Everyone knows what loneliness is. As for the Pain Body, this happens
when some circumstance or event triggers your deep human wounds, and then you
feel like a four-year-old child whose ice cream has fallen off the cone. Some
people’s pain bodies are exceptionally persistent and stubborn, and this makes
it difficult to keep their weeping delicate in the Dollarama line-up where they
might be buying vinegar, or envelopes, or shiny ocean animal stickers for their
ten-year-old pen pal named Lucas who once wrote, “I don’t have brothers or
sisters. I have autism.”
For the future, me and my friend Paul predict that Extreme Loneliness
and Extreme Social Awkwardness will permeate the whole world. Much of this is
due to smart phones and ghosting and a lack of face-to-face contact. The other Universal
Predicaments of existence are Horny, Hungry, and Tired.
My sense is
that Awkward
will also get to be
a Universal Predicament.
And so there are five universal predicaments.
Lonely, Horny, Hungry, Tired, and Awkward.
Yesterday, I met with all five of the Universal Predicaments.
Plus a pain body that made it rather strenuous to keep my weeping
delicate in the Dollarama line-up where I was buying vinegar, envelopes and
shiny ocean animal stickers for my ten-year-old pen pal named Lucas who does
not have brothers or sisters, but has autism .
Lonely, Horny, Hungry, Tired, and Awkward.
We have no idea if you – Vincent – are suffering from the Universal Predicaments,
and if so, which ones, and what kind of Pain Body is making it hard for you to
keep your weeping delicate in the Dollarama line-up.
Or maybe you are buying toothpaste at Jean Coutu,
or grapes at the fruiterie,
or cider or vodka
or whatever’s on sale at the SAQ.
Nobody knows. The Real Vincent does not write back.
Today is my twelfth
Monday
Without Vincent.
I think I sound more
Obsessed with you
Than I actually am,
though I do sound very Obsessed.
So far today, I have only wept once, and mostly this weeping was
delicate.
Love, Erica.
The End.
Vincent was my therapist from October of 2016, and May 2017. After we ran out of subsidized sessions, I began to write him daily imaginary emails. I called the project, "Mondays without Vincent," and it turned out to be quite healing. You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. In fact, if you'd like, you can send them to me, on any day of the week.
My secret address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail.com.
Let me know if you’d like a response. The correspondence can remain between us, or else we can share it here with others and maybe it could be healing for everyone. Love, Erica.
Inspiration equals: Bliss & Grit.
I listened to Bliss & Grit last night while cleaning someone else's glass surfaces.
Probably coulda helped at the beginning of the day
that did not see me weep very delicately.
Bliss & Grit on Facebook Episode 35: Pain Bodies in Action Brooke Thomas is still quite delightful even when she feels like a Debbie Downer.
Both Brooke and Vanessa are delightful. I forgot about the term Debbie Downer and now remember that I love it. Thank you for your podcast, Bliss and Grit!
Debbie Downer Pain Body Picture for the Internet July 30, 2017
As I compose compelling skin care copy, the blog is supposed
to be on hiatus. Despite this, I am inspired to write a response to Angela
Jamison’s lovely and recent post called “Rest.”
Among writers and bloggers, Angela is one of my favourites. Her masterfully
selected words stick with you for a long time.
“Waking up, check. Around here, we like intensity, sharp
focus, and fire. Life on the razor’s edge is sweet and clear. But if you only
practice getting up strong, and do not practice going to bed soft, then
imbalances can form in the nervous system over the long term. Some of the first
indicators of lack of deep rest may be: fuzzy mind, emotional unavailability or
reactivity, and susceptibility to illness. In this light, deep rest enables
creativity, meaningful relationships, and vibrancy.
Conscious relaxation shows in a person’s bodily tissues, in
the personality, and in how she relates with time and with the earth. It is
the foundation of Jedi mind training.”
I’ve never had too much trouble waking up early. From the
age of seven, the hands of my Mickey Mouse watch directed an extensive routine
that involved walking the dog, practicing the violin and writing eloquent
letters to my grandparents in Manitoba. These letters came out every single
day. With my smelly Mr. Sketch markers, I lovingly decorated the envelopes.
Over the years, the morning routine evolved and devolved to encompass grueling
swim team workouts, and icy runs with ankle and wrist weights.
As for sleeping, typically I am not terrible. Early into my
Ashtanga days, I stopped consuming caffeine around noon, if not much earlier.
