I haven’t been blogging lately. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed?
Anyway, I had “hypothetical” brain surgery… before I go on, let me repeat HYPOTHETICAL, as in “artificial” or “imaginary,” as in it didn’t actually happen. I mention this because in current times people often skim over reading material. Then four months from posting this I will get a message from my brother saying, “I didn’t know you had brain surgery! Why didn’t you tell me?” And I will know he’s decided to check up on my well-being by taking a cursory glance at my blog, since I’ve not the usual means of checking up on a person: a Facebook account.
(It would not be my intention to make light of actual brain surgery. This was the imagery that was given me, as you will see if you choose to read.)
What first piqued my interest in the neuroplasticity of the brain and thus in meditation was an article I read years back about neuroscientists scanning the brains of Tibetan monks and finding a marked increase in measurement in the part of the brain that is activated when feeling compassion:
IN A STRIKING difference between novices and monks, the latter showed a dramatic increase in high-frequency brain activity called gamma waves during compassion meditation. Thought to be the signature of neuronal activity that knits together far-flung brain circuits, gamma waves underlie higher mental activity such as consciousness. The novice meditators "showed a slight increase in gamma activity, but most monks showed extremely large increases of a sort that has never been reported before in the neuroscience literature," says Prof. Davidson, suggesting that mental training can bring the brain to a greater level of consciousness.
-Scans of Monks' Brains Show Meditation Alters Structure, Functioning By Sharon Begley
5 November 2004, Published in The Wall Street Journal (Copyright (c) 2004, Dow Jones & Company, Inc.)
And who doesn’t want to be a more compassionate human being?! thought I.
I’d been dabbling in meditation, more off than on, for a bit of time when I recently decided, perhaps it’s time to get serious.
I look online to see if there is a place where I can learn proper meditation techniques. I live in a rural Illinois county with a population density of 35 persons per square mile, an area where the livestock greatly outnumber us humans. So, I’ll be satisfied if I can find help within a 70 mile radius.
I look online to see if there is a place where I can learn proper meditation techniques. I live in a rural Illinois county with a population density of 35 persons per square mile, an area where the livestock greatly outnumber us humans. So, I’ll be satisfied if I can find help within a 70 mile radius.
And darned if I don’t find, just forty miles away, the place I’m looking for. I apply and am accepted.
I drop my belongings off in the room I’ve been assigned, room 126. There are two identical single beds in the room. I’ve arrived early in the registration process, and so it appears that I have a choice of the two beds. I choose the bed on the left side of the small room, nearest the hallway door. The other bed is next to the bathroom door. I stake my claim by placing my bedding, which consists of sheets, pillow and sleeping bag, on the thin mattress. I then proceed to neatly store everything I’ve brought with me, clothing, toiletries and sundries, making certain to take a bit less than half of the space on the left side of the closet, the left side of the single nightstand and the left side of the bathroom shelving unit.
I take a final look around at the space and head back to the registration/dining hall. As I walk through the dormitory hallway, I glance in a room where a registrant is unpacking. The room has bunkbeds. I’m happy that my room does not.
The volunteer in the dining hall checks my name off the printed list. I notice that the space for the other bed in my room is blank. All of the other rooms on the list seem to have two printed names each assigned to them. Is it possible that I will have no roommate? I dare not get my hopes up. There could have been a late cancellation and her replacement is on her way. We were cautioned that the waiting lists are long and that vacancies are filled immediately.
The volunteer checks off my name and hands me a small booklet to read, along with a form to fill out. She instructs me to present the completed form to the female teaching assistant for a brief interview. Then I will be free to explore the grounds or such until 5 p.m., at which time there will be a light dinner and group orientation.
The teaching assistant, a cordial woman, with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, takes the completed form from me, thanks me and hands me a paper stating the rules I have pledged to follow for the next ten days. She asks me to review the rules and to sign the paper. Among the rules are: no electronic devices of any kind, no reading materials, no paper or pencils for note taking or writing, no physical contact with anyone, no drugs or alcohol, no killing, — they don't necessarily mean humans. I mean, who would kill someone at a meditation retreat? Rather, I am pledging to not kill insects. If I were to happen upon a bug that does not belong in the dorm I am to gently remove it with a cup or such and take it outdoors for release...
