Vipassana (2/3)

Slowly and apprehensively, I drive down Green Street in the quiet Delaware neighborhood of Claymont. On my left is a six-foot privacy fence that runs the length of the block. At the end of the block is a break in the fence, with a double gate.  It is Day Zero of the Vipassana ten-day meditation retreat, so the gates are open and welcoming.

I creep through the gates, and the road becomes part gravel, part mud, part concrete, part pothole. It is a dull December day, and the trees are barren. The whole atmosphere has a gloomy, grey cast. There is a man directing attendees.I am told my first rule: men and women are kept strictly separate. I am directed to unload my car at the “Female Unloading” station and park my car in the grass lot. Then, I am to follow the “Female Registration” signs. I do as instructed and arrive in the dining room.

Registration starts with a clipboard handed to me by a fair woman with a Russian accent named Helga. She is brusque and dismissive. Standing next to her, a shorter Indian woman takes a look at my plentiful luggage and snidely says, “WOW.” I hear her, but I am stunned at the sneer from someone at a retreat touting loving-kindness. I ignore her. She repeats her scornful comment. I turn away, continuing to evade her, and look for a seat to fill out my paperwork. I sneak a glance for cameras, thinking this must be a Candid Camera spoof or some kind of test of my altruism. She says a final disparaging “wow” and, realizing that I’m not going to acknowledge her meanness, gives up.

Granted, I do have a lot of luggage. I have one large suitcase and three full pillowcases. (What other option carries bedding, a towel, meditation cushions, and meditation blankets? Garbage bags?) I follow the rules of what to bring diligently. I pack ten days of bland, warm, loose clothing without lettering. Along with a small bag of crocheting, I include toiletries that are fragrance-free. I bring a flashlight, a battery-operated alarm clock, and extra batteries. What I did NOT bring was any reading material, my cell phone, or any musical instruments. The only contraband that I pack is a pen and a small notebook.

The Indian woman organizes the valuables, and she asks for my keys, wallet and cell phone. I tell her I only have keys and I left the rest at home. She shames me again, saying “Why didn’t you bring your cell phone? You are supposed to bring it and leave it here.” I use my calmest voice, but give her my iciest look and say, “The paperwork said only ‘no cell phones’.” She holds out my assigned ziplock bag and I drop my keys into it. I drag my belongings towards my room, severely doubting that I will learn benevolence from the people I have met so far.

Building One is across a small yard from the dining room. I enter the building and turn to the first door on the right. The room is sparse- four cots, and four shelf units beside the beds, with short curtains between the sleeping spaces. There is a large empty yogurt container on the floor labeled “compassionate bug catcher”, honoring the “no kill” pledge. The two furthest beds are occupied by unpacked and lounging retreaters. I ask them how the rooms are numbered. They point to a tiny sign on the door. 

“Room 4.” I am here. My bed is the closest to the door, directly under a large, glowing, fiery red EXIT sign. I wonder if I am assigned this bed as a punishment for too much luggage. The beds are diminutive cots, but with plush mattresses of memory foam. I dump my pillowcases on the bed and slide my luggage underneath. I perch my butt on the edge of the mattress to breathe in my “home” for the next eleven days.

My roommates and I have a short time to get acquainted before Noble Silence begins. The questions we cover are: 

“Where do you live?” 

“Where have you lived?”

“Are you married?”

“Do you have children?”

“Have you done this kind of retreat before?”

“What made you want to do this one?”

Delilah lives in Brooklyn, no kids, single. Ramona lives in Harrisburg, married, four kids. Chloe is married without children and lives near Kansas City. None of us have much experience with meditation retreats, especially Vipassana. Each of us has been feeling overly reactive in our daily lives and are looking to learn a lifelong meditation practice that results in peace.

Noble Silence means that you can’t speak. You can’t gesture, there is no smiling at others, and there is no eye contact. Basically, everyone walks around looking at the ground, averting their eyes, and scowling. Resting bitch face all around. As an introvert, you would think this would be blissful. But it’s not. I feel lonely, isolated, and unsettled. In the beginning, I rename it  “Hostile Silence”. I feel as if we all had a blow-out fight and are no longer speaking to each other. 

