY AT THE ANTS AND JUST PLOWED RIGHT THROUGH—DIDN’T EVEN SEE THEM! AND THAT GUY’S TOTALLY SPACED OUT. WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG WITH HIM, STUMBLING AROUND AND STOMPING ON EVERYTHING WITHOUT THE SLIGHTEST CLUE?

  More and more people stampede across the ant colony, seemingly impervious to the wake of their mindless paths. And then a tall, lithe, blonde J. Crew–esque model-type woman approaches. I’m poised to let my Shit start picking her apart when she suddenly halts.

  Her eyes brighten, and her head tilts toward the ground as she gazes down at the ants dashing back and forth in front of her sandals. After a few beats, she carefully steps over the colony and walks off down the sidewalk, the tiny creatures completely unscathed.

  Sitting there, my heart starts swelling and tears start welling as I allow myself the space to appreciate the beauty of what I just witnessed. Softening, I now see how I’d started sliding back into destructive thought patterns, reactively glomming onto my negative thoughts and emotions.

  Witnessing this woman’s act of kindness helps me reopen to the possibility of beauty existing amid the madness. And I realize it’s up to me whether I choose to focus on the people who obliviously blazed through the ants—or the one who was aware and mindful enough to respect them.

  Gazing back over at the mountains in the distance, I slowly finish my lunch as I continue digesting everything I’ve just witnessed.

  I can choose to focus on the ugliness—or the beauty—in life. The choice is up to me.

  After a few minutes, a heavyset middle-aged woman with short, spiky hair sits down next to me holding a small plate of food. We sit on the small bench for a few minutes, eating together and admiring the mountains in silence, when a grasshopper suddenly lands on the woman’s arm.

  She jolts upright in her seat and lets out a faint, startled gasp as she looks down with caution at the creature now perched atop her elbow. Our eyes make contact with quick smiles of acknowledgment before we both look back down at the grasshopper. And I watch as she slowly bows her arm toward the ground, patiently waiting for him to move.

  Look at that brave little guy. What a cutie. That woman’s being so careful and gentle with him.

  The grasshopper just sits there for a few beats before suddenly leaping off her arm.

  More feelings of contentment wash through me as my eyes follow him up through the air. And then, as quickly as the feelings came on, they suddenly disappear—as I watch a large blue bird swoop down from the sky, catch the grasshopper in its mouth midair, and fly off toward the mountains.

  Stunned, the woman and I just sit there for a moment before glancing at each other once again—but this time with heavy hearts. She quickly looks back down and focuses her attention on her plate of food. And I continue staring out at the mountains, reminded of the insight I’d been pondering just prior to the woman sitting down next to me.

  Both beauty and darkness exist everywhere. I can feel myself wanting to grasp onto the grasshopper’s death, to continue building my Shit’s case for how the world is just a cruel and ugly place, but I stop myself this time, gently redirecting my focus toward the woman’s kindness toward the grasshopper, instead. Then, going a step further, I allow myself to accept that grasshoppers are part of the circle of life.

  The grasshopper gave its life to the bird so that the bird could sustain its life.

  There’s beauty in what feels like darkness. But I have to be open—and willing—to see it.

  And then it hits me, yet again: I can continue making the choice to focus on negative things: the pain in my throat, the people mindlessly stepping on the ants, and the bird that took the grasshopper’s life.

  OR…

  I can accept that pain is a part of life. Fighting it and/or focusing too much on it only causes suffering. If I can just let myself feel it in the moment and then let it go, I can allow myself the mental and emotional space I need in order to see and experience the beauty with which it coexists.

  Doing this takes a conscious choice. It doesn’t just happen on its own, without a clear intention to do so. And though it might be difficult to do for a while, it’ll start getting easier and easier over time. I’ve read enough about the science of neuroplasticity to know it’s possible to change my patterns of thought.

  It’s up to me to shift my Shit. This feels like such a big lesson—which is probably why I keep getting the opportunity to learn it over and over again on this retreat.

  —

  The rest of the day’s meditations feel relatively light. I’m not fully back in the “zone,” but I’m finding moments when I’m able to connect with my breath, and I continue to experience profound feelings of stillness in my body.

  I notice that my mind’s more active than usual, though. And I keep catching myself contemplating the experiences from earlier in the day—especially watching the ants and the people who walked right through them. I keep replaying the scene over and over in my mind’s eye, and I get the sense that there’s something more to be learned, but I’m not entirely clear what it could be.

  Things come into focus later that evening as I’m sitting in the meditation hall, listening to Trudy’s Dharma talk. She’s
speaking about how people choose to act in the world, quoting Chief Oren Lyons, Jr., a Native American activist, from an address he gave to the Non-Governmental Organizations of the United Nations, in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1977.

