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Illustration by Alex Siklos
I was startled awake by a sound; loud, unusual. In the darkness, my bleary eyes took a moment to focus on the tiny and unfamiliar solitary room. My wristwatch showed 4 a.m. And then, the disquieting noise again.
This was how each morning would begin – with the vibrating hum of a gong resonating throughout this old lodge. I was at a meditation centre, where I and 35 other women had come for a 10-day silent meditation retreat.
I had meditated before, off and on, for I was an incessant worrier with generalized anxiety, and meditation was a supposed panacea. I’d hoped that this 10-day retreat would encourage me to become better at it – although I had no illusions that it would instantly make me calmer.
So here I was on day one, rousing myself out of bed at 4:00 in the morning, dashing to shower and dress before finally sitting on my cushion for the last gong at 4:30, stiff-backed, legs folded, to meditate for two hours in total silence with everyone else.
For the first few days, I learned to observe what was happening with my breath. I’d sense the cool air as it entered my nostrils, warmed as I breathed out. Feeling my breath envelop my upper lip like a blanket every time I exhaled. Trying to ignore the stiffness of my legs folded under me, the pain in my back from the stoic posture.
The body scans were my favourite: I could finally lay my aching body down in Shavasana, the corpse pose, even as I had to focus on bodily sensations from head to toe; it wasn’t exactly relaxing. We were initially allowed to scratch any itches or shift uncomfortable positions. But as the days progressed, we were instructed to remain statuelike, noticing any physical irritations and discomforts. Yet do nothing to alleviate them. Just observe them.
It was agonizing.
And this went on for 10 days, five times daily.
All our wholesome vegetarian meals were taken in a cafeteria-styled dining room with large windows overlooking the property. In cafeterias, though, you can talk. Here, we were mute, even as we sat beside or across from one another. Eye contact was as forbidden as speech. I would choose a window seat as often as I could so that I could avert my eyes and ignore the monkish silence by watching a hawk sail gracefully over the hills or a volunteer out with wagon and hoe as the sun rose in the early morning sky.
Each long day ended with taped evening lectures by Master S. N. Goenka, whose nightly topics varied. One evening, he told us that we were to regard our foes with compassion and not hold any aversions to them. Right. I immediately thought of a work colleague who had been a thorn in my side forever, and the thought of feeling any sort of sympathy for her made me want to flatten her instead. No amount of meditating, I knew, would ever make me as saintly as the Master.
Following his lecture, we’d sit for an hour, perfectly still – this, after a full day of meditating like statues.
The first time, I had to contain my urge to scream and bolt from the room, I was in so much pain. By the last evening, I’d learned to use multiple pillows propping up my bottom, my back and my legs so that I could withstand the immobile sitting. I was supposed to have an “equanimous mind, " with no aversion to any discomfort I was feeling, yet I found it torturous. When those lectures ended and I could finally move, I felt like doing a happy dance!
By the last day, my mind is still full of jibber-jabber. Its chatter has revved up, thoughts fighting for attention in my strung-out brain. The pain and itches still bother me and then there’s my jumping leg syndrome to contend with.
“Equanimity,” I tell myself. But my mind is nonetheless a crazy, wild beast, tightly wound. Staying in the present moment is still a challenge, even after meditating 10+ hours a day for 10 days!
Disappointed, I try to dwell on the positives: I can now sit completely still for 40 minutes, just focusing on my hands and the soles of my feet, on my breath. It’s been arduous, but I’ve done it. I vow to take home all the lessons learned and commit to a more consistent and lengthier daily practice.
Which I do for a while. I buy a lilac-coloured meditation pillow and a small singing bowl. Striking the bowl begins my practice. I keep to 45 minutes initially, then 30, 15. And then my meditation practice peters out entirely.
That retreat is many years past and, while a washout, the muscle memory remains. And every so often, when my anxiety is elevated, I dig out my pretty pillow and settle down on it, cross-legged, back straight. I strike my singing bowl and relish its sound. I close my eyes. I rest my hands on my knees. I try to ignore my monkey mind. And I shut out the world around me as I focus on my breath and this moment.
Kinneret Haimes lives in Ottawa.