Tag Archives: Meditation

Waiting

In an hour, I’ll walk into a restaurant for my second date with a lovely woman.  We had great fun the first time and no doubt tonight’s conversation will be well punctuated with laughs and smiles.  That’s certainly what I want in life.

Here I sit, bathing in uncertainty.  That little smile comes back to my lips again.  Perhaps we’ll become a couple, perhaps not.  Both are fine.  It’s possible that she’ll come to Cuba with me in three weeks – possible but unlikely.  But hope springs eternal.  I’ll have a wonderful time down south whether I’m alone or walking beside a companion.

This feeling in the moment is sublime, actually quite sweet.  I’m just sitting with the unknown, open to whatever the universe will provide.  There’s big space inside me.  My taps on the keys are slow and gentle, sort of a caress.  I’m in the library, sitting across from a young couple who are speaking in a language I don’t know.  They’re tender with each other, in tone of voice and facial expression.  It fits well with my reverie.

How come I’m not nervous?  I don’t know but it works for me.  Whatever happens tonight, I’m back in the game of relationship.  I’m moving towards a future of being with, doing stuff together, holding hands.  It’s time.

Jody is right here, cheering for me.  Thank you, Jodiette.  Life truly goes on.

Eighty-Four Days … Part Three

There are a lot of good ideas in life, and I’ve subscribed to many of them.  I found myself opening during the retreat, and ideas moved to truth.  The head became my heart.  Such as …

Love them all

Not just my family and friends.  Not just nice people.  Everyone.  Even those who sometimes grate on me.  We all hurt.  In my finer moments, I feel huge compassion for the people I meet.  Great love.  All of us face loss, blame, pain and disrepute (the Buddha’s words).  Short or tall; male or female; young, medium or old; angry or serene; pretty or handsome in the eyes of the world or not so.  I will sit with them all.

Do no harm

No hurtful speech.  No gossip.  No wishing that things don’t go all that well for them.  No comparing.  No making them “less than”.  No pushing past someone to get what I want.  And when I do harm, I will feel remorse and apologize.  We all deserve this.

Everything changes

I can try to keep my youth, my vibrancy, my financial well-being.  I can try to keep the people I love close to me.  But sometimes my good fortune floats away and the world is black.  And eventually I will be separated from all those I love.  Jody is no longer with me in body.  I’m no longer teaching kids.  My childhood friends are hopefully still on the planet, somewhere out there in the world.  And raging against the night is just not it.

***

During the last few weeks of the retreat, my periods of sitting meditation became ever more peaceful.  And I couldn’t keep my head up.  A few minutes in, it would just flop.  I made great efforts to “correct” the situation, all to no avail.  I stood up, but very soon my legs wouldn’t hold me, and I sat down again.  I tried bowing my head in perfect alignment with my body.  Slowly I teetered to the left and the speed increased so that I had to snap out of the peace to stay erect.  I leaned my whole body somewhat to the right, seeking a balance point but still I rolled left.  Eventually, I found balance by leaning way to the right, maybe at a 45 degree angle.  I worried about my head smashing into my neighbour’s chair arm.  For some moments I was deep into my heart.  In others fear ruled.  Always I was fully alert to my environment.  Finally I let go and let it happen.

I meditated this morning, again my head way off to the right.  Oh well.  Guess I won’t make the centrefold of Meditators’ Monthly. 

***

That’s all I feel like writing today.  I wonder if there’ll be a Part Four.  I wouldn’t be surprised.

My Meditation Retreat … Part 3

Another aspect of my day on retreat is walking meditation.  The typical plan is to take a 20-foot span of lawn or floor and walk back and forth.  I suppose that sounds pretty boring.  The yogi is not looking around and saying, “Wow, that’s a great tree!”  Instead they’re staying present with the rhythm of the footsteps and noticing the thoughts and feelings that come up.

There’s a walking room in one of the buildings.  At the far end is a large statue of the Buddha.  Many times, I’ve walked towards the Buddha, stopped in front of him, turned around and continued in the opposite direction.  I see in this a rhythm of my life: moving closer to the man’s wisdom and then turning my back on it, over and over.  This walking path is one of many examples in my life of taking something in the physical world and having it be a symbol of something larger.