Continually, I look to the meditator’s eyes to read their moods, to acknowledge their existence, and for them to acknowledge mine. Occasionally, someone smiles back at me or nods slightly, and my heart soars with this recognition. I understand one point of the retreat is to be alone in your quest for mental stillness. After a few days, I stop searching the other women’s faces for connection. I evolve to focus my gaze on the ground, using shoes to identify others, and avoid the women wearing them. To combat this feeling of indifference, I smile at the ground, cushioning my facade of apathy with love.

There are times when conversation is permitted. You can speak to the female manager if you have a problem. And you can ask the teacher questions at the allotted times.

Both intentionally and non-intentionally, I break Noble Silence a few notable times. Once, I use the universal eyebrow raise and gestured to a woman in line for the bathroom, indicating “Are you next?” Another time at sunrise, Chloe and I discuss a plan to shush the incessant “low battery” beep of the fire alarm.

One morning, I am in the group bathroom and one of the servers is cleaning it. She finishes scrubbing a toilet. I am so touched by her kindness and willingness to do that gross job, that I touch her arm to get her attention (egad!) and whisper “thank you” (blasphemy!). She looks at me with a slight scowl and puts her finger to her lips, motioning for me to be quiet.

One evening in the silent Dhamma Hall, I adjust my seating arrangement by stacking two meditation cushions on top of each other. This allows my knees to be less stressed. I start to place my butt on the top of the seat, somehow miss, and slip off backward. Landing on the tissue box of the meditator behind me, I let out a loud, surprised “OH!” I see both of my feet in the air before, hastily, I right myself. The woman whom I invaded has no response, maintaining HER noble silence. I squash rising laughter for the rest of that meditation period.

Helga, the Russian woman from registration, is the manager of the women. Her job is to make sure the course runs smoothly and that we follow ALL of the rules. She is very verbal and expedient about informing us when we break one. These rebukes feel constant. Helga knows my name by the second day.

I enter the wrong door for dinner. Helga asks me disdainfully “Could the sign on the door be any bigger?” Ten other retreaters enter through the same door after me.

During a meditation where we can either stay in the hall or meditate in our own spaces, some women go outside to walk. Helga chases them down to instruct them that only meditation is to be done during this time period, no walking, no outside.

Early in the course, I am meditating in the Dhamma Hall with my glasses on my face. At one point, it was suggested that it might be more comfortable to meditate without them. I notice that others had their glasses on, including both the male and female teachers. I see 20/400 without mine, so I choose to wear them. Helga scurries down the aisle and motions for me to take off my glasses. Thinking it’s optional, I whisper, “I don’t want to. I am going to leave them on.” The look on her face is a mix of horror, disdain, and disgust. She turns around to report me to the teacher. Immediately understanding that this is not optional, I remove my specs.

Another time, Helga takes me aside, gestures to my waistband, and says that she sees flashing. She assumes that I have a distracting lighted watch. Indignant, I say, “It’s my insulin pump! I wrote about it on my paperwork. I cleared it with the administration before I even accepted a spot. Unfortunately, I have to check it often to see if my blood sugar is too high or too low!” Helga did look a bit sheepish and apologetic after this explanation.

I’ve never been one to follow all rules without question. I’m not crazy about the way they are treating us. We invested a lot of time and mental space to commit to the retreat. We said goodbye to our loved ones, pledged to avoid the described evils, and earnestly want to study this technique. Why treat us like unruly children trying to take advantage of every loophole? Why not treat us as people honestly trying to adapt to a million new rules, in a strange new location? We deserve the benefit of the doubt as women who can’t process all this strict information quickly enough. Why be so quick to meanly reproach us for slight infractions? The Vipassana motto “Be Happy” is posted everywhere. Vipassana is based on loving-kindness, no?

My respite is walking. We are allowed to walk at “rest” times. No other exercise is allowed, so I walk as much as I can. The boundaries of the female section of the yard are green stakes strung with rope. Signs every 20 feet proclaim “Female Boundary”. I walk the extreme edge of this boundary, which is mostly on grass. 

The far path takes 360 steps to complete a rotation. Full circle. 

There is also an inner path to the walking area, where you can walk at the edge of the cement parking lot. This takes 108 steps. This is also a significant number. Astronomically, there are 27 constellations in our galaxy and each has four directions. 27 x 4 = 108. The number 108 covers the whole galaxy. The distance between the Earth and the Sun is 108 times the diameter of the Sun. The distance between the Earth and Moon is 108 times the diameter of the Moon. The diameter of the Sun is 108 times the diameter of the Earth.

