Day four and counting…
Ten and a half hours of meditation a day
are taking their toll. Sessions vary in length from 45 minutes to two hours but
it takes just a few minutes for pain to start shooting down my neck and into my
back. It also feels like a red-hot poker has been jammed into my left thigh and
calf.
I’ve given up trying to maintain any
semblance of zen-line calm and am switching positions like a yogi on a espresso
buzz. Left leg over right, right leg over left, both legs to one side, straight
out in front of me, kneeling. Each position offers a moment of tantalizing
respite before the familiar pain returns – with a vengeance. “Are we there
yet?” I whine on repeat to nobody but myself. And will my body or my min break first,
I wonder?
Thankfully I have something to keep me
sane. Food. The vegetarian, Indian-inspired fare is delicious. Breakfast may
consist of savoury semolina with cinnamon and prunes, yoghurt, fresh bread with
jam and fruit. There’s no coffee but rooibos tea is plentiful as is refreshing
ginger-infused water. Lunch, the main meal of the day, is from 11am to 12pm. It
could, for example, be a tofu and spinach stew served with brown rice and
sticky date balls for dessert. A tea break from 5pm to 6pm serves up seasonal
fruit (it’s February and I get my pick of peaches, plums, nectarines, bananas
and grapes).
The dance
Recording of SN Goenka – the world –
renowned teacher of Vipassana meditation – intersperse our chanting, which
accompanies the beginning and end of our sessions. I’ve come to look forward to
his soothing voice reminding me of the law of annica (meaning “impermanence”),
or urging me to be equanimous.
Every evening we watch a video of his
non-sectarian teachings and the discourse reveals a little bit more about the
practical technique as the days unfold. I’ve never been told in such
uncomplicated terms how to meditate. For the first time I begin to believe what
those purveyors of zen have always said: “Anyone can do it.”
With sex days worth of pain threatening to
explode in my thighs, calves, back and neck, and doing my best to accept this
reality rather than wish it away, I notice something unfamiliar. That feeling
of hot mental rods stabbing my body is beginning to diminish. Instead of
wanting more of this (i.e. less pain), I observe the event as calmly as I can.
And like a Disprin dissolving in water, I
watch as the pain swirls away. Try as I might I can’t help but punch the sky –
silently, of course.
In the absence of external noise, the
critical voice in my head (of myself and of those around me (has been
astonishingly loud. Today, though, it has begun to quieten. I notice too that
we strangers, who haven’t said a word to each other, have begun to move
differently. What in the beginning was an awkward two-step-imagine not being
able to say “sorry” if you bump into someone – has returned into an intuitive,
harmonious dance.
I get it
In between meditating and eating, we rest.
Who knew sitting could be such a tiring exercise?
Today, our ninth day, I’ve decided to meet
with the resident teacher. I want to know: Am I doing this right? I don’t
receive a definitive yes or no and leave feeling disappointed. Later I realize
this is a path taken for and by yourself – those after pats on the back need not
apply.
And then, just when I begin to think I’ve
arrived and that really there’s nothing to this meditating malarkey, my
practice deepens just a tiny bit and I realize there’s no such thing as
”getting it” at all. I don’t need to ask the teacher to know that this is where
my journey really begins.
Post-breakfast on our 11th day,
our noble silence ends. We may not have spoken for 10 days but chatter comes
easily to our group and email addresses and telephone numbers are exchanged.
I’ve travelled just an hour out of Cape Town but I’ve gone far enough away for
me to feel refreshed, invigorated and very peaceful. And, armed with my new
skill, I’m ready to rebalance my world outside.
