Nothing is Boring if You’re Paying Attention
I just got back from my first 10 day Vipassana course.
Returning home from “meditation prison” is bittersweet. I feel like I could have gone another 10 days without speaking, maybe even 20. There is so much more to notice without the noise. So much more to hear. And, for better or for worse, so much more to feel.
During the 10 days of silence, we meditated 11 hours daily, and attended a one hour recorded discourse nightly by S.N. Goenka, the founder of this program. Total 12 working hours per day. We were allowed to walk outside in a small forested area three times a day during allotted times - otherwise during working hours we had to remain inside, either in the meditation hall or in our rooms. Mine was a shared room, however it was cordoned off with a separating wall and curtain so I never saw my roommate except at meals, where everyone kept their gaze averted to avoid eye contact. And, of course, there was no talking. The only time we could speak was in case of emergency with our women’s manager. Men and women were separated and we only saw each other in the meditation hall on opposite sides of the room.
Each day we were woken at 4am by the sound of a gong, with the first meditation starting at 4:30am and the last meditation ending at 9pm. We were given breakfast and lunch but no dinner.
I was surprised at how quickly my body fell into routine. The first two days there was a slight rebellion as my mind adjusted to the strictness of the rules. And having no means of distraction. We weren't allowed to read or write. It was just four walls and ourselves.
The purpose of this regiment was to get us to focus solely on the sensations of the body in every moment, and to use this as a tool for meditation. It sucked. But it worked.
By the third day I found myself leaning into the routine, by the fourth day I was starting to relax. By the fifth day we were introduced to Adhitanna, which meant to sit with “strong determination” and to try to not move during the entire hour of meditation. By the sixth day I was able to do this (and overjoyed when it happened). The seventh day my mind rebelled again. That was a hard day. I can’t remember exactly what came up with meditation (it all becomes a blur, especially when we can’t write things down), but I remember distinctly a moment of despair, thinking how can I possibly do another three more days of this? And then the eighth day came and everything settled, like a storm passing as quickly and ferociously as it’d arrived. The ninth and tenth day were the most peaceful I’ve been in a long time.
I thought that repeating the same thing every day would have gotten boring and crazy-making, but it was the opposite. As I walked the same trail for the third time on the eighth day, I realized nothing is boring if you’re paying attention. Because the trail was so short - taking about ten minutes to complete - I must have done hundreds of laps by the time the ten days were over. Yet it changed every time I walked through it.
In the morning it was grey and spooky, before the sun had fully risen, but the light changed with every passing minute, and it was like watching the mood and spirits of the surroundings lift moment by moment. In the afternoon it was the warmest, the wildlife most active. I saw a frog one day, as he jumped across my path. He landed on a log and was the brightest, most vibrant frog I’d ever seen in the wild. Another day I saw a snake, twice, in the same day! He was black, with yellow stripes and red dots adorning his sides. I saw an owl pellet, with the remainder of a spine, fur and mandibles of a small rodent. I saw two different types of woodpeckers, each with their own distinct pattern of knocking. And ravens - I heard them first. In such a quiet environment their wings were almost akin to the fwup-fwup spin of a helicopter blade. New mushrooms, sometimes bunches of them, in all sorts of colors sprung up everyday, blooming overnight. And in the evening - my favorite - when the sun was setting, the entire forest was cast in an orange glow. The moss was almost a neon green. Several trees became my favorite, usually the leaning ones housing tons of other plants. And I got to know certain maple trees and their clusters of leaves, usually in families of four to six, and how one, usually the biggest one, in the cluster would start to turn brown first. Each day losing a bit more moisture, the ends curling up like fingers to shape a bowl.
I looked up at the sky more, a lot more. And thought how much I didn’t miss looking down at my phone. How I could go forever without looking at it again.
I thought about Noah a lot. I thought about things, events, images that I hadn’t thought about in years. The mind became a never-ending landscape rather than the habitual loop I’d grown accustomed to - whatever perceived problem I had to solve that week. I saw my life unfold layer upon layer, parts of the story I’d forgotten about, suddenly seeing the length of the tapestry I’d been stitching with my head bent down, focusing on the next stitch so much that I hadn’t realized all that had been accomplished thus far. And the unknown of how much more there was left to go. And how maybe there was a time that this would have brought a sense of unease, the uncertainty alarming, but now there was just acceptance. Peace. Knowing. As Goenka says, “seeing things as they are, not as we want them to be.”
I have so much more to share over the coming weeks as more and more of the lessons get integrated into life now that I’ve returned. One thing that I did notice was that by discussing these thoughts that have been percolating inside for ten days without a way to dispel them, they’ve already transformed, but not in a bad way. By telling someone, somehow I’ve gained a deeper understanding. And perhaps that’s why ultimately it’s important to return to life, to our loved ones. Because it’s the act of sharing that makes it real. That makes the lessons valuable. That makes the love that I’ve rediscovered manifold.
Sending you happiness, peace, and - as always - love.