Another favourite route of mine isn’t a straight line.  Rather it’s a loop … the circular driveway in front of the center over to the edge of the front lawn near the road.  My meditation is to walk down the very middle of the driveway, symbolizing the value of moderation.  I glance up occasionally to see if anyone is coming.  If they are, I move towards the side of the drive and let them continue on their path.  Your needs first, without sacrificing mine.  I need to be on the driveway, “on the path”.  I don’t need to always be in the middle.

And then there’s my rock.  It sits on the lawn, conveniently along my way.  It’s rounded, about two feet high, and partially covered with lichens.  Or is it moss?  Guess I’ll find out on Saturday.  I stop, lay my right hand on my solid friend, and pray for someone I love:

May you be free from danger
May you be happy
May you be healthy
May you live with ease

***

I don’t know what I’ll be like after three months of silence.  I know I’ll be a good person.  I already am.  But some other version of a good person, hopefully with a heart ever opening, a touch for those who need it, a smile on my face.

Time appears to be marching on.  And it’s time to stop writing … for 87 days.  I love writing, and I’ll miss my blog and you readers.  I hope my words have sometimes helped you in your life.  I hope you’ve laughed.  I hope you’ve cried.  I have.

I’ll be home on December 7.  I’ll write a blog post on December 8.  I hope you remember me.  Thank you for tuning in to my meanderings.  It’s been a privilege to talk to you.

My Meditation Retreat … Part 2

I yearn for the routines of a day at the retreat center.  Now the Buddha would say that I am thus attached, and that attachment causes suffering.  Fair enough.  But a bit of clinging has its upside.

We wake up at 5:15 to the sound of a gong that a yogi (retreatant, such as me!) carries through the dormitories.  The gong marks transition times during our day.  There’s no need for a timepiece.

From moment one, I have choices.  Do I zoom to the communal bathroom, hoping to catch one of the shower stalls?  Naw, that’s just more societal rushing.  So I begin by shaving in my room.  (As I now reflect on removing hair from skin, my right hand goes to my head.  Yesterday, Julia, my hairstylist took it all off.  No … I don’t mean that she’s a salon stripper – it was my hair that disappeared.  I had her do the shaving not because I’m a nice little Buddhist guy, but rather as an issue of practicality.  During my three months at the Insight Meditation Society (IMS), I have no way to get my hair cut.  So I’ll start from zero and let it grow.)

After the emergence of upper cheek smoothness, I then saunter over to the bathroom for a shower.  If the stalls are all taken, oh well.  I’ll get clean after breakfast.

The first sitting in the meditation hall is at 5:45.  One hundred bleary-eyed folks sitting basically upright.  Over the years, I’ve had thoughts of looking good in the hall.  You know, the full lotus position on the cushion.  Well, you’ll be happy to know that I find the full lotus impossible and even the half lotus is a massive pain in the knee.  So I sit in a chair.  So much for appearances.

In the warmer months (like right now), I wear traditional Buddhist garments – T-shirt and shorts.  In such circumstance, I just love walking into the hall for the first sitting.  (Oops, I feel ego flaring!)  All my shirts have something to say and past retreats have taught me one thing: yogis experience inner laughter at 5:45 when they read my shirt-of-the-day.  I suppose  a true Buddhist wears plain shirts.  Maybe I’m a fake Buddhist.

The sittings range from 30 to 45 minutes, with another gong marking the conclusion.  I go into a instant place of bliss and remain there eternally (Not).  Thoughts of a lovely or morose nature just show up.  I’m getting good at waving and wishing them a good day.  They wave back and sooner or later just mosey away.  Sadness and joy come easily, usually not at the same time.  My back lets me know that it wants to be included in the fun.

Breakfast is cool.  One hundred of us in the dining room, with the only sounds being the clittering of cutlery and the shuffling of feet.  No eye contact with the human across the table.  Mostly, my head is down and I look at my food, which I taste with slow pleasure (usually).

After breakie, one of the teachers will talk to us in the hall about what the Buddha had to say about leading a good life.  I’ve always hoped that I’d hear a recommendation for chocolate peanut butter waffle cones, but that must happen in the advanced class.