Like clockwork, a chai at 12:30 results in mild reverberations extending past
midnight. If someone needed a sleep coach, stopping caffeine at lunchtime would
be my first piece of advice. Alcohol at any time, and Netflix past 8 p.m.,
these are also risky gambles. Maybe it is worth it sometimes, especially during
family visits. You’ll have to figure this out for yourself.
Many Ashtangis go through a stage of being obsessed with
food. Little to no dinner seems to be a trend, the ostensible key to a light
and energized practice. I’ve tried this a few times, in Mysore and at
Vipassana. Most often it ends with me sitting in the dark, quite hungry.
My body has pretty clear needs, and pretty clear signals. This, I have
come to appreciate. Keeps the Divorce Diet in check. The Vipassana People
eventually took pity on me. By Day 3, they permitted evening peanut butter
sandwiches. By Day 7, they granted me a dinner tray with my name on it, plus
after hours fridge access. Everyone is different.
Let’s talk about imbalances in the nervous system. During my
seven and a half years of unfailingly waking up for yoga, utter
exhaustion definitely came up. In January of 2013, I started a job
speaking French to (mostly) three, four and five year olds at a Montessori
School. It entailed that I rush out of the house to catch the bus at 7:30 a.m.
One hour commute, followed by 8 to 9 hours uttering futile sentences to erratic
tiny humans. Before embarking on this high-intensity process, I considered it
essential that I crank myself through second series, which meant waking up at 4
or 4:30 a.m. It never occurred to me that maybe I could take it down a notch,
in the service of early childhood education. Oh no. Didn’t want to “lose” my
practice. Within three months, my coping skills had deteriorated to verge on
clinical insanity. My body developed an awkward series of involuntary twitches,
replicating a bus driver in anticipation of a head-on collision. My mind became
flooded with traumatic memories from the eighth grade. Each night I would wail
to the Boatman about some traumatic 12-year-old injustice. Particularly raw was
the time everyone on the swim team was invited to Kayla Clark’s fourteenth
birthday party. Everyone except for me. After five months at the Montessori
School, the left bottom half of my body went out of commission. I cut my
practice down to fifteen minutes. The twitches and traumatic memories dwindled
almost immediately.
Rest is important. I often wonder to what extent hauling
dogged ass at non-negotiable hours in the morning has impeded my long-term
healing. So many of my Ashtanga years were spent in a state of mild to severe
emotional catastrophe, not to mention unambiguous joint pain. To the emotional
catastrophe, my fellow practitioners and various teachers would reply, “Oh, the
practice is bringing stuff up. You’re getting into the good stuff. It’s
working.” They made it sound as though clarity and peace were just around the
corner. Although it was pleasant to believe that my suffering stemmed from an
important and profound spiritual cause, I now believe that a component of my
spiritually “good stuff” was nothing but simple, inconsolable fatigue.
An essential, and often neglected ingredient: Take Rest
Posture. Lying Down Club. Sharath insists that it isn’t savasana. Call it what
you like, it has never been my specialty. Too hungry, too horny, too
caffeinated, whatever the reason, my lying down efforts joined the miserably
pathetic four years ago when I moved to Halifax. Ten seconds, ten breaths. I
became terrified of lying down. Sometimes a song would help, as long as
pressing play didn’t coincide with examining the interwebs and all that Wifi
and cellular data had to offer.
Mr. Iyengar recommended that for every 30 minutes of asana,
the yoga practitioner should take five minutes of rest. In Mysore, after
approximately thirty seconds, Sharath would send us on our way. “Thank you very
much. Take rest at home.” The committed amongst us wouldn’t stop for a
coconut. The rest of us would, and maybe that was that.
Lie down, take rest. Practice dying. Such a difficult
posture. Most of the other asanas, I’ve traded in for this. Give the earth your
cells. I got this phrase from a contact improv teacher in Halifax. I went to
her class the day I decided to leave. In the end, you can’t keep anything.
I lie down to practice dying, and give my cells to the
earth. It feels like everything’s unravelling.
Here are some things I think about when I’m trying to relax:
-Metta: "May all be safe, may all be happy, may all
be healthy, may all live with ease."
Funnily enough, I learned this from an elephant journal
article. While you’re thinking it, you can pay attention to how your heart
feels. I used to do this in front of the yoga shala in Mysore, as I waited for
the gates to open.
-Another phrase:
"I’m sorry, I forgive you, I love you, I thank
you."
