By Yaldaz Sadakova
I leave the dorm and head to the meditation hall.
It’s dark. And quiet, except for the footsteps of people walking in front of me on the dirt path.
A gong goes off. Its deep coppery sound reverberates through the woods around us. It’s an eerie scene, with the surreal feel of a dream.
We’re in a forest which is a former Boy Scouts camp in a rural area north of Toronto.
It’s November, but it doesn’t feel cold. Or maybe I’m getting used to Canadian weather, now that it’s been more than three years.
This is the introductory evening of a vipassanā meditation course, and I’m heading to the first meditation. I’m going to spend 10 more days here.
The meditation hall is a large windowless space with dimmed lights, beige walls and a carpeted floor.
Cushions for women are placed in one half of the room, while for men in the other. Men and women will be separated throughout the course to reduce distractions.
After we settle on our cushions, a recording comes on with instructions from the late Satya Narayan Goenka, the wealthy Indian-Burmese businessman turned meditation teacher.
This course is designed exactly like the meditation courses Goenka taught in India and around the world.
His croaky voice now fills the quiet room. He explains that the goal of the course’s first hourlong meditation is to introduce ānāpāna sati, a term in the Pali language which means awareness of respiration.
Ānāpāna sati involves focusing on the nostrils and paying attention to the breath without trying to control it, whether it’s shallow or deep.
About half an hour into the meditation, my ankles start to hurt from being locked in the half lotus position.
I try to focus on the breath going in and out of my nostrils, but all I can think about is the throbbing pain in my ankles.
I stretch my legs for a few minutes, and the pain trickles out. Bliss. Then I draw my legs to my chest.
My scalp starts to itch. I scratch. The itch moves to my left ear, drilling into my ear canal. I scratch again. I switch back to the half lotus.
I wonder if my boyfriend has made it back home after dropping me off. I’m starting to miss him.
Then I wonder how I’ll be able to wake up at 4 a.m. the next day and meditate on an empty stomach, without coffee, for two hours.
I’m not a morning person—and I can’t accomplish anything without coffee and food.
After that, I start thinking about a name for this website I’m going launch, a blog for memoir stories about immigration.
I have lots to say about immigration. I’ve wanted to say it for several years. I’ve come to a point where if I don’t say it, I’ll choke on my words.
I know what stories I want to publish, but I haven’t decided on a name for this website. All the names I have thought of are terrible.
I’m still months away from coming up with the name Foreignish.
When the meditation ends, I realize I’ve been mostly thinking rather than focusing on my breath.
Quest for Meaning
I discovered meditation almost a decade before this retreat. I was in my mid-twenties and living in New York City.
I’d graduated from journalism school there the previous year. My dream was to stay in the city and work as a journalist.
I was a poor foreigner from a poor country, so I knew this was a bold dream, especially since it required me to secure a competitive work visa, the infamous H-1B.
But I didn’t think I had to shrink my dreams because of my passport. I’d bought into America’s meritocracy narrative.
As it turned out, I didn’t even get the chance to apply for the H-1B. A job offer I received—the job that would have allowed me to apply for the visa—was withdrawn due to my immigration status.
When I realized that because of this I’d have to leave New York in a few months and bury my big dream, I was devastated. The whole thing felt unjust.
I started reading self-help and spiritual books to make sense of that injustice. I wanted there to be some grand meaning behind it.
I figured that if I read those books, I’d be able to decipher that meaning.
It is in those spiritual and self-help books that I learned about meditation.
I was immediately intrigued. The concept behind it made sense to me. It spoke to a side I didn’t know I had.
I started practicing meditation, sitting on the mattress in my room, my legs drawn to my chest, trying to focus on my breath but never managing to concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time.
I kept up this daily practice for three weeks, with each sitting lasting about five minutes.
Then I left New York and stopped meditating. It was too hard.
A year later, I moved to Brussels. The reprieve I had hoped for after New York never arrived. Neither did the opportunity to do meaningful journalism.
Due to immigration restrictions and poor judgment on my part, I found myself doing unfulfilling media work which went against my values.
To try and make sense of the mess I’d gotten into, I continued to read about spirituality and mindfulness. But I felt too agitated to meditate.
Three years later, I moved to Toronto and took a creative writing course where every class started with a short meditation.
“To check in yourself before you begin writing,” the teacher explained. I loved that idea.
I felt compelled to give meditation a try again. I started meditating daily for a few minutes while sitting in my living room armchair.
I wondered during these sits if I was doing it right because my mind was constantly distracted by thoughts.
Then I met my boyfriend, who had been meditating for years. He taught me how to sit cross-legged on the floor and how to keep my back straight.
I bought a proper meditation cushion and started meditating cross-legged on the floor. But I could never sit for more than 10 minutes.
A year later, through my boyfriend, I befriended a woman who was also a meditator.
When she went on a vipassanā retreat and told me about her experience—how she became more present in her daily life and more aware of her suppressed anger—I knew I wanted that experience.
Insomnia
After the course’s first meditation, I return to my room. Preethi, my roommate, is already there, getting ready to sleep.
We’re now practicing noble silence. We’re not allowed to talk, read and write. Books, notebooks, phones and other devices are prohibited.
The goal of all this is to eliminate external input and distractions.
At 9:30 p.m., we go to bed. More than half an hour later, I’m still awake.
I’m not accustomed to sleeping this early. Also, I’m nervous about sleeping in the same room with a stranger because I’m afraid it will exacerbate my insomnia.
I’ve been suffering from insomnia for a couple of years.
Every night when I go to bed, I lie awake for an hour, sometimes two or three, before I fall asleep. When I do fall asleep, the slightest sound can wake me up.
Melatonin pills, valerian drops, chamomile tea—none of them have helped. But I keep taking them because I don’t know what else to do.
Preethi starts snoring, which is exactly what I feared. She said she’s 38. How can a 38-year-old woman be snoring so loudly? Now I’ll never fall asleep.
Shortly after midnight, I’m still wide awake and even more agitated. I start panicking: 4 a.m. is less than four hours away!
How am I going to wake up so early and have the stamina to meditate all day after sleeping less than four hours?
Preethi’s snoring gets louder. I’m furious with her.
The longer I stay awake, the more anxious I get, which makes it harder to fall asleep, which makes me even more anxious. I think I’m losing my mind.
Then I remember that when I was walking to my room after meditation, I noticed the room across from ours was empty.
The door was open, and there was no luggage in it. I guess the person who was assigned to it didn’t show up for the course.