Then there’s the 45-minute work period … dishes, vacuuming, cleaning bathrooms – whatever task I’ve been assigned.  The commitment of the yogis includes “taking what is given”.  So I do my job without complaint and hopefully without leaning towards a job I’d like better.  On one retreat, part of my responsibility was to vacuum the office.  I moved slowly and did the work thoroughly.  So thoroughly, in fact, that I used the long wand to clean the window sills, upon which sat a tiny clay Buddha.  I sucked it up, you might say, resulting in little Buddha bits on the floor.  It hadn’t been fired.  Oh, the guilt!  The totally useless guilt.  Later that morning, breaking the code of silence, I apologized profusely to the staff member whose sill was now empty.  What fury did I receive in response?  None.  “Life is impermanent, Bruce.  No worries.”  (Sigh)

I could keep going here, and I will tomorrow, but I have about 1.5 million tasks to complete today, and it’s time for vroom … vroom … in a meditative way, of course.

My Meditation Retreat … Part 1

A little voice in my head told me yesterday that on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I should write about my upcoming meditation retreat.  I leave for Massachusetts on Thursday afternoon and I won’t be doing any writing for about three months.  I asked that voice, “What the heck am I going to talk about for three blog posts?”  After all, I’m falling towards silence.  The answer?  “You’ll figure it out.”

When I tell people that I’m going to be silent for 84 days, invariably I get two responses:

1. “You?  No way.  You won’t last ten minutes.”  Well, past retreats have shown me that I can last at least eleven minutes.  But I know where they’re coming from.  I talk to virtually everyone.  I’ll find the flimsiest excuse to begin a conversation.  Like standing in a grocery line and sharing with the person in front or behind that my tall cylindrical objects (such as shave cream) won’t stay standing up on the moving belt.  That’s all it takes.  The pump needs to be primed.  If course, if the person just replies with a withering stare, I shut it down right away.  I’ve learned to detect the folks who want to play.

So how can I let that fun go for three months?  As much as I love the banter, I know the silence will be easy.

2.  “I couldn’t do that.”  I suppose they’re right, concerning a jump into a very long retreat.  But I’ve been on 7, 8 and 9 day ones, and I bet most people who say this to me are wrong.  It’s just that extended periods of silence haven’t been part of their experience.  It wasn’t easy for me at first, and I’ve seen many folks in the meditation hall who are clearly going through their “stuff”.  We all have stuff – thoughts, feelings, body sensations.  I don’t see meditation as fixing the negative parts of those things.  It’s more an expression of who I am, an uncovering of what’s already there.  I say that most of us would experience some of that uncovering during a retreat and would slowly allow the silence to caress them.

I used to think that I wanted to be a better meditator.  Sit in the full lotus position, for instance.  Well, my knees hurt too much for that.  I use a chair.  Have all my thoughts disappear.  Good luck on that one too.  Thoughts continue to enter my head but sooner or later they leave (to be replaced by more complex thoughts!)

Over the next twelve weeks of my life, I will not:

1. Talk (except to a teacher, who will meet with me every two or three days to see how it’s going)

2.  Make eye contact (other than with the teacher)

3.  Read

4.  Write

5.  Listen to music

6.  Be on the Internet, e-mail and generally mess around with my laptop

7.  Lie or use demeaning language (I don’t do that anyway, and besides we’re silent)

8.  Have sex

9.  Take something that isn’t freely offered (such as pushing to sit in the front row, or getting a large piece of the vegetarian entrée)

10.  Hurt any living being, even an insect

11.  Consume alcohol or non-prescription drugs

12.  Pee

Okay, just kidding about that last one!

See you tomorrow.  I might be silent, however.

Gently, Gently Some More

The walking room that I had discovered was really very beautiful.  At one end was a 4-foot-high statue of the Buddha, perched on a dark wooden shelf, so that his eyes were at the level of mine.  The first time I was in the room, three yogis were walking across its width.  Walking meditation is most typically done in a back-and-forth pattern.  I don’t like that.  (Here comes aversion)  I like the loop trip.

I yearned for walking the room lengthwise.  If I did that on a central path, I would come face-to-face with the Buddha.  The next time I entered I was alone, and so I got what I wanted.  At the opposite end from the Buddha statue, there was a little alcove between two closets.  I tucked myself in there and faced my friend from afar.  Then I slowly walked towards him, watching as he got closer.  When our faces were about two feet apart, I would sometimes bow, and sometimes not.  (Bowing is a whole other topic that I’ll save for a future e-mail.)  Then I would turn around and put foot after foot until I was in the alcove – the back wall a foot from my nose and little side walls to my left and right.