I learned this from Simon, my ex-ex-boyfriend who jumped off
a building in January. Simon said that you’re supposed to repeat this phrase,
both to your ego, and to the world. The practice cured Simon in three and
a half days. It will take me longer than this.
-The Buddha’s last words to Ananda, who served by the
Buddha’s side for fifty years or more. As the Buddha lay dying, he said this to
Ananda. It makes me wish my name was Ananda:
“Ananda,” said the Buddha,
“Everything breaks down. Tread the path with care. Nothing is certain. Trust yourself.”
Regular Filter My name is
Erica. I love coffee. I tried to save the world by carrying around
a personal re-usable coffee mug, but I dropped it while I was carrying almonds
at the grocery store and it broke. Now I have granola in my teeth.
Turns out that Buddha and Mrs. Vanden Bosch were right. I won’t tell you
how. Like Dorothy, you’ll have to figure it out for yourself. The
Good Witch of the North can’t help you. Neither can the Wizard of
Oz. Or me. I. Death isn’t a challenge for Grandma Antoinette.
It’s a benediction. But Quebec children have misery becoming
adults. And their ph levels are always changing. Stevie Wonder was
right too.
Americano
Direct
formation. My current vocation is to seduce the world. Then take
those sunglasses off the top of your head. You look like Mickey
Mouse. Mickey Mouse seduced. What was Mike Snow’s word of the
day? Friscalating. As in friscalating darkness. As in useless
seduction. He offered to lend me a few squares of toilet paper.
Farewell to the corn cob pipe and the button nose. And the eyes made out
of coal. Considering how boring this course is, the teacher is in an
admirably good mood. An eye rhyme. If your eyes were made out of
coal, would you see it?
I love you more than
spelt bread.
I love you more than
cantaloupe.
Soy Latte You know what’s
funny? The guy who walks around with his opera in his pockets. He
doesn’t want it to get stolen. They call marshmallows guiBLANCS, because
guimauves aren’t mauve. Xanadu doesn’t have a Z in it I don’t
think. My horse is a kingdom and I am a terrorist. The next
thing I was going to say would have been redundant. Hillary Clinton has three
L’s and how many children. My mom has a bracelet for depression.
What’s your bracelet? You could be diasporic or exiled and that will not
make my spinal fluids boil. Or bubble or freeze. Migrant authors
don’t celebrate the city. And I shall celebrate nothing until this class
is dismissed. The End. Most of this was written in 2009, on disposable coffee cups, in class. All of the coffee cups are gone, except for the one about the Buddha and Mrs. Vanden Bosch. And Dorothy. And Grandma Antoinette. For years, Simon kept it in his tiny apartment. Simon is my ex-ex boyfriend who... had a relatively short and interesting life. I thought that Simon also had the God Box too, but it seems the God Box is Lost and Gone. We'd best get used to losing things. I am trying to mean this in the most optimistic way.
For today's post, recycling was required. Someone offered to pay me for something, and I had to say yes, since Nose/Pubic Hair blogs and Cereal/Invertebrate Personality Quizzes have not yet proved to be very lucrative. Also, Ocean Invertebrate Personality Quizzes require a rather extensive amount of effort. Stay Tuned.
Kino MacGregor insists that you can’t hurt yourself
meditating.
Kino MacGregor can pull her leg all the way behind her
shoulder and then her foot hooks under her armpit and it doesn’t seem like this
hurts her very much.
Kino MacGregor and I are different
Kino MacGregor and I are different. Just like Margaret
Atwood and I are different. Going into Vipassana, I could sit cross-legged
relatively comfortably for half an hour. Still, I was positive that sitting for
ten hours a day was going to break my knees, and probably also my hips, and
maybe a few other parts while I was at it. When I am not meditating, I masturbate on the
internet, inhaling thousands of yoga blogs. I have been devouring Matthew
Reski’s series WAWADIA: What Are We Actually Doing In Asana. It’s a qualitative
study on injuries in yoga. Of course I have devoured the whole thing. In one of the articles, Matthew interviews a guy who went to Vipassana. Someone this guy
knew there had to do six months of physio for her knee afterwards. And I’d
heard of a friend of a friend who had herniated her disc, just trying to
meditate.
A phrase from the internet haunted my head, “Many meditators
injure themselves meditating on non-violence.”
I was determined that this violence would not happen to
me.I spent my first two and a half days
at vipassana frantically obsessing over the best and most sustainable position.