Maybe I can move there. It’s empty anyway. Plus, the course has already started; nobody new is going to show up. That would be better for Preethi, too.
I can’t ask the course manager for permission to move right now. It’s the middle of the night, and she’s in a different building.
Preethi keeps snoring.
I get up and quietly gather my things. I tiptoe across the hallway to the empty room and go in. There are no locks on the doors.
The room is the same as the one I just left, bare-walled and austere, except that it’s a single.
I’m nervous about what I’ve just done but also relieved. The quiet is heaven. I lie down and fall asleep soon.
At 4 a.m., a loud alarm goes off in the hallway and wakes me up.
Doors open, feet shuffle on their way to the communal bathroom, toilets are flushed.
We’re supposed to meditate in our rooms until breakfast at 6:30 a.m. But I’m too exhausted to do that. I’ll sleep until breakfast.
Hypochondria
It’s snowing when I start walking to the dining hall, which is a separate building, for breakfast. My shoes make a crunchy sound in the snow.
It’s dark and cold. The frosty wind goes through my pajamas. My legs are freezing.
I feel crabby to be outside this early.
I calculate in my mind a total of how many hours I slept last night. About four. Definitely less than five.
I do that every morning, calculating the number of hours I slept.
I have this fear that if I don’t sleep enough, I’ll get sick. I’ve read all this stuff about how sleep deprivation predisposes you to sickness.
I didn’t use to be a hypochondriac. In fact, I used to take my health for granted.
But a few years ago, soon after leaving New York, I started getting these annual health issues where I would be beset with some health problem just before my birthday.
It happened four years in a row. My birthday would be poisoned with anxiety and medical tests.
The good thing is that each health issue forced me to take up a healthy habit. The most important one has been giving up meat, eggs, dairy and refined sugar.
I decide I won’t talk to the course manager about moving to a new room.
I fear she’ll ask me to go back to my room with Preethi, pointing out that many people have roommates.
She probably won’t believe my explanations about insomnia. She’ll think I’m making it all up just to get a room for myself.
I’ll break the rules, and if there’s an issue, I’ll deal with it then.
When I enter the dining hall, women are already serving themselves from the large buffet table in the middle.
Silverware clinking and chairs scarping the floor are the only sounds which disrupt the silence.
While I’m waiting in line to use the toaster, I realize I’m being impatient with the women in front of me, wishing they’d hurry up.
I remind myself there’s no need to rush. Sure, I have to finish breakfast within half an hour and get ready for the first group meditation of the day—and there’s the rigid schedule I have to adhere to. Still, there’s no need to rush.
I sit down to eat at one of the long tables facing the wall. I like the extra privacy the wall gives me.
The walls in the dining room are empty, lending everything an austere look.
That’s on purpose. Just like noble silence, this rule aims to minimize external stimulation.
An elderly woman is sitting next to me. I can’t see her face, only her wrinkled hands.
I peek at her plate. There’s a half-eaten toast with jam on it. Wow, she’s eating sugar.
Then she starts coughing violently. What if I get sick?
I bite into my peanut butter toast and wonder about the bread’s ingredients. I suspect it has sugar because it’s the spongy kind.
I also wonder about the ingredients of the peanut butter. Does it have sugar and hydrogenated oil? I think it might not be all natural, judging from its sweet-and-salty flavor.
Every time I swallow my bread, my throat hurts. My thyroid is inflamed. That’s what they said at the walk-in clinic two weeks ago.
I have a new health issue to worry about this year, except that this one didn’t manifest on my birthday.
I haven’t seen the endocrinologist I was referred to. Wait times are long, and the doctor at the clinic said my case isn’t an emergency.
Still, there could be all kinds of reasons why my thyroid is inflamed.
What if I have some chronic illness? None of my health issues so far have been chronic, but what if I’m not so lucky this time?
After I finish my toast, I make instant coffee. I sip it slowly, savoring its hot bitterness.
I look around and spot Preethi, bent over a bowl of steaming oatmeal.
Her short dark hair is uncombed. She’s wearing a gray sweatshirt.
I wonder if she feels rejected or confused because I left the room.
Seated not too far from Preethi is a petite young woman with a curly black bob. She’s eating her toast single-mindedly.
I first noticed her last night, before the start of the course.
It’s her petite frame and sharp angular features, similar to mine, as well as her curls cut in choppy layers, also similar to mine, that caused me to notice her.
Her brown eyes are mesmerizing. She’s striking, with an aura of mystique.
I wonder what her story is.
Thoughts
The first group meditation of the day starts shortly after breakfast, at 8 a.m.
Once again, we have to do ānāpāna sati. I’m already tired of this technique.
It’s so tedious, trying to focus just on the nostrils, to observe the breath going in and out. My mind longs to visit other places.
Right away, thoughts start coming, making it impossible to concentrate.
Tomorrow, I’ll have less bread and more oatmeal at breakfast. It’s the healthier choice.
I’ll wash my hair tomorrow morning. This means I’ll need more time to get ready after my shower.
How will I dry my hair? Maybe I should wash my hair the day after.
I hate the communal showers and toilettes. Why can’t we have private facilities?
I guess me switching rooms is fine because nobody has said anything so far.
I wish I could have coffee right now. Tomorrow, I should have more coffee at breakfast.
Why can’t we have coffee throughout the day? Why are we only allowed to have it at meal times? I hate the stupid rules here.
It disappoints me that the things which preoccupy my mind are so prosaic.
Distraction
When I go to the dining hall for lunch, there’s already a line of women outside, waiting to get in.
We’re all early. The doors open for lunch at 11:30 a.m. and not a minute earlier. Those are the rules.
Through the window, I can see the volunteers working in the kitchen. This whole course, which is free for us, is run by volunteers.
The teachers, the course manager, the cooks, the rest of the staff—they’re all volunteers.
I wonder what they’ll serve for lunch. I’m so used to constantly snacking that not eating for four hours has left me starving.
I resolve to eat a lot because dinner is going to be light, just fruit and tea.
The lunch gong finally goes off, echoing through the camp.
The dining hall smells heavenly. Pasta with veggies, lentil salad, blanched kale, lettuce and brown rice are laid out on the buffet table.
I’m grateful for the healthy plant-based food. Meat and eggs are forbidden here.
There’s even nutritional yeast. Amazing.
I load my plate, making sure to put extra kale, and grab a seat in a corner.
Before I begin eating, I peek at my neighbor’s plate. There’s no lettuce on it and no kale.
