Feeling the Love—and the Hunger Pains—at the Vipassana Retreat
The hunger games; a Vipassana story…..a personal account of my ten days of silence at the Vipassana meditation retreat.
We wake in darkness. The gong tolls. The world is silent and still.
We walk as we’ve been taught, observing our breaths, mindful of the air on our skin. We climb the hill; an upstream of morning shadows, carrying blankets and prayer cushions. It’s 4.30am.
Row upon row of men and women sit cross-legged as we slip off our shoes and enter the dimly lit hall. I am in love with this; the crowded room, the shared silence, that quiet feeling of solitude.
This is how we start the day, with a peace and stillness we hope to carry forward, and the gentle voice of our mentor.
“Start again,” he softly urges, “start again.”
But of course, it wasn’t always this way.
Road to Vipassana
On the Coach ride to Gloucester, I asked the woman beside me, who in their right mind would sign up to a 10 day retreat?
Her reasons were simple. “Inner peace,” she said “and “this!” She waved her phone at me accusingly. Ten days of ex-communication from the outside world - it was as appealing as it was terrifying.
Reading through the pamphlet (regrettably, on the journey there) I began to have second thoughts.
Vipassana was not for the faint-hearted. The ten-day retreat was one of India’s most ancient meditation techniques. Vipassana (meaning “to see things as they really are”) was a process of self-purification achieved by 10 rigorous days of fasting, abstinence and meditation.
After setting the brochure down I imagined Debbie Allan in the opening montage of Fame yelling – “you want inner peace…well this is where you start paying!”
I wasn’t disappointed.
When we arrived the men and women were separated and our belongings (phone, keys, wallets) taken. In exchange we were handed blankets, alarm clocks and ID badges, then led to the “cells”; dormitories consisting of single beds and a small chest of draws, each separated by thin hospital like curtains.
The Rules were simple:
1) Abstain from killing any being
2) Abstain from stealing
3) Abstain from all intoxicants
4) Abstain from sexual contact
5) Abstain from speach
Also under no circumstances could we pet the neighbours cat, our guide Dhamin, a small and very serious Tibetan man, added. “He has a habit of wandering into the compound.” I glanced again at the rules.
Really?
I asked myself…of it’s own free will?
Day 1
The next day, I woke surprisingly quickly. I was out of bed before the gong. Showered and dressed, I made my way to the Dhamma hall.
We were told to calm our “monkey minds” by quietly observing our bodies ' changing sensations.
However, 2 hours sat in lotus position, and all I observed was pain. My thighs ached, my back was sore, and my mind felt like it was on a treadmill. By the end of the session, I felt exhausted, disappointed, and slightly depressed. I didn’t feel enlightened; I felt spiritually bitch-slapped.
I dragged myself to breakfast. That first grey morning, joining the slow march to the dining table in the centre aisle, I felt like I’d stepped into a St Ann’s mental ward. Along the perimeter of the room, men ate with their noses pressed against the walls, whilst others stared vacantly out of the windows. Everyone ate in silence. I braced myself as we ladled runny porridge and liquidized prunes into our trays.
10 days, I thought. 10 days of this?
Spiritual anarchy (days 2-3)
I believed in balance. I didn’t believe inner peace needed to be achieved through ascetism and self-torture. Or perhaps I was just hungry.
I’d learnt the hard way that we were not permitted to eat after 12.30 (AM!) And that first afternoon, when I’d raced to the front of the queue to be confronted by a large pot – not of warm vegetable soup – but lemon water, was one of deep depression. Depression that turned quickly to anguish when I was politely told (ladle in hand!) that the precious lemon water was for “old students only.” This aguish of course deepened when I made the same mistake 3 days in a row.
It seemed my subconscious mind did not want to let go. And every day at 7 o’clock when I’d peer over that large steel rim, it was heart- break all overagain.
That night I gave my ID badge the stink eye.
I’d read the Dali Lama’s guide to happiness. I knew the drill. If “attachment”was the root of all suffering then it made sense to forgo sensory pleasure (comfort, food, sex) and turn your attention inwards. But after 48 hours of not speaking, eating when told, getting up when told and attempting to “empty” my mind, hour after hour I began to feel less like Daniel and more like my ID number; “F7.” I began to wonder if cleansing your mind was some sly euphemism for brainwashing…
The next day I rebelled (rather pathetically, I admit.) My descent into spiritual anarchy began by stealing fruit (there were no intoxicants to hand, I couldn’t find anything to kill) and progressed to climbing trees. Yes trees.
I’m not sure at what age it becomes unacceptable to swing from branches. But at 27, I suspected I was crossing the border from eccentric to unstable. It did, however, give me a chance to spy on the other students (yes, not creepy at all.) Still, they weren’t an exciting bunch. For the most part, they walked meditatively from one side of the wood to the other; some picked twigs, others stared out at the fields beyond – but most, I noted, moved with a strange ease; an otherworldly, contented swagger. I was too hungry, too tired, or simply too conditioned to share.
Day 4 Monkey Mind
I was training my mind, not to react but to observe. There were some insights, some brief moments of calm. But too often I was left irritated by my own internal monologue (which by day 4 had started to sound like Morgan Freeman) whilst my monkey mind had chosen the last 72 hours to churn out every petty gripe and unconscious craving I didn’t even know I had.
I’d learnt a few things. I knew now that it was less awkward to eat silently beside someone than opposite, that licking a Rivita gave you more flavour than chewing it, and that two cushions (instead of the prescribed 1) gave considerably less arse ache when meditating for hours at a time.
Perhaps I could survive in a concentration camp, I thought smugly. And then, on day 4, they took the Rivita away.