I will eat two meals per day, a vegetarian diet, actually a vegan diet, although there will be milk available for those who wish to supplement with it. I will practice complete celibacy, so no sexual contact, sexual misconduct or "conduct of any nature related to an act of sex" and I’m guessing they mean masturbation. (We are instructed to be careful not to even stretch in front of anyone in what might be interpreted by another as a sexually enticing manner.)
Finally for the nine of the next ten days I will refrain from talking or from any type of non-verbal communication, including gestures, smiles and eye contact, the exception is that I may speak to the teaching assistants if I have an issue. I also pledge to tell no lies (so basically, I’ll not lie to the teaching assistants or to the teacher, since there is no one else to whom I can lie—except myself...)
I hand her my cell phone. “Have you turned it off?” asks the blue-eyed assistant? “Yes,” I reply. She places my phone in an individual container with my specific coding and then into another container to be stowed in a locked area until my departure.
I walk and familiarize myself with the grounds, which have meandering bicameral walking paths, with posted signs indicating “female boundary” or “male boundary.” I hear the sound of machinery and look up to see a large John Deere tractor on a working family farm visible on the property next door. Across the road is a small county recreation area that features a manmade multi-lake system for recreational fishing and for the teaching and honing of dog retrieval skills.
It's early spring, and although the shrubs and trees are budding and the early bloomers, like crocus, have begun to erupt, and the proper migratory birds are proudly announcing their arrival, the daytime temperatures are still only in the mid-thirties to upper forties (Fahrenheit.)
About 4:30 p.m. I walk back to the dining hall and take a seat in the now full room. Most of the retreatants seem to be in their 20s through 40s. Only a handful are older adults like myself.
Single rows of rectangular tables, each seating four, are set up on adjacent sides of the hall, one side for the women, one side for the men. There is a heavy curtain that can be drawn to completely separate the sides.
I choose a table toward the back of the room, where sits a tall, lean woman. She appears near in age to my own adult offspring. Having arrived later, she has only just finished her interview with the female teaching assistant. She turns to me with a warm smile and introduces herself and as we talk, another retreatant joins us.
I choose a table toward the back of the room, where sits a tall, lean woman. She appears near in age to my own adult offspring. Having arrived later, she has only just finished her interview with the female teaching assistant. She turns to me with a warm smile and introduces herself and as we talk, another retreatant joins us.
We are called to dinner, which consists of a spicy, curried Indian soup, cornbread, tea or water and cookies for dessert. The soup and cornbread are delicious and I devour every bit of food on my plate as everyone continues to talk and laugh.
The orientation begins with the logistics and common sense rules, (like, don’t approach the wild geese protecting their nests) a reminder to faithfully follow the time schedule, and again, a repeat of the pledges of abstention we have made. We have our first discourse on meditation. Then, it is 8:00 p.m., we are dismissed and we officially begin our nine-day “noble silence” as we walk to our rooms for “lights out” at 9:30 p.m.
A late-comer retreat roommate not yet appeared in my room, (nor did she ever.) I take a shower, change into my pajamas and crawl into my sleeping bag... The wake up bell will ring at 4:00 a.m. tomorrow.
***
In general I feel at ease and take readily to the quiet and solitude of the meditation retreat, like a fish to water, as they say. I’ve been an early riser my whole life, but there is this leaking flapper problem in the bathroom, and as it turns out, it is perpetual. About every 30-40 minutes a tiny, almost imperceptible drip would lower the water level in the tank. This receding thus eventually causing the toilet to automatically refill, as if it had been flushed. Being a “institutional” toilet it's a bit loud. It takes me until 1 a.m. to adjust to the sound of the phantom flushing before I fall asleep.
Still I feel fine when just three hours later the wake up bell peals in the hallway outside my door. I rise, shower and dress and am dutifully seated for meditation from 4:30 a.m. until our breakfast break at 6:30. We have group meditation from 8 - 9 a.m., then I may meditate in my room (with my door open) or in the meditation hall from 9 a.m. until 11 a.m. at which time we take our lunch break.