Three cushions under my butt, two under each knee. Vice versa. Two under my knee
with the bad I.T. band. Oh but then I’m imbalanced, what if I get compensatory
pain? Yes, definitely there was compensatory pain. My vacillations went on and
on. As for the pain, well, it wasn’t quite extreme, but I did feel some
irritation above my left knee on the outside. And often when I got up, my hip
felt sort of jammed, so I had to click it back into place. Although the sound
of my hip was disgusting, I'm pretty sure my issues were mostly due to my tight I.T. band and probably
not because of some surgery-requiring problem.Even so, I fretted relentlessly. After two and a half days, I thought,
the hell with this; I’m straightening my legs. I propped myself up on a
mountain of cushions, and extended both legs diagonally in a v-shape with loads
more cushions underneath. Smugly, I looked around the room as everyone else
creaked themselves into folded legs and anatomically questionable versions of
virasana. “Erica,” I thought to myself. “You have the best seat in the house.”
Surely, I’d be spared of both agony and surgery. Well,
you’ll see how that went. On Day Four of the course, Goenka introduced the
Vipassana technique. Up until then, we’d been luxuriating in Anapana, the
delightful task of observing the breath below our nostrils. During this time, I
alternated between being very bored, being very sleepy, being very hungry,
being very obsessed about how I would starve because there was no dinner, and
being very pissed off at a number of people, including Sri W Ham Wrap who once
said that my yoga practice was violent and harmful. (I just wrote Hamful by
mistake. How funny.) What a blast. Then
the Vipassana technique opened up a whole new exciting world. Instead of being
stuck on our nostrils, now we got to move our attention from head to feet. It was like going from no internet to suddenly
getting a U.S. Netflix subscription. I remember walking out of our first
session with immense relief. Thank God, I thought almost laughing. No more
nostrils. But it felt like my sit bones had punctured through my ass. And I
wondered if maybe my hamstrings were being overstretched.
On Day Five of Vipassana, Goenka wanted us to start cultivating
adhittana, which means “strong determination.” Apparently the best way of doing
this is to endure one-hour sits of extreme stillness three times a day. No
opening your eyes, no opening your hands, no changing your legs. Having taken
refuge in rules from a young age, I was all over this. Though my legs were
uncrossed, I sat like the stillest Buddha in the world. The stillest and the
stiffest. It usually took 25 or 30 minutes before my sit bones started to
pierce my ass flesh to such an extent that I thought my ass might start to
bleed. The rest of my ass wasn’t doing well either. I could feel intense
stretching on either side. One of Matthew Remski’s case studies was about an unfortunate Ashtanga yoga teacher who tore all her glute muscles off her hipbone. She had been doing a bunch of hip openers to deal with a knee injury.
Then one day after meditating, she did a tiny wide legged forward bend and pop,
pop, pop, went all the muscles on her ass. At the end of Day Six, I felt
certain that my injury would be even more serious. Both sides of my ass seethed
in horrendous agony. Lying in bed around 9:30 p.m., I decided that all my butt
muscles were pulling at my sacrum.It
was only a matter of time, likely just five minutes, before the muscles
dislocated from my sacrum, my spine went to hell and then Erica’s greatest
fear of being in a wheelchair would come true. I sobbed, alone, in my cubicle
of a room.
“It’s going to break.” I said out loud, breaking the noble
silence to announce my imminent spinal cord injury. My roommates in the other
cubicles weren’t allowed to say anything back. I kept sobbing. “Sorry,” I said.
I lay down on the floor, stunned by the torture. Finally the day of my Big
Catastrophe had come. Ever since I was really small, I’ve been waiting for the
day when something horrible and irreversible would happen to my body. Broken
spinal cords, esophageal cancer, the flesh-eating disease. I’ve been
anticipating my disaster since my parents took me to the Niagara Falls wax
museum and I saw the wax statue of Terry Fox who only had one leg. Now my
disaster was happening on Day 6 of jolly old Goenka’s vipassana retreat.
Within about twenty minutes the spasms or whatever was going
on in my ass finally stopped. Later, I learned that during that night, I’d
called out in my sleep. “I knew it!,” I’d yelled. I don’t remember saying this,
but I do remember dreaming about Katy Bowman. Katy Bowman is a biomechanist and
author who advocates as much natural movement as possible for the benefit of
your pelvis and all the cells in your body. And she thinks that almost everyone
in the Western World needs a stronger butt.
