My husband and I came to the Zen Mountain Monastery in the Catskills to learn how to meditate. On the cusp of turning 50, our lives seemed too frantic, our minds too scattered to really enjoy our work, family and friends. We surfed the Internet and found this Introduction to Meditation Retreat.
By the time we found the monastery we both craved a drink and my husband Martin lusted for a cigarette, but we suppressed the urges, deciding it would be very un-Zenlike to arrive smoky and tipsy. We were late so we sat on a pew at the back of the meditation hall, the zendo, observing as the other guests in baggy, drab garb and monks with shaven heads entered in reverent silence.
There was a great deal of bowing, with palms together and elbows out like angel wings, to a rotund, grinning Buddha and to each other. We listened as 80 bodies creaked onto round cushions centered on individual square floor mats. A monk struck the bell three times; nobody moved. There was no scratching, shifting, shuffling or fidgeting. I thought I might go mad listening to the group breathing in and out, smooth as a lapping tide.
Sitting and breathing, Buddha style
Afterwards, Martin and I were shown the tricks of sitting. We learned to press the tips of our tongues to the roofs of our mouths to slow down the production of saliva. The monk showed us how to sit on the edge of the round cushion, zafu, so our bottoms were higher than our knees. My muscles cramped, my ligaments complained, my knees whined. In the women's dorm, the only bed left was a top corner bunk requiring Cirque du Soleil contortions, and lights out was only 15 minutes away at 10 p.m. Martin was in the room next door with 10 men.
At 4:45, the gongs bonged and the lights were turned on. There was no talking, showering or eating before the morning meditation. I usually wake chattering, but it was soothing not to speak, to have a chance to hear my own thoughts.
Martha Stewart could be a monk
After an hour of meditating, we were free to talk and eat. Breakfast was wonderful: plump fruits, fragrant honey dripping from combs, warm bread pudding studded with raisins and apricots, home-made brioche, real coffee. Zen cooking is an art and one's entire attention is given to every aspect of the growing, gathering, preparing and presentation of food. Martha Stewart could be a monk.
After breakfast each morning we were assigned our caretaking practice: cleaning, gardening or cooking. We were told to think of nothing but the moment. The abbott told us to think as we weeded: "First weed. Last weed." I was assigned to the bathroom cleaning crew. They were already clean. Still, I scrubbed and wiped while my mind wandered to my own bathroom at home. I worried that the faucet needs to be replaced, that there is no toilet paper, whether pink is really a bathroom wall colour.
Exploring the way of the Buddha...not
For the rest of the weekend we explored the way of Buddha. I chanted along awkwardly, wondering what I was saying and why, until finally, something made sense to me. It was a chant about the identity of relative and absolute, how there is light within darkness and darkness within light. But, mostly, I heard the words, "Do not waste your time by night or day."
It was a simple truth that fitted me. I frittered away time. Instead of meditating, I composed grocery lists. Instead of enjoying the cooking of a meal, I worried about a deadline. Instead of listening to my children, I told them what to do. I was busy, crazily busy, but still wasting my time.
We were mellow on the way home. By the time we pulled into our driveway, we had convinced ourselves that cleaning toilets, dusting altars and stilling our minds had been better than a real holiday. And then we saw the evidence of an enormous unchaperoned teenage beer-guzzling party that apparently had been hosted at our house by our children while we were learning to be in harmony with the world.
I poured myself a glass of wine. Martin lit a cigarette. And then we focused on our work. We would not waste the night. We collected the bottles and put them into cases. "First beer bottle. Last beer bottle."
|
more articles