Retreating from the retreat
I decided to break the cardinal rule; the daddy of silent retreat no-no’s. 5days with just my mind for company and I was ready to break the silence.
Greg was a curly haired 25 year who I’d introduced myself to the first day we arrived. Limbering up before each meditation, Greg appeared in the zone. But at other times, tired and dishevelled (with a starved look that mirrored my own) the hippy from Huddlesfield looked like he just needed a hug! My vulnerability radar tweaked a co-conspirator.
I stepped up to him and opened my mouth to speak, but suddenly I started to shake. Incredibly, my heart was pounding. I ran round the corner with tears in my eyes, laughing in disbelief. I couldn’t do it. I was amazed and a little embarrassed. Had it really taken just 5 days for me to loose my voice?
Later that day I broke another rule. I left the compound.
Walking along the narrow strip of road out into the fields, I wondered what I was doing here. My mind became knotted with thoughts of an old friend. I thought about the frustration, the hurt, the to-and-throw of past arguments. But then I imagined staring down at the two of us from outer space. If all was impermanent, as the monks had suggested, then did it really matter? If change was “inherent in all things” then perhaps there existed moments in our friendshipthat were once good and untainted. I began to breathe easier. Perhaps the pain wasn’t pointless.
I felt like the monks had worked some strange magic over me, but coming back I wasn’t sure if I felt better or worse.
As I walked to the Dhamma hall my foot caught on something soft and squishy. I looked down to see one of the older students; a smartly dressed gentleman laying flat on the grass, his arms swishing around wildly. His eyes were glazed with a look of unmistakeable ecstasy, his body convulsed. Clearly someone was feeling the love. I tried to stifle a laugh, which of course made it worse. I felt an epic giggling fit coming on. Racing past a group of other students towards the refuge of the Dhamma hall, I turned and ran nose first into the glass doors.
But then, as I sat down to meditate something incredible happened.
Natural highs
For the past 5 days we were told to concentrate on the triangular area from the tip of our noses to the corners of our lips. By mastering this small area we would be able to monitor the bodies changing sensations.
That evening we were told to gradually move this awareness to the rest of our bodies.
Gradually, I felt a sharp tension across my forehead that I never knew was there. The pain crept slowly down my temples and along my jawline. I could feel it pulsing gently across my skull and all along my nerve endings. As I observed it curiously without aversion, the sensation intensified. At one point, I felt like I’d been punched in the face. The whole side of my head felt like it was throbbing. I steered my mind back, and the pain began to ripple outwards. It felt like the tiny needles of a lie detector test were scrolling down my cheeks, gently tapping out the tension. I continued to observe this strange feeling. Before the session ended, I glimpsed a soft ring of light around the centre of my eyes. At first, I thought they’d switched the lights on. But then, as the light eased and the whole side of my face felt like it was flowing, cascading. My head felt lighter. I could feel my skin breathing. The three hours seemed to pass in minutes.
Coming out of the hall, on a chemical scale of 1 to 10, I felt (easily) an 8 high. Not spiritually high, not high on life, but actually, physically, off my nut. I stared up at the sky. My whole body trembled. But it wasn’t just the view that gave me warm shivers.
I was alive on a hill, in the middle of nowhere, with a group of over a hundred strangers who, like me, for ten days of the year were devoted entirely to the exploration of their minds. This feeling of awe wasn’t provided by the external. It came from me. And suddenly the gratitude I felt moved me to tears.
The Road Back
“Equanimous” is my new favourite phrase. I repeat it before I go to bed. I shout it in the shower! To approach life with an attitude of composure and ease, what a beautiful idea.
I understand the need to strip down your identity now. And although it still offends my sense of individuality, I decide to embrace it for the next 5 days. I respect the silence too, but I still have to tell the cook, “The food was very good today” (and occasionally pet the neighbour's cat!)
It has been nearly a week since I vowed to abstain from sex. I become acutely aware of the dark-skinned Mediterranean boy with dreadlocks who sits behind me during meditation. Each time he exhales, I feel his breath on the back of my neck. I have to take a cold shower, literally. I’ve become worryingly pious in my devotion. But I don’t want to be swayed.
I’m more focused than I’ve ever been. Walking through the wooded area, my senses are keen and sharp. I don’t want to be a spiritual nomad living in isolation, but I do want a life closer to this. Not quite “enlightenment,” but a feeling of subtle awe, grounded in the present moment.
My mind is set. My heart is strong. I can tune out the babble, I can let go of racing thoughts and slip effortlessly into a zone where I can and feel the subtle currents of air on my face and cheeks. It seems so simple now, switching from one mental state to another like stepping into an air-conditioned room. And those bad thoughts, those little demons - there’s no escaping them. But I watch them now, from a distance, and I understand them, their effect on me, their ability to make my heart race and mind heavy. I’m not angry anymore.
I believe that any habit can be learned. But if so, I know that any habit can be unlearned also. I worry about going home. I’ve come to rely on the routines that once seemed daunting.
Each evening we watch a video in the Dhamma hall. It’s better than any IMAX when the projector comes up and we see the face of the Vipassana founder, Mr Goenka.
I confess I’m developing some sticky Stockholm man love for Mr. Goenka. Sometimes I feel actual excitement when I see him. I’ve come to love his little round face. His little anecdotes crack me up! How will I survive each day without him to recap for me?
As I write this, I have 3 days left here. But I wonder how these lessons will fare in the outside world.
“We are all prisoners of our own minds, seeking parole,” Mr Goenka says this evening as we sit wrapped in blankets, cradling our knees. “Work patiently. Work diligently. Equanimously, equanimously. And if you stray from the path? Start again,” he softly urges, “start again.”
Details of Vipassana courses can be found at http://www.dipa.dhamma.org/