My daily goal is 10,000 steps, which is approximately five miles. This takes 100 minutes to complete. I have two hours of “rest” time daily. I walk almost every minute of “rest” time.

When I tire of walking in the same circle, I walk in the opposite direction. When I tire of that, I walk the letters of the alphabet. Soon, I walk the letters of the names of my loved ones. C…… O…… R…… A…….

One of the trees near the walking path has three names carved into it. “Pam, Tru, Hogue.” I make up stories about them as I walk. Pam and Tru were lovers. Hogue was Pam’s friend who was secretly in love with her. The only way he could spend time with her was to pretend to be her friend. His heart broke every time they were together. I learn later that this site housed an orphanage, so the names were probably just kids who were residents.

While I am outside, I concentrate on filling my lungs with new air to use for breathing meditations. The cold air feels fresh and invigorating. One sunny day, I stop walking and let the sunshine soak into my uplifted face. I lean against one of the green stakes labeled “Female Boundary”. It shifts slightly under my weight. I am literally pushing the boundary. I giggle softly. Then, I look around guiltily to assure no one heard me.

The walking patterns of the women remind me of a reverse pinball machine. Each of us is a magnet that has a sphere of anti-attraction around us. A new “ball” is introduced and we scatter, repelled by the others. Never would we allow ourselves to become too close to another. Repellant pinball.

When life is this simple, food tastes delicious. Each meal is announced with a gong. All food is plant-based, adhering to the “no kill” pledge. The dining hall has a cement floor and plain walls. It is divided into a section for the food line and a section to sit and eat. The front wall is covered with signs stating the rules, the schedule of the day, and the daily instruction banner. The menu for each day, including the list of ingredients, hangs from a clip. There is also a sign-up sheet for the noontime question session with the teacher.

The dining tables are 4′ x 8′ grey plastic folding tables, and the chairs are matching folding chairs. There is a 2’ bar attached to each wall and runs the length of the room, again with folding chairs. At every meal, I try to get a seat looking out one of the two small windows. Otherwise, you stare at the wall or someone to whom you can’t speak. 

The food section has a stainless 3′ x 10′ table running down the middle of the room, which acts as a buffet table. Another similar size table is against one wall. This table has a hot water machine, the tea bag and sweetener drawers, and the condiment tray.

Noble Silence is especially notable during mealtimes. Try eating an apple quietly. The loudest sound is someone trying to drink quietly. All you hear is a resounding GULP, GULP, GULP.

For breakfast, there is yogurt, fruit, oatmeal, cereal, and granola. There is a bread station with different types of bread, peanut butter, jelly, tahini, and butter. There is a condiment tray with salt, cinnamon and other spices, and sugar. I enjoy different combinations for breakfast. One morning, I have oatmeal with a sliced banana and cinnamon. The next day was peanut butter toast with sunflowers sprinkled on top. The next day was yogurt with granola. One day, I went all out and ate two pieces of jelly toast AND banana oatmeal. My insulin pump went wild.

Lunch consists of a rice base (white or brown), and varied toppings. There are curries, stews, and soups, all with varying ethnic flairs. Tempeh and tofu are common. A salad bar includes greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, shredded beets, carrots, cheese, chickpeas, sunflower seeds, and dressings. The bread station is available at lunch.

At dinnertime, we have either ginger tea or apple cider and a piece of fruit. This is part of the fast. Some fancy up their fruit with spices to make it seem more substantial. For example, one girl mixes banana slices with apple chunks and sprinkles it with cinnamon.

At the end of each meal, there are specific instructions to wash our dishes. There is a bin for compost, a bin for trash, a sink to scrub and rinse dishes, and racks to stack plates, bowls, and cups for sanitizing. 

Bedtime is 9 pm. We are exhausted. We are in bed and snoring in minutes. The incessant glow of the exit sign above my head makes my bed cubicle look like an infrared sauna. Luckily, I brought an eye mask to block the light. I have earplugs in my ears and a ski headband over my ears to block any extra sound. If I cared to check, I am sure I look ridiculous.

Each day, the last meditation ends with a video of the teacher, Goenka, saying sonorously “Take rest, take rest, take rest.” I oblige.