“Yah, I was at Vipassana,” I told Katy in my dream. “But it
was too much.” While I was dreaming, I also remember having the very clear
intention of doing a bunch of butt exercises. Sadly, the time and location
never worked out. The butt exercises kept getting postponed. (Kind of like Butt Club in Mysore).
The gong rang at 4 a.m. Although I was quite relieved that I
wasn’t yet in a wheelchair, I felt absolutely ready to trade in both yoga and
meditation for a lifetime of butt exercises and/or anything else. My ass didn’t hurt as much, but now I felt
certain that there was inflammation behind my right knee, the one without the
I.T. band problem. Upon careful examination, I realized that the bulge was
merely my hamstring tendon.
I dragged myself to the meditation hall late and left when I
had to shit. Instead of returning, I went for a walk in the little loop in the
forest. It was pitch black. For someone terrified of a spinal cord injury, this
wasn’t the most logical behaviour; however, I figured I’d already survived yesterday’s very
close call and I wanted to work on my night vision. After a couple of times
around the loop, I had to piss and so I pulled up my skirt and peed in the
woods. I thought that this was quite scandalous for a vipassana retreat. I did
not get any pee on my sandals.
In the afternoon, I went to see the meditation instructor.
It was nice of her to view my body hysteria, not as severe, neurotic
dysfunction, but rather as my sankaras coming to the surface. Sankaras are
deep-rooted mental or behavioral patterns that tend to lead you into the same
types situations over and over again. (The yogis often call them “samskaras.”) Some
of my sankaras that fall into similar categories include going to the emergency room to see if my ingrown pubic hair is Herpes, or imagining having to get my esophagus
replaced with a piece of my colon, or worrying about getting a foot infection
in India that will end with me losing my legs. When I told the instructor about
the spinal cord injury scare, she suggested that maybe I was a bit too strict
with myself. “Torturing yourself, this is not Vipassana," she said. “Vipassana
is not the posture.” She gave the option of a chair, or a back support, if it
got too painful. I considered becoming a chair person, but one of my life’s
biggest rants is about the dangers of sitting in chairs. It’s up there with potty training, and sun salutations, and maybe also pubic hair waxing. I
decided I would try one more day on the floor. If my sacrum seemed at risk and
I had to sit in a chair, well then, so be it. The rest of this story is about
how I ended up sitting cross-legged and sort of relaxed for about seventeen minutes. You are probably better off reading this excellent zine that the
Boatman bought called, “Why I Like to Pee Outside.” It is so great. I even
brought it to India with me and read it to some wonderful Canadians I met in
the line-up to register with Sharath.
Zine: “Why I Like to Pee Outside,” by Amanda Stevens, bent from its long trip to India
The Author Amanda Stevens made the zine at a 24-hour
Zinemaking Challenge in Halifax in 2008. “Why I Like to Pee Outside” describes
the Unnamed Protagonist’s journey of how she grew to love peeing outside. It
is full of informative and compelling diagrams, lists and essential techniques. The
unnamed protagonist used to be afraid of peeing on her pants or on her shoes. She
even considered getting “one of those spouts that make peeing outside easier
for people with vulvas.” But she practiced and practiced and now she can do it
the way it’s meant to be done.
Peeing Outside, the way it's meant to be done. Watch out for pee splattering off the ground
“It’s a bit of a thrill,” says the Unnamed Protagonist. “It feels slightly
transgressive and unladylike, especially when there’s a possibility of being
seen doing it. It also makes me feel like I’m getting back to my natural self.”
This is how I felt when I peed outside at vipassana. Thrilled, transgressive,
and unladylike, and more like my animal self.
Peeing outside: Thrilling, Transgressive and Unladylike
As fate would have it, peeing outside happens to be
excellent for your pelvis, butt muscles included. Katy Bowman recommends
peeing outside as often as possible. And I think that she would be happy with
Amanda’s squatting diagram.
At the end of “Why I like to pee outside,” the Unnamed
Protagonist dresses up as a Girl Guide for Halloween and her friend makes her a
badge for peeing outside. Overall, “Why I like to Pee Outside” is a thoroughly
satisfying read. I tried to contact Amanda about where people can find more
copies. If you’re in Mysore, you can borrow mine.
If you have interesting techniques for peeing
outside or a peeing outside story to share, you should email Amanda at redheadwalkingas@yahoo.ca. And/or
share them at the end of this blog.
In India, people pee outside all the time. In Mysore, for the most part, you only see dudes.
The End.
I’m not sure how I mentioned so many things in one blog. Perhaps to some of you, this is not all that surprising.
