I start hearing the “you have to do Vipassana” anthem during my first trip to India in 2008.In my mind’s eye, I stare at my throbbing kneecap. Above the knee, three strands of muscle are stretched to their limit, and the tendon below the knee is pulsing under pressure. I continue to move down my leg, scanning for sensations, still unsure whether I am succeeding or simply delusional in my efforts to observe my pain objectively.
When people speak of Vipassana, the meditation technique of the Buddha, they talk about rules.
For 10 days, this means no talking, no reading, no writing, no music or singing, no eye contact; no killing, including mosquitoes; two light meals per day; and a daily 4 a.m. wake-up bell.
For me, these rules were as carefree as a romantic Bollywood dance number, in contrast to the challenge of the meditation.
I start hearing the “you have to do Vipassana” anthem during my first trip to India in 2008.
Something about the extremity of the silence appeals to me, and I am easily persuaded that the isolation will be rewarding. At that point, however, I pass up the opportunity.
When I return to Mumbai in 2010, I find myself surrounded by Vipassana again.
Shraddha, once a stressed ad film stylist, has turned to yoga full-time after Vipassana (she’s now been twice). It helped her sister Sejal discover her calling as a holistic natural therapist. Alpana, a corporate hotshot, came back from Vipassana in an altered state of consciousness -- for four days she spoke softly, if at all.
When I leave my job, the moment seems perfect. So I register for the free, ten-day course at a Vipassana center in Pune, a few hours from Mumbai.
It’s strange to say I am excited to do a meditation course during which I will suffer, but I am dying to experience whatever it is that my friends have found so powerful, and to dispel whatever fantastical imagery I have in my head. I am tired of having conversations that end with, “you’ll understand after Vipassana.”
After I finish my first hour at Vipassana I understand why: meditation is agonizingly difficult.
In that first of the 100 hours I face -- 10 hours per day -- I confront the reality that my Western conditioning of long days at the office and La-Z-Boy chairs at home hasn’t exactly prepared my back muscles for more than 15 minutes of continuous floor-sitting.
During the first three days, the Anapana breathing technique is taught as a tool to practice subtle awareness. For me that means excruciating back pain, which I overcome only thanks to the faith that my friends had given me in the technique.
Meanwhile, I settle into the oddities of life at the Vipassana ashram.
My commute decreases to the 15 meters between the dormitory, meditation hall, water cooler, bathroom and dining hall. I slowly become obsessed with getting the water cooler not to drip when I shut the tap.
I ascribe personalities to the other, nameless 25 meditators based on how they walk, sit, and wash their dishes (it takes me three days to forgive the bald guy for wasting so much water).
During meals, I begin putting my spoon down between bites, and counting my chews. I pass 40 several times.
In my spare time, I walk in short laps around the campus or nap. I stare at the moon, the trees and the birds -- the most stimulating objects I can observe without breaking any rules.
On day four, I am taught the Vipassana technique.
Here, one applies the subtle focus learned through Anapana to scan the body for sensations such as pain, stinging, heat, moisture. The goal is to maintain perfect calm and objectivity.
In theory, a meditator would learn over time to respond with equanimity to every sensation, no matter how strong one’s cravings or aversions might be towards certain people, experiences, sensations.
This ability to respond with mental calmness and an even temper, can be equated to a happier and more contented life.
All the same, day four seems destined to be a day of disillusionment, close to my breaking point. Most unexpectedly, that day also proves to be the turning point.
Minutes after I start practicing the Vipassana technique, I suddenly find my pain easing, practically vanishing entirely, to be replaced by an effervescent, tingling sensation.
Though the pain returns, by day five I can sit for an hour without moving.
On day six I do two 90-minute sittings. My energy levels increase and I wake up at 3 a.m., ready to start my day. I can’t nap when I try.
And, finally, I start to experience benefits outside my meditation.
I access memories of people with whom I had troubled relations, and feel calm and peace for the first time. I even send out vibes of peace and love (don’t snicker), hoping they might feel better too.
I conjure fears and unmet goals and decide that the only option is to face these head on. A rock-climbing course and a swimming camp are in my future.
When my Vipassana camp ends, I am ready to resume normal life, including sleeping until after sunrise and consuming my share of pizza and beer.
The difference is in the small things. When I get cut off in the hyper-aggressive Mumbai traffic, I shrug it off; the cacophony of round-the-clock building construction fade; today, when I came home to a kitchen resembling a war zone, I still burned a little bit on the inside, but not for long.
Quietly, here and there, I’ve started to sing the Vipassana anthem.
To learn more about Vipassana, visit www.dhamma.org
0 comments:
Post a Comment