Isn’t she worried about skipping greens? Does she not know how important greens are?
I start eating fast, barely tasting the kale, which I’ve topped with nutritional yeast and tahini sauce.
I become aware of this, so I remind myself to slow down and pay attention to every bite. Why am I rushing?
I quickly get bored by mindful eating and start looking around.
Most women are wearing those heavy-duty boots and down parkas without which you can’t survive Canadian winter.
All women are wearing sweats or loose pants. The course has a dress code: loose modest clothes only.
Tight-fitting and revealing things like leggings and shorts aren’t allowed, again for the purpose of avoiding distractions.
People watching is my only entertainment here at the retreat.
We’re not supposed to do it because it’s distracting. We’re supposed to focus on our own stuff, but apparently this isn’t something I want to do.
I notice the enigmatic petite woman with messy hair like mine sitting in a corner. Now I know her name. Shaninder.
Before our group meditation this morning, while walking to my cushion, I stole a glance at the name tag next to her cushion.
Shaninder seems absorbed in her food or maybe her thoughts.
Her straight posture, her confident gestures, her eyes—everything about her looks self-assured and determined. But also dreamy and otherworldly.
As I watch her eat, I keep embellishing the story I’ve started inventing about her.
She’s into yoga. I saw her doing elaborate stretches after meditation earlier today, displaying the kind of flexibility I can only dream of.
She’s well-versed in metaphysical subjects because I get this trippy vibe from her.
She makes her money in an unconventional way. She’s probably self-employed. She’s not a nine-to-five person.
Her edgy hairstyle and her colorful shalwar pants suggest somebody too untamed for a nine-to-five lifestyle.
I can’t picture her sitting in an office in nondescript business attire, writing emails in dry business speak, attending useless meetings and performing other office tasks which make little difference to humanity’s well-being.
I can’t picture her obliterating her weird self so she can fit an employer’s conformist requirements.
No. Her daily life is organized around yoga, meditation and spirituality, not around some meaningless office job.
She’s a free spirit. An evolved soul. Idealistic and empathetic. Psychic perhaps. She’s everything I want to be.
Pain
At 5:50 p.m., I leave my room and head to the meditation hall for the evening group meditation.
The camp is cloaked by darkness. In the distance, somewhere behind the woods, a train honks its horn, the sole reminder of the outside world.
I’m relieved: this is going to be the last meditation of the day.
I’m so weary from inadequate sleep, from lack of daydreaming, from watching my thoughts like a hawk, from trying to nudge my attention back to my breath.
Being in this meta state of mind is exhausting.
I settle on my cushion. The meditation still hasn’t started, so I turn around and look at Shaninder, who is sitting diagonally from me.
Her curls are now contained by a colorful headband with purple accents.
Enveloping her small frame is a blanket with peace signs on it. How fitting.
Her eyes are closed. Her face looks serious. She seems to be on a mission to resolve all her issues.
About 30 minutes into the meditation, my attention is hijacked by pain in my butt and my ankles.
This time I’ve put extra cushions around my ankles and under my butt.
However, they have failed to absorb the pain, which has now stiffened and calcified, turning my body into an aching block.
I can’t focus on my breath. I feel out of control and restless. I want nothing more than to get up and leave. I exhale with frustration.
The pain has now engulfed my upper back, too.
I draw my legs to my chest and tilt my body to the side in an effort to find relief.
I realize I don’t look like I’m meditating. What if the teachers are watching?
I want to open my eyes, which are watering with boredom. But we aren’t supposed to open them in order not to ruin our concentration.
I hear feet sliding across the carpet and loud exhaling. Others are also uncomfortable.
Then my eyelids grow heavy, and I start yawning. I drift off, but just then, the meditation ends.
Afterwards, I go to the hallway to stretch. The stretching doesn’t do much for my stiffness, which has settled deep into my bones.
I comfort myself with the thought that the only thing left for the day is the evening discourse, which will be just us watching a video of Goenka.
The other women are stretching, too. In the silence, in the absence of social pleasantries, their faces look grave, even sad.
These stretch breaks are the intermissions between fighting our demons.
I look at Shaninder, who is drinking from her water bottle. She looks morose.
I feel clamminess in my armpits. My gray sweatshirt has huge sweat stains. I’m actually cold.
I feel annoyed with my sweat glands. Why the fuck am I sweating? This is so embarrassing. People will think I don’t wear deodorant.
I Googled this a while ago, my problem with sweating unrelated to temperature. All the articles said it’s a symptom of anxiety.
But anxiety about what? The only pattern I’ve been able to see with my sweating is that it usually happens when I’m with others. It seems to be triggered by the presence of others.
However, I can’t tell why other people make me anxious, even now when I’m not interacting with them.
Ultimate Goal
After the stretch break, we return to our cushions to watch Goenka’s discourse.
My back hurts, so I hate the fact that we’re not given chairs to sit on. Stupid rules.
Everyone settles on their cushions, and the video starts. A cross-legged Goenka in a white sarong and a white shirt appears on the screen.
He’s an elderly man, with a chubby face and white hair parted on the side.
This video was recorded many years ago. Goenka died three years before this retreat, in 2013.
He delves into the importance of observing your breath without trying to control it, whether it’s shallow or deep.
Then he repeats his warning about not using any mantras or visualizations to focus the mind.
“If the aim of the meditation was to quiet the mind, concentrate it, to calm down the chattering mind, well, certainly, one must use some kind of verbalization or some kind of visualization or imagination. Nothing wrong. But so far as this technique is concerned, concentration of the mind, quieting the mind, is just an aid, a means. This is not the final goal.”
The final goal, he says, is to become aware of our subconscious conditioning.
If our goal is simply to calm the conscious mind and stop there, we’ll never have a reason to go deeper into our subconscious, he explains.
“This technique will help you go to the depth of the reality of your mind-and-matter structure and realize the truth about it.”
Concentration
At the start of our group meditation the next morning, I feel annoyed that we have to do ānāpāna sati yet again.
When are we going to focus on something other than the nostrils? This shit is so boring.
Then I remember Goenka’s words that focusing on just one part of the body teaches the mind to concentrate, which is why we’re focusing on the nostrils alone.
He said developing strong concentration skills is a prerequisite for learning vipassanā later in the course.
A few minutes into the meditation, I get distracted by thoughts.
I wonder once again about my thyroid. What if I have some chronic disease? This morning at breakfast, I felt pain again when swallowing.
Next, I start wondering why I’m not getting any deep insights into my nature.