Meditation resumes at 1 p.m. I am doing well.
It is around 3 p.m., smack in the middle of group meditation that my 65 year old body begins to rebel against sitting in half-lotus. My oh-so-soft zafu cushion, brought with me from home, feels more like jagged, solid granite. All the stretching and repositioning in the world offers no relief beyond what seems like mere seconds.
It is around 3 p.m., smack in the middle of group meditation that my 65 year old body begins to rebel against sitting in half-lotus. My oh-so-soft zafu cushion, brought with me from home, feels more like jagged, solid granite. All the stretching and repositioning in the world offers no relief beyond what seems like mere seconds.
The first three days I average 2 or 3 hours sleep per night (of the 6 hours we are allotted). Still each morning I awake refreshed and eager to start anew, only to find myself utterly defeated physically on the walk back to my room at 9:00 p.m. Hobbling back like some kind of brand new Frankenstein’s creation, with lower limbs belonging to others’ bodies, —hips, thighs, calves, ankles and feet, each stolen from a different dead and useless body, and now uncertain how to synchronize.
As I toss and turn in my now-too-small sleeping bag, I plot my escape. Maybe I’ll sneak over to the farm next door and ask for help, although that will entail trespassing on the “male only” pathways.
Or perhaps some kindly fisherman training his dog on the manmade lake across the way will lend me his cell phone and I will call my husband to come and rescue me. I’ll have to make this move during the day, when the gates are open to accept UPS and such deliveries.
The woman I chatted with at orientation mentioned that her mother feared she was headed to cult brainwashing by attending this retreat. We laughed uproariously at the time. But, as I lie on the thin mattress, suffering from sleep deprivation and ruing that I didn’t bring my favorite pillow from home, I think of those people who died while participating in a 120 degree (Fahrenheit) sweat lodge retreat in Arizona… had they said to themselves, stay just a bit longer? At what point is painful discomfort no longer dismissible? ...And then there were those Kool-Aid deaths in Jonestown? Just to be safe, I resolve to skip the evening tea breaks. I’ll hydrate with the water I brought from home. I drift off…
Part of the next evening discourse is about the the “surgery” we have begun on our brains. “Sometimes,” the teacher says, "people are tempted to quit at this time. But, no one would walk out in the middle of brain surgery!” (Dave, my dear brother, if you’ve scanned the previous sentence, I did NOT have brain surgery.) I resolve to stay to the finish... or, at least for one more day... for tonight... for now...
In the meditation hall next morning I have the distinct feeling that, indeed, I belong here. Only with some other more flexible, resilient and younger body than the one I’m in now. I look at the back of the woman seated in front of me. And in the dark and from the back she could easily be a Tibetan nun, or maybe a cloistered Catholic nun. You know, I think, a monastic life might not be so bad… I hear a man loudly snoring on the opposite side of the hall...
I sink deeper into each meditation. It’s easier when you’ve fewer distractions: no phone, no texts, no books, no pencil or paper, no one to talk to, and you do have staff who have planned and prepared all of your meals.
During my interview with the teacher I tell him that I have been diligently, ardently, patiently and persistently (using the words of the discourse) practicing my meditation. I tell him that indeed, as I beckon my mind to stand and simply observe my breath, my bare naked breath, softly inhaling and exhaling, that she, my mind, does as I bid. When she wanders, I call her back. She willingly returns, a bit more willingly, it seems, each time. Until I reach a point that I feel that maybe she, the mind, is the one who is always there and it is me that is off wandering. When I wander and return to my breath, she’s already there waiting, saying, “I’m right here, Toots. Where’ve you been?”
During my interview with the teacher I tell him that I have been diligently, ardently, patiently and persistently (using the words of the discourse) practicing my meditation. I tell him that indeed, as I beckon my mind to stand and simply observe my breath, my bare naked breath, softly inhaling and exhaling, that she, my mind, does as I bid. When she wanders, I call her back. She willingly returns, a bit more willingly, it seems, each time. Until I reach a point that I feel that maybe she, the mind, is the one who is always there and it is me that is off wandering. When I wander and return to my breath, she’s already there waiting, saying, “I’m right here, Toots. Where’ve you been?”