I don’t have time to edit because my father and his
girlfriend are visiting and they are way better tourists than I am.
Oh well, think of all the people I promoted:
Kino MacGregor
Margaret Atwood: Once I wrote a story called, Why I am Different From Margaret Atwood and What I Don't Gain From Humping Duvets. It used to be all over the internet. Now I can only find a version with very strange formatting. Well, if you're dying to read it, I can hook you up, perhaps for the price of three coconuts. Haggling welcome.
Amanda Stevens, author of “Why I Like to Pee Outside.” I messaged her on Facebook raving about her Zine. Unfortunately, I got the wrong Amanda Stevens. Better luck next time.
At the centre in Montebello, we had to fill out a form
verifying that we were at an adequate level of health. Once again, I had to
fork over details on my previous eating disorder history. I became all red and
flustered. Despite the doctor’s note I’d begged an oblivious Halifax doctor to
sign, I was certain the organizers would decide that my prior crazy times made
me unfit to complete the course.
On the back of the form I had to provide a short
autobiography. I wrote that I was a writer and then proceeded to write the most
boring story of my life I have ever come up with.
I was born in Kingston, Ontario. I had an active childhood. I studied creative writing and translation. Apparently, this
didn’t improve my writing skills very much. I have extensive experience working with people with
disabilities. Blah blah blah. Once I had an eating disorder but now I’m totally cured. Please let me do the course. The end.
I handed in my form and never heard about it again.
Before going to our rooms, we had to hand over all our
electronics, phones, writing materials and objects of spiritual significance.
Rebelliously, I clung to my hot pink fanny pack which the Boatman had bought
for me as a going away present. Otherwise I broke no rules.
Me and my dorky fanny
pack. My goal is to bring back the fanny pack during my trip to India. It cost
6 dollars at the Park Lane Mall, Spring Garden Road.
That night, we ate our last dinner for ten days. The Buddha
never ate meals after noon and so now we were all going to try and be like the
Buddha. New students were allowed to have fruit and tea at 5 p.m. but otherwise
we were out of luck. On Day Zero, however, there was an enormous platter of
hummus and raw vegetables and an abundant salad bar that reminded me of the
buffet at the all-inclusive I’d stayed at in Mexico. I loaded up my plate to
mountainous heights and sat at a table of girls who all looked under 25.
“There are a lot of cute guys over there,” said one skinny
blonde girl. “I just love guys with long hair. She stood up and went to the hot
drinks table where she stirred some instant Maxwell house coffee into a mug of hot water.
She can’t be any more than 21, I thought. “How old are you?”
I asked when she got back.
“21,” she said.
After dinner, I was relieved to see a fellow Ashtangi from
Montreal. She was a hard-core vipassana meditator, having completed 20 and
30-day sits in much more austere centres in South America. I ran up to her and
hugged her, forgetting the rules that we weren’t allowed to touch. She didn’t
mind.
We circled around the trails of the centre and she answered
all sorts of questions. Her commitment to the practice was clear. She said
there was no other kind of meditation like Vipassana. It totally transformed
her life. I love a hard-core
practitioner, having just completed seven years of hard-core Ashtanga yoga
practice myself. She was sitting this ten-day course as a pre-requisite for a
30-day course Brazil the following month.
In Brazil, everything was way less cushy than here in
Montebello. They went days without showers and their beds were all squished
together. There were no little shelves to leave your folded clothes and at each
meal all they got were tiny handfuls of peanuts.
I felt mildly guilty about my massive pile of vegetables and
my trepidation about missing ten days of dinner.
But not everyone can turn into a Buddha all at once.
At 7 p.m., the Noble Silence would begin. We were not even
allowed to look up at each other’s faces. I would prove to be rather horrible
at this.
After they explained all the rules, segregation of men and
women began. No more cute boys with long hair to look at. We went to the
meditation hall where we put together our draft configurations of cushions and
prepared for our first meditation instruction. This began with piped in Pali chanting
by S. N. Goenka. Each emphatic melodious phrase ended with a somewhat half-dead
drone. Then there was a big pause. It seemed like maybe it was over, but oh no,
on he went with the next line. On and on and on.
Mr. Goenka. Charming
fellow, I would later discover
I found myself thinking of the 21-year-old blonde girl and
her cute boys with long hair. I imagined everyone I knew coming across Goenka’s
voice for the first time and had to repress some irreverent laughter. Had I
known how little laughter was in store for me in the days to come, I might have
done a better job savouring it.
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