I’m not sure how these insights will be delivered—whether they will come through an internal voice speaking into my ear or a vision flashing in my mind’s eye—but I’m expecting them.
Also, why am I not seeing any suppressed memories and traumas come to the surface?
Why am I not getting any answers about my biggest problems and my deepest wounds?
How frustrating. I’m trying so hard and nothing.
All of a sudden, I get drowsy and start yawning. It makes no sense because I just had coffee at breakfast.
A heavy dull feeling starts pressing down on me. Its weight causes my body to sag.
My eyes begin to water. It’s as if this sleepy oppressive feeling is trying to seep out through my eyes.
As soon as the meditation ends, the sleepiness disappears.
Silence
After the meditation, I return to my room. The dorm is quiet.
It’s only the second full day of the course, but I already appreciate the noble silence.
I’m starting to see how much anxious energy I expend in communication—specifically, in worrying how to phrase things in a way that doesn’t upset people.
Nearly everything I say is preceded by exhausting mental calculations whose goal is conflict avoidance and people pleasing.
I also appreciate the rule about no reading.
At first, I worried about it because I’m addicted to reading.
Even before this retreat, I knew I have a tendency to use binge-reading as escapism and as a substitute to producing my own creative writing.
I’m addicted to podcasts and the news as well.
I think it’s unproductive to cook, clean or run errands without listening to something. I try to cram every single second with external content.
As a result, my mind is clogged with all kinds of information and noise. So clogged that I have a hard time recognizing my own thoughts, feelings and instincts.
I’m also enjoying being away from social media, from the torture of comparing myself to others and coming up short.
Of course, I know that the status updates are redacted slices of reality.
I know that comparing my daily life, with its complexity and messiness, to my friends’ strategically selected images makes no sense.
Yet, the posts make me feel inadequate. They chip at my self-esteem.
I check the time: 50 minutes until lunch. I decide to meditate because there’s nothing else to do. That’s what I should be doing anyway.
I position my chair across from the window in order to face the light.
I’m grateful for the softness of the chair, especially for the back support.
Before I close my eyes, I watch the snow outside for a bit. It’s falling slowly in big flakes.
Two large trees stand in front of my window. An empty clothesline with icicles dripping from it hangs between them.
The sight of the clothesline depresses me. It reinforces the prison-like atmosphere of this place because it suggests permanence, protracted confinement.
I close my eyes and direct my attention to my nostrils. I focus on the breath going in and out.
I remember Goenka’s instructions. “If it is deep, it is deep. If it is shallow, it is shallow. Observe your breath as it is, not as you would like it to be. No imagination. No visualization.”
After the third exhale, my mind drifts to food. I’m getting hungry.
I should eat more at breakfast tomorrow to avoid getting hungry before lunch.
I wonder what they’ll serve for lunch today. Hopefully, there will be greens again.
I return to my breath. Inhale, exhale. Seconds later, my attention drifts again.
This struggle continues until the lunch gong goes off, freeing me temporarily from the prison of my mind.
Resistance
After lunch, I go to talk with the meditation teachers.
There are these on-one-one interviews with the teachers during which we can ask questions about the meditation technique.
This is one of the few instances when we’re allowed to break the noble silence.
When I enter the meditation hall, where the interviews take place in a small room, there are several people in the lobby waiting to see the teachers.
I have to wait for my turn. What a waste of time. I’m too busy for this.
I can’t believe I just had this thought. Busy? Busy doing what?
I remind myself that I’m on a meditation retreat, and I have nothing to do right now.
When I enter the interview room, two meditation teachers are sitting on chairs.
Between them is a low table with an electronic clock on it.
The walls are bare. There’s a cushion on the floor in front of them.
One of the teachers, an elderly woman with short salt-and-pepper hair, has her eyes closed. Weird. Is she meditating?
She’s wearing a plaid shirt over black sweats. Her name is Marsha.
The other teacher, Bia, smiles and motions to the cushion. I sit down.
I notice that Bia’s long curly hair has streaks of gray in it, even though her round face looks young.
She smiles again, her brown eyes the epitome of kindness, while Marsha keeps her eyes closed.
“How can I help you?” Bia asks.
“Well, I’ve been meditating so hard, but not much is coming to the surface for me. No suppressed memories, no subconscious feelings. I thought the goal of this was to uncover the subconscious.”
“Yes, but don’t force it. You shouldn’t attach expectations to your meditation. Be open to whatever experience is the reality for you. If nothing is coming up, that’s okay. Just stay with the breath.”
I think that’s an unsatisfying answer, so I ask another question.
“Another problem I have is that I feel sleepy when I meditate. Even when I mediate in the morning, right after having coffee.”
“Goenka will talk about this in one of his discourses. Basically, in meditation we encounter five hindrances. They’re psychological tendencies, forms of resistance. One is called sloth and torpor. It manifests in feeling sleepy when you meditate. It’s a mental pattern you have that’s coming to the surface. Just be mindful of it. If you get very sleepy, open your eyes for a second and begin again.”
Sloth and torpor? I don’t like that pronouncement.
Also, I’m not impressed by Bia’s advice to just be mindful and do nothing about it.
Bondage
The next evening, during our group meditation, I get drowsy soon after I close my eyes.
The sleepiness is again accompanied by that heavy oppressive feeling. I feel like I’m wading through muck.
My eyes start oozing the same fluid, which makes them itchy. My head droops.
It’s impossible to focus on my breath and pay attention to the sensations around my nostrils.
Sloth and torpor, I remind myself.
Suddenly, an internal switch flips, and I get restless. I start fidgeting on my cushion.
I feel prickling all over my face, like millions of annoying needles puncturing my skin.
I scratch my face, but the prickling returns soon.
I want to open my eyes, which are still glazed with that sloth-and-torpor fluid, and wipe them. I want to get up and leave the room.
My mind, banned from wandering, feels like a caged animal. Let me out, let me out, let me out! This is too much.
Why the fuck do they say meditation is relaxing? Because they don’t know what they’re talking about.
I wonder how much time is left till the end of the meditation. Is the hour almost over?
It feels like an eternity has elapsed, but it’s probably more like 20 minutes.
Anyone who complains about lack of time should take up meditation.
My butt and my ankles start to hurt from the cross-legged position.
A stiff pain lodges itself in my upper back.
My body is hardening into a concrete Buddha shape.
I stretch my legs, and they tingle with relief. Then I draw them to my chest.
I know my posture is all wrong. I hope the teachers aren’t watching.