  I don’t see a delegation for the four-footed. I see no seat for the eagles. We forget and consider ourselves superior. But we are after all a mere part of Creation. And we must consider to understand where we are. We stand somewhere between the mountain and the ant. Somewhere and only there as part and parcel of the Creation.

  I smile to myself, struck by the synchronicity. The people I’d observed earlier in the day were, literally, walking between the ants and the mountains, the overwhelming majority not considering where they literally stood.

  “This is humility,” Trudy explains. “When we forget our place and elevate our own needs, we can see how that can put us in conflict with not just the nonhuman world, but with ourselves and with each other.”

  And then I see it: the quote from Chief Lyons, Jr., and Trudy’s further comments about it, not only speak to the people walking through the ant colony—their words also apply to me.

  During my earlier struggles with Sari Woman making noise during our first sitting meditations, I had elevated my own needs to be more important than whatever needs had caused her to make the noises—and I’d created inner conflict for myself because of it. Had I not taken a vow of silence, I might have ended up saying something rude to her, which could have then escalated the conflict to include us both.

  My experiences on this retreat seem to keep building on each other, circling back around and pointing to the same lessons.

  I’m digesting all this as Trudy tosses out another quote, one from Anaïs Nin, that really sums up my experiences: “We don’t see things as they are—we see things how WE are.”

  I chuckle to myself, noting how this has certainly been the case for me on this retreat.

  Trudy concludes the evening’s talk by reading the lyrics to a song by Larry Gallagher entitled “Earnest Went Out of His Mind,” a witty tale reminding us that freeing ourselves from the confines of our mind is a choice that’s always available to us.

  I smile to myself as I listen to the song’s poetry, reflecting on the day’s insights and eager to wake up to my fortieth birthday the next day.

  Friday, May 10

  Day Seven

  I wake up feeling vibrant and happy, grateful to be spending my fortieth birthday in this incredible experience with myself.

  Since it’s my birthday and I’m still not feeling great, I’m going to give myself the gift of taking it fairly easy today.

  My light, airy mood persists as I make my way over to the meditation hall and settle into my cushion. Connecting with my breath, it feels relaxed and flowing. I’m observing it without controlling it, and I feel completely at ease.

  In…

  Out…

  In…

  Out…

  Eyes gently closed. Breath calm. Body relaxed. I acknowledge the significance of being in silence on retreat for my fortieth birthday. And, almost immediately, I’m flooded with the desire to gently say goodbye to the person I’ve been during the first half of my life—to thank “her” for getting me this far—and then let her go, creating the space for my “future self” to emerge.

  Loving kindness phrases come to mind as I picture my Future Self standing in front of me, looking me right in the eyes, as if I’m gazing into a mirror:

  May you be happy….May you be healthy….May you be safe….May you be free….

  Looking my Future Self in the eyes, my heart swells with feelings of love and self-compassion. Tears start pouring down my cheeks. My body feels electric. And I watch as my Future Self leans in to embrace my Present Self, the “me” who’s looking at her. Her head rests on my shoulder, her arms entwine with mine.

  She delicately strokes the back of my hair and whispers in my ear:

  I love you, Jennifer.

  I feel her warmth. My warmth. I feel her love. My love.

  Tears continue flowing as I allow myself to feel the embrace of my own love—connecting, literally, with myself.

  Basking in the bliss, my perspective slowly starts to switch. Now in the position of my Future Self, I’m looking back at and hugging the “Me” who embodies everything I currently am and have been up until this moment.

  Literally embracing my past, I feel a profound sense of self-forgiveness for the mistakes I’ve made. I can also see how they’ve all led me to this very moment.

  No more wishing I had acted differently in the past. No more regret.

  My perspective then starts flipping back and forth, switching between my two selves as I fully embrace both the person I’ve been up until this point, and the person I’m yet to be.

  This continues for a while longer, until my Future Self gently grabs my hand and we move to swap places. I am now her. My Past Self looks me in the eyes. Kisses my cheek. Smiles. And then slowly starts backing away, our hands holding on until the very last moment.

  Tears stream down my face as the image of my Past Self dissolves, my internal ritual complete.

  DING. DING…

  The bell echoes as I open my eyes and smile, radiating from the glow of self-compassion, self-forgiveness, and self-love—three of the biggest gifts I could have given myself today.

  And three essential gifts I vow to continue giving myself as I move into the second half of my life.

