Saturday, 9/29

My retreat ends after this morning’s meditation session. I had hoped to finish on a peaceful, reflective note, and the world seemed to be cooperating. But then the sun rose and the animals began fighting even more noisily than usual. They were going to give me a rousing send-off.

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When I sat down for the final meditation period while the din of animal fighting continued, something in me decided it was time to take action. I felt some energy rise up in me that wasn’t exactly anger, but more like tough love parenting energy (“So you like fighting? I’ll show you fighting!”) And next thing I knew I was charging into the woods swinging the broom wildly and yelling war hoops, driving a small wave of squirrels, chipmunks and birds before me. That only bought me a few minutes of peace, but undaunted I charged a second time, clearing a wider area on all sides of the hut—and this time it worked. The woods were peaceful for almost twenty minutes—just a few plaintive bird calls in the distance. Perhaps not the clearest way to mark the end of a retreat, but I finally got to hear nature at rest in the daytime, and the peace and quiet were so beautiful.

Postscript (written on train ride home)

It’s hard to explain to non-meditators why anyone would subject themselves to the rigors of a retreat over and over again. Sometimes I think the main reason I’ve been consistent in my Zen practice for so many years is that I know too well the many rough and combative parts of my personality that are simmering just below the surface, and this is the best way I’ve found to keep a close eye on this mountain of habits, opinions, ideas, desires, and behaviors that constitute my “conditioned self.” 

Sitting retreats has taught me to appreciate the primary importance of the most basic aspects of meditation practice—namely, sticking to the schedule and following the forms. This is because being on retreat pulls my inner demons to the surface, where the relentlessness of the schedule can magnify their intensity to almost primal levels. When this happens “I” am completely taken over by the raw emotional energy of these inner voices, and using meditation methods to stabilize my mind—mantra practice, or “observing as thoughts come and go like clouds” —is not possible. But somehow through it all, I wake up, bow, meditate, chant, cook, eat, and garden like clockwork. The schedule acts like an anchor that allows me to stay centered and persevere as these inner voices express themselves, burn up their energy, and then subside, often suddenly—like the edge of a storm cloud passing over. The unexpected state of relaxed openness that follows is indescribable, and is often accompanied by a profound but beautiful sense of sadness—and a spontaneous feeling of wanting to help or give something back. Just recognizing how this happens (on retreat and in daily life) gradually breaks the grip that thoughts and feelings have on my consciousness, so they are less likely to influence my state of mind or affect how I relate to the world. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to tell this jerk behind me to stop yammering on his cell phone so I can enjoy the view from the train in peace (where’s a broom when you really need one).  

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