"We had a work period during the day: everyone assigned a task. Day One: my mission--to weed a path of stone steps going down to the teacher’s cottage. I LOVED this. Day Two: I and a partner (an Indian girl, a doctor, it turns out) were to move stray limbs and sticks from one spot to another. I hated this because it was entirely purposeless, which no doubt was the purpose. The partner and I did talk a bit on the sly. The weeding was thoughtful, and thoughtless; the limb transfer hot and annoying.
From 12-2:30, we had lunch and free time. Many of the participants took walks—lots of paths--> to Buddha garden,
to top of mountain. I wanted to go, but alas, my lungs would not allow. I’d developed a horrid wheeze by Friday late, forcing me to set out for the zendo 10-15 minutes before each meditation so that I could quiet my wheezing beforehand. So I mostly lay in the sun, or sat around. Sounds boring, and sometimes it was. There was a great dog there, though—Lotus the Dharma Dog by name. I brushed him a lot, and we had some nice quiet pithy talks. From 2:30-3 meditation, 3-3:30 walk, 3:30-4 meditation, 4-5 work/tasks, 5-6 group discussion, 6-7:30 dinner, 7:30-9 meditation and group. Cheri arrived Friday: the discussions were WONDERFUL. I was quite taken by her—small woman with graying short hair, black robes. Think of the best class you’ve ever had and multiply that. Silence was lifted during group sessions; we turned our cushions around to face the front of the zendo and Cheri. Getting questions in edgewise proved difficult, however. So many people had so many; I wedged in a few.
I called home Friday afternoon and began to feel much better: whole, more centered, not nearly so fragmented. I didn’t know then that what I’d felt was a very common process that one goes through—warring with the ego. Cheri said any retreat that’s less than two nights is worthless-- after that, the ego can’t hold out. I started getting used to the silence, too, although it never felt entirely natural to sit beside another person without chatting, especially during meals. Clearly this is because we are conditioned to fill up any silence with whatever inanity comes to mind. I was able to more fully savor the meals, which I’m unable to enjoy entirely when I’m with another sometimes (what with conversing, posing, etc).
Saturday’s scheduled was nearly the same (except for individual talk sessions with Cheri). I was beginning to get the hang of it all. Somewhere, I don’t know when, I moved from questions to acceptions. The questions: I’d taken off work, arranged for a sub for class, spent money I could ill afford, driven up an impossible mountain dirt road, in order to stare at a white wall for four days? The answer: yes. So many times during that first 24 hours, such thoughts went through my head: “What was I thinking? What did I expect? Nice quiet rest in the mountains?” Yeah, right.
I’d first read about and had become interested in Zen and Buddhism when I was 14. I’ve read on and off (sometimes extensively) for twenty years. But that weekend showed me that it was if I’d been reading about swimming for twenty years without ever having gone near the water. I’d never lived this stuff. The intensity is incredible, and, what’s more, very phenomenological . I have a much deeper understanding of phenomenological now [note: I wrote my doctoral dissertation on Keats, phenomenology and Buddhism, and, at the time of the retreat, should have been finished with the diss, but had really been struggling with a thorough understanding of phenomenology]. All the phenomenological theories of language, self, the other were all there, put into play. Husserl’s free variation of phantasy figured largely. My session with Cheri was at 2:45 on Saturday. Twenty years of questions to ask in 15 minutes! My god—she was good, though! Everything made sense within this chaos of life. How often does that happen?
Friday night, though, the tent and I had had to part company, and I slept in the car Friday and Saturday nights. Uncomfortable, absolutely, though I folded down the back seats and could stretch out by putting my legs in the trunk. But it was better than the damned tent, and warmer, and at one point I listened to Dire Straits Making Movies on the CD player. I personally thought the smattering of music enhanced the whole experience.
Sunday, last day. I really wanted to go up the mountain before I left. I decided to skip the first meditation and set out at 6:45 that morning. An unbelievable walk. I felt jouncy, fresh, my senses were so alive. I took it easy so as not to offend my lungs overly. Most of the walk was wooded—nice wide path—so one couldn’t see clear until the knoll.
[Here’s a picture from the top of Hap Mountain on the SDRC web site]:
At the top’s clearing was a bench—I felt so good. I leapt atop the bench with arms outspread, turning, smiled smiled smiling. Mountains all around—the sun was coming over one. Can I say this without sounding corny and dramatic? Well, I felt then that every single step of my life had led me to this moment. Of course, all have led me to this moment now as well, but the delineation is seldom so clear as on that morning on that mountain. Not that I experienced a giant epiphany or a dedication of my life to Buddhism—not sure if I could ever fully espouse all the main doctrines—but
something. I sat on the bench a long while, feeling it all, the mountains, the air, sunrise, wildflowers. Suddenly, unbidden, Rilke came from nowhere like a jolt. I hadn’t thought of Rilke the whole trip; suddenly there he was, a shock, all so obvious; the last lines of “Archaic Torso of Apollo” came to me---
“For here there is nothing that does not
See you. You must change your life.”
I’ve rarely felt such peace, so loved, cared for, cradled. This was a moment when so much of my life made sense. I started back, reluctantly, back in time for breakfast at 8.
From 9-12, we had more meditation/discussion; some people spoke of their feelings about the experience—hating it at first, then something happening. . . At first, for instance, I felt ridiculous and self-conscious when bowing. Cheri said American especially have a problem with making gasho because of our arrogance and tendency away from submission. The agony for me was in breaking down the ego. And to what or whom was I bowing, and why? But bowing came to make a strange sort of sense to me—I suppose I would say I was bowing in gratitude—to a life force; to the something within me that brought me there; to life itself. Cheri quoted a Zen monk as saying the key to his peace was living his life in gratitude. A very nice way to live, indeed.
By lunch Sunday, I was ready to come home, even though I knew longer would have been beneficial. After lunch, the retreat was officially over. The drapes were removed from the bookshelves, and I perused: certainly the basics were there: philosophy, religion, Zen, Hindu, Taoism, etc. Also some psychology and just a few volumes of poetry, mostly in Japanese. In fact, there were only two titles in English I recognized:
Leaves of Grass and. . . .
The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. I slid the Rilke down from its shelf, opened the volume at random, and looked down at “Archaic Torso of Apollo,” at those last lines: “You must change your life.” What a moment—you can imagine how that felt, that beautiful synchonicity—an omen, a message, a command. But how? Change my life how?
God knows it could use change. I’ve reached a new stage, a painful one. Now I can see myself from the outside more clearly, knowing where change is needed, yet only gradually, painfully, occasionally, having the strength or knowledge or wisdom to implement it. If I let go of all anger, bitterness, etc, for instance, who will I be? Certainly a better person, but I guess it’s scary, as my defensiveness, my prickling and sometimes-paranoia, are familiar to me. And god knows how I hate wimpy passivity. You know: “ohm, everything’s great, ohm.”
Here the section of the letter detailing the retreat ends. I do remember that the drive home was one of the most beautiful of my life (and I’ve had many many wonderful drives—driving is such an immense pleasure for me): down the North Carolina mountains in the sunshine, music on the radio, through South Carolina, into Georgia, stopping for a salad about an hour from home.