Wisdom
After the meditation, during the evening discourse, Goenka talks about the stages of wisdom.
The first is the wisdom you get from reading others’ words. This is borrowed wisdom.
It inspires you to reach the second stage of wisdom—analyzing others’ words to see if they make sense to you.
This can lead to experiential wisdom. This wisdom is based on your own lived experience. It’s awareness of how your own mind works.
“Each individual has to develop one’s own wisdom to reach the final goal of full liberation,” Goenka says.
“One’s own wisdom, bhāvanā maya paññā, the wisdom that you’ve lived, experienced—this alone can break the bondages of ignorance.”
Subconscious Conditioning
On the fourth day, we’re introduced to the vipassanā technique.
Unlike ānāpāna sati, vipassanā involves scanning the entire body for sensations, moving the attention methodically from the head to the toes and back up.
The vipassanā technique originated in India thousands of years ago.
When I enter the meditation hall that evening, it’s already full, humming with quiet activity.
People are arranging their cushions, unfolding their blankets and doing last-minute light stretches.
I look at Shaninder. She’s sitting cross-legged, wrapped in her blanket, her eyes already closed. So diligent. Her straight back makes her look dignified.
The meditation starts, and complete silence descends on us.
I become aware of many sensations in different parts of my body.
There’s an itch on my right cheek, prickling in my left eye, pain in my lower back.
They’re driving me crazy! I want to scratch and move.
But we’re not supposed to move. We’re supposed to observe these sensations without judgment and without reacting to them.
We’re supposed to change our posture only if the discomfort is unbearable. And even then, we have to make the decision consciously instead of reacting instinctively.
The rationale behind this new rule is to train the mind to be less reactive and to dissolve saṅkhāras.
Saṅkhāra is a Pali word which means deeply-rooted mental conditioning, a blind mental reaction. The behavior resulting from that conditioning is also called a saṅkhāra.
The physical sensations which emerge in vipassanā meditation are said to be manifestations of saṅkhāras rising from the subconscious.
Every time you manage not to react to sensations, saṅkhāras will be eradicated. Every time you do react, these patterns will be deepened because you’ll generate new saṅkhāras.
That’s what Goenka said. His explanation makes sense to me.
The longer I sit with the sensations, the more irritating they become.
The prickling in my eye intensifies. My cheek starts to burn with a new maddening level of itchiness.
Wow, sitting with an itch instead of scratching it is so much harder than I thought!
After some time, the itch disappears from my cheek and moves to my nose.
Before I know what’s happening, I realize I’m scratching my nose vigorously.
Observing my responses to sensations in real time, on such a granular level, makes it clear to me just how deeply conditioned I am to react in a blind way.
My mind is full of behavioral patterns that seem to have been planted by someone else a long time ago.
These patterns, which I’m hardly aware of, have been governing my life with a firm hand.
It dawns on me that many of the big decisions I’ve made aren’t the free-will, conscious decisions I thought they were.
They were blind reactions based on subconscious inclinations and wrapped in rationalizations.
I’ve changed countries, cities and jobs, but my subconscious patterns, my saṅkhāras, have persisted. They have followed me through all my moves.
I can see a recurring pattern even in my external circumstances. I’d go to a new country or company, I’d start a new chapter, and I’d miraculously face many of my previous circumstances.
Numbness creeps into my feet. I want to unlock them from the half lotus, to stretch my legs.
I hate the discomfort. I want it to go away. I want to fast-forward the present.
I try to guess how much time is left until the end of the meditation. Probably not much because we’ve been sitting forever.
But I could be wrong. Meditation has the ability to distort the perception of time.
Pain cements itself in my upper back. My attention gets stuck in that spot, even though I’m supposed to move it methodically throughout the body, regardless of what sensations arise where.
The pain is so overwhelming. I hate it. I need it to stop.
Then I remember Goenka’s instructions. No aversion, no craving. Whatever sensation you encounter, accept it without judgment, without pushing it away or wishing to prolong it.
I remind myself that the pain is transient. Everything is transient.
This, Goenka said, is the big lesson: understanding first-hand, through the sensations of your own body, that everything is transient.
Pain comes and goes. Pleasant sensations come and go. Nothing is permanent. This is the nature of reality.
Fighting it is useless. It’s a waste of energy, and it only increases suffering.
Vipassanā means insight into the nature of reality.
Madness
During the discourse that night, Goenka explains that as you practice vipassanā and observe yourself, you start to realize that nothing happens by accident. Everything has a cause.
“As the cause is, so the effect will be,” he says. “As the seed is, so the fruit will be.”
He gives the example of planting two different seeds in the same soil, a mango seed and a neem seed.
The mango seed produces sweet fruit. The fruit of the neem is bitter.
“Why is nature so kind to one and so cruel to the other? Or you can say ‘the God Almighty.’ Why is he so kind to one, so cruel to the other? Nooo. Nobody is kind or cruel. It’s just the fixed law of nature.”
Goenka continues: “A big neem tree has grown, and I go there. Pay respect three times. Make around it 108 rounds. Then offer flowers, incense, sweets, etc. And then with moist eyes, start praying, ‘Oh, neem God, please give me sweet mangoes.’ ”
The room erupts in laughter.
“You keep on crying for the whole year, for life. Nothing happens. You get only bitter neem. You can’t get sweet mangoes. If you really want sweet mangoes, then while planting the seed you must be very careful,” he says.
“While planting, we are so careless, so unaware, so unmindful. Planting bitter seeds, bitter seeds. When the time of harvest comes, then I want sweet fruits only… And expect that something will happen for me. In spite of my bitter seed being planted by me, I will get some sweet fruits. Some invisible power will help me. The God Almighty will help me… Madness! Madness!”
Self-Control
The next morning when I go for the group meditation, I find a handwritten note on my cushion.
It’s from the course manager, who is standing nearby.
“Yaldaz, the teachers would like to see you for an interview today at 12:30 p.m.”
There are still a few minutes left until the start of the meditation, so I take the note to the course manager and ask her why the teachers want to see me.
“I’m not sure,” she responds poker-faced. “You’ll have to talk to them.”
“But is it something bad?” I wonder if it has to do with the room change.
“Again, you’re gonna have to talk to them,” she repeats with the same poker face, but this time there’s an impatient edge to her tone.
Why does she have to be so condescending and insensitive? Who does she think is? The prime minister of Canada? This is just a meditation retreat.
It must be about the room. Why else would the teachers want to see me?
