These profound thoughts were going through my mind as
I waited on a station platform at Gare de Lyon, Paris, for my train heading
to Laroche Migennes, the nearest village to the Dhamma Mali Centre de
Vipassana. I know it’s
hard to believe that I would willingly choose to stay silent for 10 days—I
grew apprehensive myself whenever I thought about it too much—but this
was a challenge that appealed to me. Friends, family and complete strangers
had tried to warn me off the experience; the common attitude was that this
would be one of the most daunting things I would tackle in my life. Ha! After
what I’d been through in the last two years, not to mention the last
couple of months, could a meditative retreat in the beautiful Burgundy region
of France really be that scary? I would find out soon enough, but there was
no doubt that this was another important part of my journey. I didn’t
want to travel the world only to find that I had unfinished business. This
meditative retreat would sort out any residual emotional baggage for me.
Also, most importantly, I would learn to meditate! I knew myself well enough
to realise that I would always pack my life with gung-ho experiences. I believed
the act of meditation would be a useful tool to keep myself calm in the midst
of all of it.
I arrived at the meditation centre after a three-hour
journey feeling very much like I was attending my first day at school.
Fired up, I followed the rest of the students who, like me, were enrolled
to participate in the 10 days of silence. As I queued and checked in
with the rest of the students I was handed a pouch and told to hand over
my valuables, including any reading or writing materials. I was then
assigned a number and bed, F3, and sent to meet my compatriots bunking
with me in the dorm. We whispered our introductions, none of us sure
if the ‘noble code of silence’ was
yet in force. Swiftly, after brief chats, I had a snapshot of my fellow meditators.
F1 was
an older German woman, taking her first break in 15 years from the stress
of caring for her 19- year-old daughter who suffered Obsessive Compulsive
Disorder. F2 was a gorgeous looking 29–year-old, addicted to LSD for a decade and
still struggling, after a year, to stay clean. F4 was a rebirthing therapist
from the south of France, Marie-Hélène, searching to expand
her mind with exposure to other therapies. F5, Sandrine, was a 35-year-old
Rastafarian who made a living from nude modelling for artists in Provence.
Finally, F6 was Miriam, a 54-year-old reformed alcoholic now practising Saufology,
an alternative therapy that she explained worked with both the conscious
and unconscious mind.
With barely enough time to digest these titillating accounts,
we were summoned for formalities and some 50 people of both sexes listened
avidly as the rules were spelled out. Firstly, we were to not talk for the
entire 10 days—no
surprises there—and we were, furthermore, to refrain from any physical
interaction (including eye contact) with any of our fellow students, male
or female. We were not allowed to read, write or run, only to walk within
a roped area that, in effect, forced us to tread repetitively in a circle
some 50 metres in circumference. No exercise was allowed, nor yoga, and we
were asked to keep our eyes closed and to maintain one posture during the
many hours of daily meditation. The rules and regulations seemed to go on
for hours. I blanched inwardly and cursed.
We started the regime with a one-hour meditation the
opening night, making ourselves comfortable in our allocated cells that
were decorated with all manner of rugs and cushions. Thankfully, we would
be allowed to meditate on a rug if we wished—and I wished. Some
people were using their cushions like building blocks. One woman sat
on her cushion like she was riding a horse (I later discovered she was
a professional horse whisperer); another participant looked as if he
sitting on a riverbank fishing and drinking beer.
Each day began with a 4.30 am rise to immediately begin a two-hour meditation
session. I would typically find myself slouched forward within half an hour,
my head hanging with a puddle of drool in my lap, occasionally even waking
myself with a start to discover I had been snoring.
Breakfast followed from 6.30 am to 8 am when I would throw muesli and prunes
down my throat and make a beeline back to my cell in the nearby dormitory block
where I would sleep before the next meditation session. Sure enough, 8 am would
come round all too quickly and for three hours, I would be fighting pins and
needles, unsuccessfully trying to ignore aches all over my body. Lunch between
11 am and 1 pm was definitely the highlight of each day. All forms of delicious
rolls, baguettes and pastries were combined with plenty of lettuce, legumes
and tasty, fresh vegetables, making the midday repast a welcome diversion.
Then I would do a couple of dozen laps of the 50-metre circuit and spend the
rest of the lunch break daydreaming, peoplewatching or simply gazing at the
falling leaves.
Equally often, my mind would race so quickly and loudly
that I almost expected others to comment on my litany of thoughts. During
our silent rest periods, I would spend hours conjuring up life stories
for the other students. I longed for pen and paper so I could write them
down. I pictured myself handing these stories to my fellow meditators
and discussing with them how close (or not) to real life my hypotheses
about their lives were. I didn’t only spend
hours making up life stories; I also wrote letters in my head, designed outfits,
and concocted recipes … you name it, my mind was going there. The three
consecutive meditation sessions after lunch, for me, were excruciating. After
five days, I found I could still my mind sufficiently to meditate for hours
and emerge from a session refreshed. But it would not be inaccurate to say
that I just as often simply wanted to slump over and sleep, or get up and stretch.
My body seemed to be riddled with aches and pains; I was constantly distracted
by the noises emanating from my fellow meditators. In the silence, every cough
sounded like a road accident. As 50 acolytes digested their lunch of lentils,
beans and various other legumes … well you can imagine the rumbles
and mumbles coming from four dozen stomachs, bowels and bottoms.
Then there were the snorts, sniffles and tears of those
affected by the minutes, hours and days of silence as feelings began
to well up. In my case, my feeling tank seemed to be almost empty—the
thought crossed my mind, with some relief, that I had possibly emptied
my personal store of tears. Instead, I would peek around in the muffled
darkness at my fellow meditators. Every time I did this, I seemed to
be the only recalcitrant because everyone else appeared engrossed in
reflection. And to my horror, most were sitting perfectly upright. For
a wriggler like myself, this was an achievement I could barely comprehend.
After a brief afternoon tea break (no dinner, alas) there
were two more meditation sessions, broken up by a teacher discourse on
Vipassana practice, and finally lights out at 9.30 pm. With such a routine,
I swiftly realised there was nowhere to hide and seriously wondered if
I would be able to last the distance. Being silent wasn’t the problem, I discovered, but endless hours of meditation
were. Then, just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of it—my
determination would kick in and I’d be counting off another day. Occasionally,
I would find that the hours of meditative practice were working. My sessions
were a rollercoaster: sometimes painfully aware, at other times I experienced
a serene mindlessness from which I would emerge unable to believe that hours
had passed without my conscious awareness. When the 10 days drew to an end
and the code of silence was lifted, I barely knew how to react. I felt lobotomised;
after so much time to think, my brain felt numb and talking was painful and
slow. I floundered as I began conversations, words stumbling out of me like
a prisoner walking free after months of captivity. Then tears started to roll
down my cheeks as I expunged the last remaining vestiges of feeling—what
a deflated balloon I was. I felt like I had survived deep brain surgery. So
much inward reflection had taken place that not talking was easier. There was
almost no need to talk— we had all gone through such a personal exploration
that to begin to explain the realisations seemed pointless. In the final analysis,
the experience made me feel alone, but also self-sufficient and stronger than
ever. Before Vipassana, I was familiar with my personal vagaries; after 10
days of this physical and mental endurance however, I felt certain I had faced
everything about myself that I might have avoided up until then. Of course,
one never knows ‘what one doesn’t know’, but I couldn’t
help feeling that there was little left to fear.
