The Unknown
By Wendy Wallskog
At the end of September I went to a contemplative care meditation retreat at Garrison Institute organized by New York Zen Center. I've never done a meditation retreat, actually I have actively avoided going on a SILENT retreat. This retreat was NOT entirely silent, focused on the gifts of imperfection and several people I don't get to see enough would be there, too--that was enough for me to sign up, buy the plane ticket, make transportation arrangements and just GO with nervousness, intrigue and a willingness to be a little uncomfortable.
The day before the retreat I felt the slightest scratch in my throat. By the time I arrived and was meditating 4 times a day the tickle had turned into coughing jags with mostly unpredictable timing except nearly guaranteed during our time sitting together. I didn't want to draw any attention to myself, but my body's need to clear my throat and cough superseded my desire. I brought lozenges to suck on, focused on my breath, focused on anything but my breath, I wished the sensations away but for the first 2 days EVERY time we meditated I ended up needing to leave the hall--you can imagine how loud the sound of my chair, footsteps and door sounded to me as I walked to the back of the large space while 70 "strangers" were sitting zazen quietly.
I started dreading the meditation sessions. I wondered how long I could make it before my body betrayed me and I would have to make a spectacle of myself by leaving, likely interrupting others. My mind was ON FIRE with thoughts, stories, judgements and optimization strategies. But just like every inhale has an exhale, I also knew it was important to take care of myself to the best of my ability in the moment. My body needed attention--a drink of water, to clear my nose and throat. I was mindful of what I was feeling and attending to my bodily needs in the moment regardless of what my mind had to say about it. The practice was to notice my mind's trickery and allow it to be there and pass while I continued to bring my attention back to here and now--coughing, walking, blowing, breathing, being etc. After a couple of days my symptoms started improving and as I reflected I realized I had a chance to let go of what I thought my meditation experience at my first retreat should be and focus on what was really happening in my body and mind in real time. That changed EVERYTHING.
I woke up on the third morning with more curiosity than resistance (specifically about putting on my shoes to walk down the hall to use the communal bathroom,) openness to being seen and seeing others (I had so many authentic, meaningful, open-hearted conversations--one of the highlights was when I finished talking with Peter he took my hand, looked me eye to eye and told me it was a joy to talk with me; I felt the same way after our brief but connecting conversation,) and desire to practice (imperfectly) being here now, everything belongs and beginning again with a community of strangers who were turning out to have love, joy, pain, suffering--just like me! I certainly didn't reach nirvana sitting in the 1920's former Catholic monastery turned contemplative retreat center, but I wasn't so twitchy, distracted, uncomfortable and resistant as we sat together in silence before breakfast, in the morning, at noon and again in the evening.
The final morning I was moved to sit in the meditation hall before the wake up bells at 6:15 rang. I sat in the back of the hall in darkness filled with gratitude, joy and wonder. I felt grounded, open, soft and upright--the invitations given by Koshin as we began each time sitting together. I didn't try, strive, manipulate or cultivate a certain experience on this retreat, I let the retreat hold me knowing what was for me would find me if I focused on being non-judgmental and engaged in each moment. And it did!!!
When I got home and returned to my solo meditation practice it was interesting to notice how tight my body felt--I was clenching my jaw and lower abdominal muscles, my shoulders were raised (it was like I was guarding myself from a punch) and my mind was doing it's very best scanning for problems to solve. Without the newness of the retreat—people, schedule, place and my cold, my mind STILL consistently and constantly searched for problems and provided innumerable ways to act for my own protection and gain.
One insight I got from the retreat (and all that sitting) was when there are unknowns (even, maybe especially if they are unknowable) in my life (fill in any subject area--personal, professional, family, community, property, election, and on and on) my mind is like a dog with a bone. It has SO MANY judgments, solutions, hopes and fears. The less I know, the more it makes up and it feels like it won't ever stop UNTIL I remember the practice of noticing my thoughts as thoughts (not concerned with the content of the thought) without gripping or pushing them away. Like I have heard so many times before a thought is simply a cloud in the big sky, it will form and transform. Nothing to do, but breathe, be, notice, observe and allow. But what do I DO??? I'm a doer!
As I sat "silently" (on the outside) and "still" (again, only on the outside, my legs were restless, I wanted to scream and move--anywhere else) breathing I started getting curious about the physical sensations in my body beginning with my feet and seat. Instead of labeling the sensation with a feeling or jumping to a thought, I tried to stay with description words like--tight, hot, prickly, smooth, upright, supported. My mind continued to frequently interrupt my exploration with the same old "have tos" and "shoulds." The object changed, but the need to manipulate, avoid and distract was constant.
As I continued my body scan of sensations I wondered what it would be like to drop from my mind where everything felt chaotic, clingy, and controlling to my body with its present and neutral sensations. I specifically invited in surrender--being here now with my body and all its feelings as is, nothing to do. As I focused my attention on my body and invited in surrender, I felt looseness come in waves--to my abdomen, pelvis, legs, chest, shoulders, feet, jaw, top of my head. My mind was still interrupting, but I felt a switch from being in my mind to being in my body and it made all the difference. My insides started matching my outside--stiller, quieter, calmer. Instead of wanting to pull the escape hatch, I was content to be with my breath and body observing the transformation that was taking place without needing to predict, direct, strive or control it—sometimes.
In the weeks since the retreat I keep noticing the more unknowns my mind perceives there to be, the more stressed I feel in my body and mind. It's getting easier to notice when my mind is running wild trying to predict the unpredictable. The choice I have is to pause, take a conscious breath and invite in curiosity--what happens from there is unknown, but whatever it is I am here now. I focus on remembering everything belongs and I can begin again with each breath--coming back to the present as it is—known only in the now, that's all I really ever have.