They’re going to either reprimand me and tell me to move back to my room—or they’re going to throw me out.
It says so in the rules, that they can throw you out of the course if you break the rules.
I can’t concentrate during the meditation. Stupid course manager, why didn’t she tell me the reason for the interview?
Announcing things that way to students is not conducive to creating a calm environment they can meditate in.
I try to move my attention through my body, to note the sensations.
I get distracted every time. My attention stays on a body part for a few seconds, and then it goes to the cryptic note of the course manager.
Oh God, they’re going to throw me out. I don’t want them to throw me out.
I want to stay and finish the course. Yes, it’s hard, but it’s such a great opportunity. When will I be able to take the time off to do this again?
At the end of the meditation, I realize I’ve barely done any meditating. I’ve simply sat on the cushion and worried.
I return to my room and try to meditate again. I settle in my chair and close my eyes, but the only thing I can focus on is the interview with the teachers.
Now that it’s drawing closer, I’m even more nervous.
I start thinking about the explanation I’ll give. I have insomnia, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking the course manager to change rooms because I worried she may not understand.
After lunch, I head to the meditation hall for my interview.
I’m early, but there’s nothing else to do. I can’t meditate in my room in this agitated state of mind.
I sit down to wait in the lobby, and I notice my heart is banging.
I’m sweating profusely under my green sweater, even though I don’t feel hot.
My stomach is an anxious knot.
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
I try to focus on my nostrils in order to divert my attention away from the interview. It doesn’t work.
They will throw me out of the course! The thought keeps circling through my mind.
Once again, I try to push it away and focus on my breath. But the thought becomes more pervasive.
I’ve lost control. My mind is an independent self-governing entity. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, it seems to say.
This makes me feel both furious and powerless. I can’t even control my own stupid mind!
Isn’t meditation useless if it can’t help me calm down in a situation like this?
I walk into the interview room shaking with fear.
Marsha smiles at me and motions to the cushion on the floor. This time Bia has her eyes closed, as if she’s meditating.
“We called you in because we wanted to talk to you about your meditation posture,” Marsha says.
“My posture?”
So this isn’t about the room. They’re not going to throw me out! A huge burden slides off my shoulders.
“Yes. We noticed that sometimes your posture is good. But sometimes you seem to be struggling. You’re not sitting straight.”
“Oh yes, I know. Thank you for pointing that out, for noticing.”
“That’s what we’re here for, to support you,” Marsha says with a generous smile.
“I experience a lot of pain and discomfort. That’s why I move constantly.”
“I understand. That’s normal. It’s very important to be comfortable when you meditate. We don’t want you to be in pain. Then you’ll associate the technique with pain. You don’t want that. You don’t want to develop negativity towards the technique.”
“But aren’t we supposed to welcome painful sensations, not to push them away?”
“Yes, you shouldn’t push them away. But also be mindful not to develop negativity towards the technique. So if you need to move, it’s okay to do it. Just do it mindfully. Be aware that you’re in pain, and you’ve made the decision to move. That’s different from moving instinctively, the moment you feel discomfort, without even realizing it. Over time, you’ll learn to sit with the sensations.”
“But I see a lot of people sitting straight. Their backs are so straight. I can’t do that. I always slouch.”
“That’s okay. Don’t compare yourself to others. Every body is different, literally. I know, even when I sit, I tilt my head, for example. Don’t push. Don’t force anything.”
After the interview, I go for a walk in the woods behind the meditation hall. Although it’s cold, the sun is bright.
I hear the clatter of a passing train, but I can’t see it. The forest is so tall and dense that it blocks out the rest of the world.
I walk briskly for a bit to release the pent-up fear from my body.
Then I slow down. I take a few deep breaths, inhaling the pine scent of the woods.
Despite the thickness of my jacket, I can feel cold dampness in my armpits. The anxious sweat has permeated my sweater.
Not too far, I spot Shaninder. I recognize her by the hair and by the cream poncho she sometimes wears.
She’s sitting on the edge of a cliff. Holy crap, isn’t she scared?
She has her back to me, so it’s impossible to see if she’s meditating or just sitting. Still, she radiates intensity and seriousness.
Old traumas and patterns have come up for her, but she’s determined to tackle them. That’s the meaning I ascribe to her straight posture.
Success
As soon as I sit down for the group meditation the next afternoon, as always, my mind starts jumping to a million different places without much logic.
It’s like a frightened squirrel darting in random directions.
I can’t focus on my breath for a sustained period.
Once again, I have that feeling of powerlessness, of not being in charge of my own mind.
Someone else is the boss, not me. That’s frightening.
What’s even more frightening is that I can’t see that someone else. I don’t know their identity.
Actually, there’s more than one boss. There are several of them, and they pull me in conflicting directions, trying to fulfill different agendas I’m not quite privy to.
That’s not conscious living. That’s not empowered living.
Then I remember Goenka’s advice not to get discouraged when the mind wanders because that is its nature. Just note that it has wandered and gently bring it back to the breath.
My feet and my ankles start burning with pain. I feel the urge to move and stretch my legs.
It’s okay, try not to move, I tell myself. Just be aware of the pain.
It’s a stubborn stiff pain. It’s okay, try not to push it away.
Keep scanning the body. Keep moving your attention in the order you have to follow.
Don’t get bogged down by this ankle pain. Don’t let it dictate where your attention goes. Let the pain be. Let the saṅkhāras dissolve.
My upper back starts hurting, too. I long to rest it against something.
Invisible needles start poking my eyelids.
An irritating itch spreads through my forehead.
Okay, one pain I can tolerate. But several pains at once—that’s too much!
The discomfort is overpowering. I feel like I’m going to burst. I want to scream.
I take a deep breath, even though we’re not supposed to control our breathing.
No clinging, no aversion, I remind myself. The discomfort is transient.
Oh no, I can’t stand this! This isn’t transient. I have to move. When will this end? I’ve had enough of this.
It’s okay, I tell myself again. Just sit for a couple more seconds, and then you’ll move. Just a couple more seconds. And no aversion to the pain.
I remember Goenka’s words that when you try to push away unpleasant sensations and experiences, all you’re doing is multiplying your suffering.
Okay, a few more seconds. Try sitting with these pains just a few more seconds, without multiplying your suffering, I coach myself.
Just then, the meditation ends. Wow, I have not moved! I have sat for an entire hour, and I have not moved!
I walk out into the cold afternoon, feeling triumphant. I grin at the sun.
Power
Just like everything else at the course, showering happens on a strict schedule.