At that point, I created a meditation.  Walking towards the Buddha, I was living the teachings more and more.  (Pausing when I stood close to him)  Turning around was turning away from the teachings, and walking back was getting ever farther from them, until I was cramped physically and spiritually inside the alcove.  (Pausing)  And then to feel my turning away from the restricted life, facing the Buddha once again.  Sometimes I would say “Remembering” to myself as I walked forward, and “Forgetting” as I returned.  Again and again I trod the path.  And more and more, the small smile emerged as I turned my back on the Buddha and moved away.  I was gently holding the leaving of what I sensed was true.  There was happiness within the sadness, allowing the rhythms of life to be there.

After a few days of these sessions, I saw something: I was now addicted to a new walking meditation route.  I needed to have eye contact with the Buddha, and needed my coming-and going relationship with him.  (Sigh)

So what to do?  My experience of the moments in the room was often blissful.  I wanted to hold onto that bliss, and even push to make it more blissy.  So I got to look at that.  Needing pleasant experience after pleasant experience.  Except that this isn’t what life is like, is it?  Life keeps showing me liberal portions of both pleasure and pain.  The trick seems to be how to hold the pain.

Seeing my rampant attachment, I fantasized about having an Insight Meditation Society staff member open the door and put up a sign:  “All yogis will please walk width-wise in this room, so that more retreatants may use the space.”  That would fix me and my craving.  No more approaching and leaving the Buddha.

What do you think?  Would my life be enhanced if my deepest attachments were continually uprooted?  I don’t know.  Think I’ll sit in the question.

Meditating

I used to want to be a better meditator.  I was full of ideas about “good meditation” and bad.  But that seems to have faded away.  I remember decades ago hearing some martial arts master say “Just put yourself on the mat.”  So … I just sit, sometimes for a short time, sometimes longer, and take whatever comes my way.

Thoughts sure throw themselves at me, and I’ve learned to welcome them.  The idea of trying to eliminate them feels silly.   My brain is getting quieter but it still spews its output.  This morning, while sitting in my cozy chair, I thought about sex, about the wind that was whipping outside, about the sun that started breaking through my eyelids.  Later, I fantasized in detail about what will happen on the meditation retreat I’m going on in two weeks.  It was so lovely .. and then I noticed what I was doing.  My response was “Oops!”, rather than “Bad Bruce.”  Just more mind stuff, which is perfectly fine.

I settled back into a rhythm of very quiet breathing, in fact silent breathing.  Everything so slow.  The wind buffeted my home.  The sun peeked in and peeked out.  All was well.  Strangely, I had no aches and pains as I sat there.  And I wasn’t nodding off towards sleep, a usual tendency of mine.  I could feel pride settling in, and I smiled.  “Hello, pride.  Thanks for showing up.”  A bit later, it floated away, soon to be replaced by … nothing.  Just breathing.

I have a little Tibetan bowl which I hit with a wooden mallet at the end of my sitting.  How do I know it’s the end?  It just feels right to stop.  I tap the bowl three times, letting the sound hang in the air and completely disappear before I do it again.  That feels right too.

Today I meditated for 50 minutes – neither good nor bad.  I returned to my daily life slow and sweet.  Makes me happy.

Just Some Extra Skin

I have a flap of skin hanging out between my neck and right shoulder.  I think it’s been there for a few months.  What I know is that every day, several times a day, I reach over with my left hand and flibble it, pull it, or otherwise bother it.  After some vigorous pulling, the flap usually ends up red and sore.  Doesn’t seem to stop me, though.

I figure there’s a teaching here for me.  I guess it’s not all right that I have this projection sticking out from the surface of my body.  Sometimes I feel the smoothness of my inner arm and like it a lot.  That’s what my physical being should be, so I say – smooth and beautiful.  Like the runway models. Except I’m a guy.

Clearly, my brain tells me that I should do something about my tag of tissue, such as get rid of it.  That interruption of sleekness makes me deficient.  So … why not splurge for a commercial product?

