Meditation as Metaphor
The week-long silent meditation retreat was the highlight of the Woodenfish Program for me. We filed in on a Monday morning, picked our bunks, attended a brief meeting to explain protocol in the meditation hall, and then we put on the “noble silence” (禁语, jinyu) badges that served to notify the rest of the monastery community that we were not to be distracted from our practice.
picture of Meditation Hall
After reflecting on the retreat and the various dharma talks from venerable monks and nuns (dharma talks are similar to the sermon in the Catholic tradition; incorporating the teachings of the Buddha, the monk or nun delivering the dharma talk often shares stories and anecdotes to discuss morality and strategies for dealing with emotional or personal discontent), I now realize that the structure, form, and content of the seven-day retreat was designed to mirror our daily lives, albeit on a higher, more profound (and removed) level.
picture of dharma instruments used to notified us when sessions were over, when to stop moving, etc
First, a little background information about FoGuang Shan Buddhism and the structure of the retreat. Chan Buddhism was brought to China from India by Bodhidharma in the 4th – 5th century BCE. After the sixth patriarch in China, Hui Neng, passed away, the Chan School broke into several traditions, of which Linji (临济) is one. FoGuang Shan is part of the Linji tradition, which is known for banghe (棒诃, meaning “stick and shouting”). We were told that the venerable nuns in charge of our retreat went easier on us because this was the first meditation experience for most of us; in a normal retreat for the Linji tradition, so much as looking to the left or right would warrant a smack from the “compassion stick.” At all times, the venerable nuns were holding the compassion stick like a sword, resting on the shoulder right beneath the head.
picture of a "compassion" stick
Each morning we woke up at 5am, completed Tai Chi exercises and an initial early morning meditation session by 6:15 before breakfast at 6:30. All directions and instructions were shouted at us by the head nun: BE MINDFUL, DON’T BE DISTRACTED, BACK TO YOUR SEAT, CROSS YOUR LEGS, TAKE A BREAK. Each meditation session began with her sudden shout, SAH!!!!! And then two nuns would walk quickly up and down the aisle wielding the compassion stick. After breakfast, half of our group completed chores (I was in the afternoon chores group, so I graciously used that time for a nap), followed by our morning meditation session. We would meditate sitting down for approximately 30 – 40 minutes, followed by a 15ish minute walking meditation session; we would usually have three or so sessions back to back. Lunch was followed by the afternoon meditation sessions, chores, dinner, and then evening meditation sessions before we went to bed around 10 or 1030.
picture of the seats in meditation hall for daily meditation
dorm room/bunks adjacent to meditation hall
Meditation was painful. Sitting with a straight back and with legs in lotus position (the feet on top of the opposite thigh; I am still unable to sit in this posture so I just sit in half lotus with one foot up), I felt pains in other parts of my body—my arms would ache, my neck would become stiff, my legs regularly lost circulation. There were a couple sessions at the beginning of the retreat when I literally felt like I wouldn’t be able to walk after the seated meditation sessions. Thus, the purpose of walking meditation immediately following was to shake out one’s legs and arms.
There were three tracks for walking meditation, all proceeding clockwise and circumambulating the Buddha image in the center of the hall. The smallest track (and closest to the Buddha image) required the fastest pace; sometimes students on this track had to run at full speed if head nun required it. After about 15 minutes of walking in circles, a nun would smack her compassion stick against a stone, and we would freeze in our places before taking a 5 minute bathroom break.
pic of Buddha image in center of Meditation hall
picture from bunkbed in dorm
One of the most interesting concepts that was continually emphasized in the dharma talks is Buddhanature (佛性). Chan Buddhism teaches that every sentient being (even animals, hungry ghosts, and hell demons) has Buddhanature, meaning that each being has the potential to realize enlightenment and activate the Buddha inside him- or her-self. It also means that we need to see the world as the Buddha would see it; we must treat others with compassion, love, and forgiveness, and we must strive realize the truths that the Buddha realized—impermanence, emptiness, non-duality (to name a few).
These teachings and philosophies are embodied in the metaphor of the seven-day retreat. When I felt such pain in my legs during meditation, I was instructed to concentrate very closely on the origin of the pain, to penetrate the pain and find its root; the same instruction was given to address feelings of itchiness or coldness or hotness—we were told to find where the sensation was coming from. After intently searching for the origin of these sensations, I found that there was no origin—there was nothing causing the pain, there was nothing causing itchiness, there was nothing causing hotness or coldness. I also realized that all of these feelings were impermanent, because they would come and go, intensify and disappear. It was all in my mind (xin 心); it was my mind that created the pain, the sensations, the attachment to my form/body part that then ached or felt itchy.
Buddhism posits that there is no inherent self; we are nothing more than the 5 aggregates (色受想识行: form, sensation, perception, consciousness, volition). All of these aggregates in reality are illusory, products of our xin. The meditation retreat provided me the space and time to contemplate the ways my mind/xin works, the ways I attach to my form, sensations, perceptions, consciousness, and volitions. By contemplating these aggregates, the goal was to free myself from them, to detach from myself and achieve stillness of mind, free from everything.
There were sessions when I felt I had achieved correct posture and concentration that allowed me to move beyond my form. The feeling is hard to describe, but in a way it was as if there was a centripetal force spinning inside me, but in complete stillness. The force was pulling every part of my body in toward itself. I could feel every breath, every heartbeat, through my entire body and pulsing through my fingers and up through my arms and down my abdomen and to my toes. And it was as if I had achieved a hollowness inside the frame of my body.
But then, as soon as I was aware of it, my consciousness and perception went crazy and I wanted so badly to hang onto that physical feeling—and then I thought, Oh no! I’ve now become attached to this feeling—it’s just another hurdle I have to jump!
My meditation did not progress beyond that stage, but we were told not to make judgments about meditation sessions (there is no unsuccessful/bad meditation). I did notice, though, that my ability to concentrate/focus on my breath/practice was directly related to my experience with pain. Toward the end of the week, I was able to sit for the entire session, sometimes even skipping walking meditation to continue sitting, and afterward stand up and walk around without any hindrance.
Thus, the metaphor exposes itself. Buddhists believe that life is full of pain. Physical, mental, emotional, and day-to-day, pain in all its forms arises because of our inability to see that our physical form and sensations, our mental perceptions and consciousness, and our daily volitions are mere products of a turbulent mind/xin. If we can learn to control our mind, we will realize that all objects and feelings are impermanent, and therefore empty of inherent value, and should thus not be attached to or craved for. We cause ourselves so much pain because we fail to realize the way our minds work. The retreat was an intense experience in which I was inflicting pain upon myself by attempting to sit in stillness with legs crossed and back straight. I had to take responsibility for the fact that I was causing myself pain through meditation, and detach from that pain by controlling my mind. I had to still my turbulent mind. And in that moment of stillness, there was promise of clarity.
At the end of the seven days, when we were instructed in small groups of 10 to remove our badge of noble silence, we still just sat with eyes downcast, breathing deeply. Because at that moment I realized, even the seven-day retreat—that opportunity to understand myself and to concentrate on my body and my thoughts and my feelings—was, after seven days, gone; impermanent.