Before the course began, everyone had to pick a time slot and a shower stall on the schedule posted in front of the communal bathroom. We were supposed to stick to that slot and stall until the end.
On the seventh morning, as I’m walking through the dorm hallway on my way to breakfast, I notice that the name of the person before me on the schedule, for the 7 a.m. slot for the stall I use, is no longer Anne.
It’s changed to Amanda. Anne left abruptly yesterday.
I know who Amanda is. She sits not too far from me during meditation. I hope she’ll be as punctual and considerate as Anne.
Anne always left a few minutes early, and she always left the shower clean.
I go to the shower cubicles at 7:20 a.m., when my shower is supposed to start, but I see that Amanda is still in there.
What the fuck? What part of 7:20 a.m. does she not understand? I have to go to meditation in 30 minutes.
I train my eyes on the wall clock in front of the stalls. At 7:25 a.m., Amanda is still there.
I do a couple of fake coughs, even though I know she can’t hear me because of the running water.
I keep looking at the clock. I note the passage of every second, and by the second I grow angrier. Why do people think they can do this to me?
At 7:29 a.m., Amanda finally turns off the water. Two minutes later, she emerges with a towel draped around her, leaving a trail of water.
When I go in, there’s hair on the floor. What the fuck! Not only does she cut into my shower time, she also leaves a mess for me to clean up.
What kind of inconsiderate person would do that?
And how am I supposed to confront her about it on a silent retreat?
But I know that I would have had trouble confronting her even under normal circumstances.
Confrontation scares me. It feels like an existential threat to me.
The next morning at breakfast, I watch Amanda closely.
She’s wearing a loose gray sweater and black sweats. Her sandy flat-ironed hair hangs in a pony. She’s around my age.
I’m watching her because I want to see if she’ll leave on time for her shower.
It takes five minutes to walk from the dining hall to the dorm, so to make it on time for her shower at 7 a.m., she has to leave at 6:55 a.m.
But 6:55 a.m. comes, then 7:05 a.m., and Amanda is still in the dining hall, taking her sweet time, slowly eating her rice cake with peanut butter and jam.
What the fuck is wrong with this woman?
At 7:10 a.m., she finally leaves. Hopefully, she’ll be quick in the shower and out by 7:20 a.m.
When I show up in the bathroom at 7:19 a.m., she’s still in the shower.
I fix my eyes on the wall clock: 7:20, 7:21, 7:22, 7:23, 7:24, 7:25, 7:26. My anger grows by the minute.
She’s going to pull the exact same shit this time. She clearly thinks that it’s okay to cut into my shower time, that her needs are more important than mine.
Why do I always encounter people like that, inconsiderate dominant people who ride roughshod over others?
No matter where I go—regardless of country, city or company—I cross paths with these types of characters.
They always violate my boundaries, from doing small things like cutting into my shower time to big stuff like micromanaging or abusing me.
I actually know why this pattern happens to me.
People with dominant or bullying tendencies can smell the fear of conflict on me.
It’s the appeasing smile plastered on my face even when I’m angry or upset, the nervous laugh I end my sentences with, and the insecurity of my body language which alerts them to an easy prey.
When they pounce, my instinct is to yield. Otherwise, there will be a confrontation, and I will feel threatened.
I once had a boss who said she liked how I got along with everyone at work, with all kinds of personalities, including with her—and she was a stubborn dominant person. Not a bully, but definitely somebody accustomed to getting her way.
I know the difference because, like I said, I’ve encountered actual bullies. At my first journalism job, for example.
My former boss saw my agreeableness as flexibility. But I saw it as confirmation that I had allowed the world to walk all over me.
I resent the dominant characters I meet not only because they override or bully me, but also because they’re comfortable exercising their dominant nature.
I have a dominant streak myself.
I love to wield influence and have my way because I often assume I know better than others.
I hate being told what to do. I hate being a follower. I hate being in any kind of subordinate position.
I hate having rules imposed on me, especially if I perceive them to be arbitrary or archaic.
I don’t know how to reconcile this dominant side of mine with my submissive conflict-averse tendencies.
While expressing my submissive side comes naturally to me, I don’t know how to express my dominant side constructively.
Certainly not in professional and social situations. Certainly not with people who have power over me.
Asserting yourself, establishing your boundaries, exercising your personal power, challenging authority figures, resolving conflict in a healthy way, expressing anger—these aren’t concepts I grew up with.
I grew up in a traditional culture which prizes obedience, especially in women. A culture rooted in patriarchal values and authoritarian principles.
On top of that, I was raised by a single mom who is a people pleaser herself. She taught me through example that the submissiveness I was already prone to is a viable coping strategy.
So I guess here at the retreat, even in my silence, I must be spreading these submissive vibes. Vibes which a bully or inconsiderate person like Amanda can pick up on.
People like her seem to have a nose for people like me.
At 7:28 a.m., she finally gets out of the shower. Although we’re not supposed to make eye contact, I make sure to look at her, my eyes shooting daggers.
She doesn’t meet my eyes, but hopefully she senses my anger.
The next morning, Amanda is still at breakfast at 7 a.m. I can’t believe it! I’m furious.
Fine then, I’m going to play by her rules.
I chug my coffee and rush to the dorm. At 7:05 a.m., there’s still no sign of Amanda in the dorm, so I go to the shower cubicles.
It’s her shower time, but she’s not here. I go inside my designated shower stall and turn on the water.
I’m scared. What if I upset her?
But then, while soaping my hair, I remind myself that she upset me. She was inconsiderate to me.
Why am I more worried about her feelings than mine, given that she has wronged me?
The next morning when I show up in the bathroom at 7:19 a.m., Amanda is just coming out of the shower.
Escapism
Large snowflakes are falling while I walk to breakfast on the last full day.
The icy wind pierces through my pajamas and my jacket, causing me to shiver.
My boots leave marks in the freshly fallen snow, which glistens in the dark.
The snow looks beautiful to me this morning. Its silver glow is so magical.
This observation surprises me. All the previous days, I was grouchy on my way to breakfast because of the cold and the early hour.
Out of nowhere, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for inhabiting this particular moment, for being at this retreat.
I feel so lucky to have been introduced to this meditation technique.
This is also strange because I don’t normally feel grateful or lucky.
I remember Goenka’s words that good karma, good fortune, is what brings a person to a course like this. You must have performed some very good deeds to end up here, he said.
As I near the dining hall, I feel that something has shifted in me. I’ve started the task of dissolving my saṅkhāras, my deeply-rooted mental patterns.