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Or

I could make this tiny fleck of matter an object of meditation.  In the vipassana tradition of Buddhism, when thoughts come, we just observe the passing display without judgment.  I could simply watch my need to touch the spot, and watch my hand reach over to feel it.  I can have the aspiration to touch not, as a way to experience the perfection of all parts of my body, just as they are.  And the compassion for myself when I do grab hold.

That’s what I’ll do.  Starting now.

Meditating with Jody

It’s 7:00 am and I’m sitting beside Jody’s bed after she’s asked for a drink of water.  She’s dozed off again.  And so I’ll meditate.  I find that I usually can fall deeply within a minute or two.  The Buddha talked about “choiceless awareness”, allowing whatever thoughts, feelings and bodily sensations that come up to be there, and just watching them as they arrive and later leave.

I used to wonder what to do with my hands, but why bother?  Now I just cup my right hand in the left, letting my right thumb rest on the left one.  I can’t hear my breath.  It’s very slow.  I’m very still.  Cozy.

I hear Jody’s slow breathing.  I smile and let it embrace me.  Sometimes there’s a break in the rhythm – a little grunt – and I smile some more.  All part of the symphony.  My breathing and Jody’s aren’t on the same beat, and that doesn’t matter at all.  Actually, nothing matters.  I just welcome the moments as they come towards me.

My stomach groinks, and then once again.  Jody’s replies with a similar sound.  My goodness, it’s a conversation.  Another smile.  I know that a small clock is sitting nearby but I don’t open my eyes to see it.  Wouldn’t do me any good in the dark anyway.  I hear the thought, “Find out what time it is. Find out how long you’ve been meditating.”  A smile and a gentle “No thanks” in reply.

Thoughts of being in the meditation hall at IMS bubble up.  Comparing this to that.  And I watch that go.  Such a blessing to welcome it all – the arriving, the abiding, the departing.

Then the itch.  A few inches below my right nipple.  “Scratch it.”  “Don’t.”  I let it alone, just observing instead.  It gets stronger but after a short time lessens to nearly nothing.  As I continue, the itch flares again (five more times!) and then recedes, over and over.

I turn my head way to the left, and then to the right, enjoying the crackle sound.  “Don’t turn your head.  Be still.”  Later I turn again.  “It’s okay, Bruce.”  No right or wrong when I’m meditating.  No deficit.  And increasingly, no yearning.  I like it.

At some point, with Jody continuing to saw logs, I open my eyes in the dim light, get up from the chair and lie down again on the foam pad beside her bed.  I don’t look at the clock.  Everything is fine.

I Don’t Have to Be Self-Disturbed

Recently during a silent retreat in a very sound-controlled centre, a woman with lung cancer started to cough.  She could not stop coughing, and I saw the people sitting around her begin to stir.  She realized she was causing a disturbance and left the room.  I followed her out, placed my hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eyes.  I told her she was welcome to stay in the hall as long as she wanted, regardless of her coughing.  It was up to each of us in the meditation hall to deal with our discomfort.  I told her I appreciated her sensitivity to the group, but it was not her problem that we were annoyed.  We discussed how disturbance is not caused by outside sounds, but by internal reactions to perceived annoyances.  I reminded her that we were meditating to learn and work with that fact, not to create a comfortable container of imperturbability.

On one of my retreats at the Insight Meditation Society, I experienced the same thing – a woman couldn’t stop coughing while we were sitting in silent meditation.  And the same pursed lips appeared on many of the yogis near me.  I’ll call the woman Mary.  She was in the same small group as me.  The ten of us had three group interviews during the week, each time with a different teacher.  It was virtually the only time we could talk.  Like the woman with lung cancer, Mary felt horrible, sure that she was wrecking “the space” for one hundred people.  Each of the teachers encouraged her, and asked her to see that she wasn’t in any sense “less than”.

Mary started coughing on our first day, Sunday, and continued until maybe Friday.  That morning, at the 6:00 am sitting, Mary was silent.  Although many in the room almost audibly sighed with relief, I found myself in a different place: I missed Mary’s coughing.  I came to see that it represented for me a suffering human being, a human being to be revered, and a way for me to get out of my head and feel compassion.

I missed Mary’s coughing for the rest of the retreat.  At the very end, we had a couple of hours where we could talk to each other.  I went up to Mary and thanked her.  Although on the surface her response was astonishment, something else was brewing inside and her smile said it all.  Her hug too.