  —

  After breakfast, I check the bulletin board to see I’m scheduled for a fifteen-minute meeting with Trudy at 10:50 a.m. This is my last teacher meeting of the retreat. I’m feeling excited to connect with her, and I devise my plan for the rest of the morning: I’ll take it easy during the 9:45 a.m. walking period, and when I hear the main bell ringing to signal the 10:30 a.m. sit, I’ll head over to her apartment. This will give me plenty of time to get there. And if I’m early, I’ll just wait outside. Plan in place.

  The 9:45 a.m. walking period begins, and I find myself heading toward a large cement platform behind the guest cottages overlooking the desert floor.

  Go ahead and relax. Soak in the scenery for a bit. It’s OK, it’s your birthday…

  I plop down and sprawl out on the empty platform. The mountains in the background. The clear blue sky above. Allowing myself to get lost in the sound of the birds singing around me, I close my eyes, drink in the sunshine and begin to let go of my body.

  After a few relaxing moments, I hear the crunch of gravel under feet behind me, and my mind leaps to attention. A sharp feeling of self-consciousness shoots through me.

  I’M SUPPOSED TO BE WALKING LIKE EVERYONE ELSE. I MUST LOOK LIKE SUCH A JERK RIGHT NOW.

  (Judging. Judging.)

  I practice letting my thoughts go, allowing myself, once again, to rest in the silence as the crunching of gravel subsides. But, after a few more minutes, the feeling of the desert sun starts becoming too much to bear, so I languidly gather my things and start strolling back toward the meditation hall.

  Along the way, the overlapping circle fountain catches my attention, and I decide to veer off the path.

  I have plenty of time before my meeting—I’m just going to rest here for a bit.

  BUT YOU CAN’T HEAR THE BELL BY THE FOUNTAIN. THE WATER’S TOO LOUD.

  (Worrying. Worrying.)

  Quick to dismiss my worry, I take a seat in the shade by the water and watch as a woman walks over and sits on a bench across from the fountain. She takes off her shoes and places her feet on the fountain’s stone ledge.

  This woman wouldn’t be kicking back and relaxing if it was time to go back to the hall.

  Listening to the fountain, I watch the hypnotic shadows of the leaves floating on the water dancing along the bottom of the pool.

  But then the worry starts nagging again.

  SERIOUSLY. IT’S TIME TO START HEADING BACK. YOU DON’T WANT TO BE LATE.

  Deciding to listen to myself this time, I gather my belongings and start s
trolling back toward the hall.

  Where is everyone? Nobody’s walking around—that’s odd for a walking meditation period.

  I look over at the meditation hall’s side entrance and see the shoe case littered with sandals and bags—the way it always looks during sitting meditation.

  DID THE SITTING MEDITATION START ALREADY?! I NEVER HEARD THE BELL!

  My pace quickens, and I round the corner to see the front shoe case overflowing with more shoes. More bags. I quickly look through the meditation hall’s open front door to see everyone seated.

  SHIT! IT STARTED ALREADY! WHAT TIME IS IT?

  I dart my head into the foyer and glance at the clock: 10:58 a.m.

  FUCK! MY APPOINTMENT WITH TRUDY WAS AT 10:50!

  I quickly turn and start jogging through the cactus garden toward Trudy’s cabin.

  HOW COULD I HAVE LOST SO MUCH TIME?! HOW COULD I BE LATE FOR MY LAST INTERVIEW OPPORTUNITY? ON MY FORTIETH BIRTHDAY, NO LESS!

  My Shit kicks up from anxiety mode into full-blown self-flagellation, trying to scold me for my mistake.

  SEE, THIS IS WHY YOU ALWAYS NEED TO BE IN CONTROL. THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER LET GO. YOU’VE MISSED OUT ON YOUR LAST MEETING.

  I’m now racing through the cactus garden at full speed, trying to convince myself all is not lost.

  There’s still time—I’ll have at least five minutes with her, enough time to apologize for being late, if nothing else.

  Huffing and puffing, I soon arrive at Trudy’s driveway and slow to a walk to try to catch my breath. I expect to find her alone, waiting for me, but instead the screen door’s closed. She’s inside, and I can see the back of a woman’s head seated in front of her.

  IS THAT THE WOMAN SCHEDULED TO GO BEFORE ME? IS TRUDY RUNNING LATE? DOES THIS MEAN I’M REALLY ON TIME? OR IS THAT THE WOMAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO GO AFTER ME, AND TRUDY TOOK HER IN MY PLACE BECAUSE I DIDN’T SHOW UP?

  (Spinning. Spinning.)

  I take a seat on the patio and continue catching my breath. Closing my eyes, I feel the chair beneath me and attempt to ground myself in the moment.