However, I don’t know yet what most of these patterns are. I’m not sure how to interpret the feelings and the physical sensations that have surfaced during my stay here.
The mirror I’m looking into is still cloudy.
But at least I’ve started the journey.
I realize that for this momentum to continue, I have to make vipassanā a daily practice because eradicating subconscious patterns is a life-long task.
I’m convinced that I need the help of meditation specifically to carry out this task. My subconscious patterns are too stubborn and complex to address them with shallow methods like positive thinking.
Positive thinking, I see now, doesn’t do anything other than asking you to put lipstick on a pig.
Positive thinking asks you to ignore your uncomfortable feelings or circumstances—instead of investigating their root cause—and to convince yourself that hey, things aren’t so bad.
Just throw a few simplistic motivational quotes at your complicated situation, say some affirmations, smile, take a selfie, post it on social media with some cliché about being positive, and there you go, problem solved.
Positive thinking is escapism, and I’ve run from myself long enough.
Love and Compassion
As always, I look around when I sit down for our group meditation later that morning.
There’s the customary flurry of quiet pre-meditation activity. People adjusting their cushions. Unfolding and refolding their blankets. Inhaling and exhaling loudly.
I look at Shaninder. She has her eyes closed. Her black curls are gathered at the top of her head. She’s wrapped in her blanket with the peace signs.
This is going to be a guided meditation on loving kindness or mettā.
Everyone settles on their cushions, and Goenka’s audio instructions begin.
He says mettā is something to be practiced for a few minutes at the end of every vipassanā meditation.
Mettā, he explains, is about wishing all beings well, including humans you dislike, and sharing with them your merits and harmony.
Then he says that as you practice vipassanā, you learn more and more truths about yourself.
“One truth, that look, when I generate any defilement in my mind, any impurity in my mind—anger, hatred, ill will, animosity—any defilement, I become so miserable. I become so unhappy.
“Another truth, that as and when I generate any defilement, become unhappy, I never keep this unhappiness limited to myself. I keep on throwing this unhappiness on others. I keep on distributing this misery to others. I’ve made the entire atmosphere around me so tense, so miserable. Anyone who comes into contact with me becomes miserable, unhappy.
“Oh, this is what I’ve been doing the whole life. I’ve been making myself miserable. I’ve been making others miserable.”
I start crying. I realize with visceral clarity that I’ve been making myself miserable.
And yes, I’ve been spreading that misery to those around me, especially my boyfriend.
We’ve been fighting a lot lately, fights in which he accused me of being controlling. He was right.
Goenka goes on: “May I develop love and compassion for all beings. May I develop love and compassion for myself.”
His last few words cut deep. “Love and compassion for myself.” I’m now bawling.
It hits me with great sadness that I don’t have love and compassion for myself.
What I have for myself is contempt and hatred.
All my life, I’ve harbored this feeling that I’m not okay, not acceptable, not worthy.
This has brought the need to constantly improve and prove myself, to constantly find fault with myself. And, of course, to seek approval from others at all costs.
“May I develop love and compassion for myself,” Goenka repeats.
Another wave of sadness crashes over me. I’m sobbing so hard that the tissue I’ve been dabbing my eyes with is wet.
I blow my nose into it, which makes it wetter. I should have brought extra tissue, but I didn’t expect tears.
I worry if others can hear my crying. What will they think of me? That perennial toxic concern of mine. What will others think of me? Will they approve of me?
I hear sobbing and sniffing from several directions. It’s okay to cry.
Goenka’s mettā instructions continue. However, I’m too overwhelmed to pay close attention. I hear his words, but they don’t register.
Except for the words “compassion” and “love.” Whenever he says those words, a new wave of grief washes over me, and I’m racked by sobs.
After the meditation ends, I remain on my cushion. I want others to leave before I get up because noble silence has just ended.
I feel raw. I’m not in the mood to talk.
Generosity
Back in my room an hour later, I’ve composed myself.
I’ve washed my face and changed into a dry sweater. I’ve combed my hair and put it in a bun.
At lunch time, I go to the dining hall, which is packed. Now that noble silence is over, the room is abuzz with chatter.
It feels like a party. It’s strange to hear so many people talking all at once after nine days of silence.
I overhear snippets of conversation from different directions.
“I could hardly sit for 10 minutes before. Now, meditating for an hour feels like nothing.”
“I saw my whole life here. Like a movie, it was shown to me.”
“My 11-year-old said to me, ‘Mommy, I’ve never seen you laugh.’ It broke my heart. It made me realize that I do have depression.”
No small talk here. I love that.
I notice that a table for donations has been set up near the buffet table.
The table is there, manned by one of the staff members, but nobody is canvassing for donations. Donating is voluntary. There’s no pressure.
And the rule is that you can only donate after taking the course for free. You have to experience the technique first, and if you find it useful, you can give an amount based on what you can afford.
That was Goenka’s vision. That’s how he conducted his own meditation courses.
This wealthy businessman believed that you can’t put a price on the value of an ancient meditation technique.
As I’m waiting in line to donate, it occurs to me that this approach is genius, particularly now in the age of Patreon and Kickstarter.
An age where it seems that the only way you can cut through the online noise and reach your fundraising goals is by sharing endless calls to action, running the risk of alienating your audience, which is already tired of being marketed to by everyone else.
And here, these guys are able to raise money differently.
They don’t wear you down with pleas or send you on a guilt trip for having used their free services.
Nor do they promise any vain stuff like Tweeting your name or sending you a gift in exchange for a donation.
Yet, people are lining up to donate.
I notice that Bia, one of the meditation teachers, is waiting behind me to make a donation, her credit card already out of her wallet. Wow.
After I give my donation, I go to the drinks counter to make instant coffee.
As I’m stirring the grains into the hot water, Shaninder stops by.
“The woman with the cat eye glasses!” she says with a smile. Her voice is deeper than I expected.
“Oh, hey!”
“Your eyes are so intense. I saw you looking at me. I could just feel your eyes on me. I actually wanted to engage, especially since that’s my personality. But then I was like, no, we’re not supposed to.”
I’m about to respond when another woman comes and whisks Shaninder away.
A few days later, back home from the retreat, I look up Shaninder. She’s a yoga teacher. ♦
Disclaimer:
The meditation descriptions, quotes and reflections in this story are an incomplete summary of a complex technique. They’re not intended to be used as meditation instructions. Please turn to a qualified source or teacher for proper guidance.
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