“So which one is me? Who is the observer? And who is the wanderer?” I ask my teacher.
But, I already know. It came to me as I lay wide awake the night before, listening to the constant re-quenching of my friend, my roommate, and now trained to be my meditation timer, the toilet.
I use my rudimentary understanding of how the brain works to rationalize that it is probably the insula, tucked away in the recesses of my brain, who oversees my consciousness, the place where my matter meets my mind.
I name her Alice-Nee (insula backwards), but the naming is strictly for writing purposes. She needs no name. She and I share the witnessing of sensations with no language, no images.
So as I tiptoe deeper into myself, Alice-Nee and I begin to wear away a neural pathway, kind of a shortcut to one another. I take her hand, or she takes mine, I’m never quite sure, but together we watch the simple miracle of our shared breath in serene calmness and wondrous enjoyment, or until one of us gets distracted.
One day I watch her take her usual shortcut home and sure enough she hops over a fence and heads straight to the insula. Apparently she has two places, one in each hemisphere. Perhaps one is her getaway condo, or something.
My daily meditation continues after the retreat. One day, as I finish meditation, I challenge Alice-Nee, “Give me a sign, some sign that you are observing, that you are ever present, even when I am not meditating. Do that sometime today, please.”
A few hours later, when I’ve all but forgotten my request, comes the sign. It’s a sure indication that she is always alert and like a security camera, constantly running. Oh, but she’s a clever one that Alice-Nee.
Then later comes another sign, a sign from a time long ago when I was 17 years old. I hadn’t thought about this incident for years, but I recognize and now understand how I made a "gut” decision and that she was there, steering me in the right direction. It turns out Alice-Nee can time travel. She is in the past, yet she knows the future.
I wonder if there are occasions where I did not heed her subtle guidance.
I recall sitting in a overpacked gymnasium ten or more years back, watching and listening to Thich Nhat Hanh. I hear the meditation gong. "Picture your mother as a young child," he instructs well over 5,000 of us, spilling out of the gym and onto the campus. He pauses, then, "Picture your mother running and playing as young children do... (pause) Breathe in..."
How many times has Alice-Nee tried to be my compass? "Go. Go my child. Yes, this is a good direction for you..."
I wonder if there are occasions where I did not heed her subtle guidance.
I recall sitting in a overpacked gymnasium ten or more years back, watching and listening to Thich Nhat Hanh. I hear the meditation gong. "Picture your mother as a young child," he instructs well over 5,000 of us, spilling out of the gym and onto the campus. He pauses, then, "Picture your mother running and playing as young children do... (pause) Breathe in..."
How many times has Alice-Nee tried to be my compass? "Go. Go my child. Yes, this is a good direction for you..."
And still later, the very same day that I direct a challenge to Alice-Nee, I walk into my yard. There she reminds me that I have designed, toiled, hand dug, planted and filled a meditation garden, an area I dubbed “the sanctuary,” long before I began to mediate. I am standing in it right now, at this moment, and this moment, and this moment...
The signs continue throughout the day, seemingly in a torrent. Until I say, "Okay, alright already... Enough, I get it, Alice-Nee."
As a child I’d wished for a guardian angel, or maybe some tiny being I could discretely tuck into my pocket and carry with me everywhere I went, a witness to my life, someone who completely understands me, someone who knows the real me, my smoothness and my non-smoothness.
Who knew I’d such a companion the whole time?
Meet Alice-Nee.
Who knew I’d such a companion the whole time?
Meet Alice-Nee.
 |
| Scenes from my sanctuary garden |
Finally in the morning light,
Laughter fills the air:
They were friends from the start.
― Hakuin Ekaku
“We carry within ourselves the direction our lives will take. Within ourselves burn the timeless, fateful stars.”
― Antal Szerb
While meditating we are simply seeing what the mind has been doing all along.
– Allan Lokos
Nowhere can man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul.
– Marcus Aurelius
