Meditations on Meaning

(this is part three of a ten-part story about a recent meditation retreat. You can connect to the project on Avanoo here.)

The girl with the cute British accent tells me, as we drive to the meditation center, that exercise won’t be permitted. “Not even yoga?” I ask.

“Not even yoga,” she says. “Because we’re living and meditating in close quarters. And exercise disturbs other people’s meditations. But trust me, it’s really not that bad. Between meditation sessions you can stretch for a few minutes.”

This isn’t as frightening for me as, say, being eaten alive by a pink troll who hops out of a cereal box. But it’s nonetheless frightening. Because, as you now know, it’s hard for me to sit still. Which is why I spend at least an hour each day running… or wrestling… or weight training… or dancing… or doing downward-facing dogs.

To think that I won’t do even one downward facing dog for ten days…

“It’s not a big deal,” she promises. “If you need to move… there’s a walking path that you can walk on during informal meditation hours.”

*****

I soon learn that the circular dirt “walking path” can be circumnavigated in four minutes… at geriatric speed. If I pretend that I’m a sloth, or if I don’t cut in front of the ants, a lap lasts as long as eight minutes.

The path is cut around pine trees. And at two points I can see Yosemite’s majestic mountainous landscape. But the view is a tease… and I don’t want to see it. Because I can’t climb those mountains. Instead, I’m here. Meditating… and walking in circles.

It’s the first day, and I’ve just eaten lunch. Usually, I’d be active after lunch, knowing that I’ll eat again in three hours. But right now, my stomach is packed with three plates of salad and three bowls of soup… because I won’t be permitted to eat another meal for nineteen hours.

So it’s hard to walk. And I’d prefer to sleep. But I don’t want to go back to my sleeping quarters. Where there are snoring men and a faulty toilet with a sign over the lid that reads: “Plumbing is delicate. All but the most soiled paper should go in the trash can.”

The smell of dirty toilet paper is so pungent in the cabin that I dreamed I was suffocating next to a pile of feces. Only to wake up to and notice that I was indeed suffocating next to a pile of feces.

So I’m out here in the open air and walking. Thinking about the food in my belly… the hunger to come… the hot Indian woman in the ashram… and anything else that’ll take my mind off of the wafting, pungent vinegary smell of drying turd.

*****

It’s now just before breakfast on the fourth day of meditation and I’m smiling… as I walk in circles. Partly because I’ve been watching the sun rise… and it’s beautiful. And partly because the wind is touching my face gently… in a way that I don’t remember being touched. But mostly because I’m living… and enjoying this moment.

And this one. And this one. Oh my gosh. This one too. How lovely. How fucking lovely! Now I’m laughing at myself. As I’ve been doing a lot lately. I’m laughing because I’ve never considered anything lovely. Cool…. sure. Sweet… okay. Beautiful… sometimes. But lovely?

Heck… why not. I’m just an observer now. Observing hunger pangs, sexual fantasies, redundant walks, the smell of excrement, and… surprisingly… loveliness.

And I’m noticing, for the first time, that life has a rhythm. Sensations and experiences come… and then they go. In fact, everything comes and goes. And if I just observe… and don’t get involved… I can watch it all… and appreciate it all.

An instructor bangs a gong. Which means that the next meditation session will begin in ten minutes. And five days ago, that would’ve signaled my mind to start thinking about meditating. Because I couldn’t be in one moment while anticipating a future one.

But it’s not five days ago. It’s right now. I know this because I’m still walking around this path. Putting one foot in front of the other. And feeling the breeze. And the crunch of the leaves under my feet. And my breath. Right now.

*****

It’s the sixth day and I’m again walking on this circular path. But I don’t want to be. I don’t fucking want to be! Because this is jail. I’m pent up in a fucking jail. And for what?

To endure snoring and stench that make sleeping impossible? To engage in never-ending redundant meditation sessions? To eat fruits and vegetables and try to pretend, somehow, that they’re cow? To fantasize about an Indian girl eight rows across and two down who isn’t permitted to make eye contact with me?

It’s a waste of time. Oh my god. It’s a fucking waste of time! And I’m dizzy. Vertigo. Holy shit, I want to fall down. It’s because of the circles. I’ve been walking in circles all of my life. And it’s killing me. It’s fucking killing me!

I sit down. And breathe heavily. Until I notice that I am breathing heavily. And a searing heat is pulsing through my body. Starting in my throat… roaring through my heart… revving up my stomach… and infecting my limbs. It’s a sensation that, I’ve learned, develops whenever my mind tells me to run.

Which has happened here at least once a day. And sometimes twice. Because my mind is waffling. Sometimes it supports this meditation thing because it thinks I’ll be able to produce more thanks to whatever liberation I get out of it. And sometimes it thinks I should run away because I’m getting nothing done right now.

When it feels that I’m wasting time… it tells me so over and over again. Until I believe it. And then I start to feel crushed by the weight of a universe that notices that I haven’t been producing as much as I should.

Now, though, I’m learning about my mind’s tricks and the entrenched patterns that it plays out. I’m learning, for instance, that it’s not the meditation retreat that my mind wants me to run from. It can’t be. Because I’ve had this feeling almost everyday since I was a child.

Because as far as my mind is concerned, nothing is ever good enough. No accomplishment and no moment. Accomplishments and moments only serve it one purpose: to get to a future accomplishment or moment.

Knowing this, I remind myself that I’m here to stop this craziness. Because my mind is wrong. My job in this moment isn’t to get to a future moment. Because this moment is already here. And future moments don’t exist. They can’t. Because I can only be in this one.

This voice is new. It just started speaking a few days ago. And it’s been speaking more and more ever since. Telling me to breathe. To listen to my breath. To observe moments and not participate in them. To be. Just be!

I no longer want to run away. And I’m breathing normally again. And my body feels free… awake… and alive. And I’m again walking on this path. In circles. And reminding myself that every moment is new. That my only responsibility is to experience this moment. As it is right now.

*****

It’s the last hour of the last day here. And I’m walking around this path one last time. And smiling. And thinking about the hundreds of laps that I’ve walked over the past ten days. About the sunrises and sunsets I’ve watched. About the laughter. And tears. And hunger pangs. And feelings of satiation. And feelings of confinement. And of freedom. All here. On this path.

As I walk, I am convinced that these few hundred laps have me understanding life more fully than ever before. Life not a diploma. Or a paycheck. Or a winning argument. Or a good-looking girlfriend. Life just as a range of sensations that I can feel. Even here, while walking in circles.

Which is beautiful because it means that I don’t have to be anyone but myself or be anywhere but here to live fully. And I can keep living fully, no matter where I am, as long as I remember one thing: to be here. Now. In this moment. Not that one or that one. This one. Yes… this one!