"Do not lose yourself in the past. Do not lose yourself in the future. Do not get caught in your anger, worries, or fears. Come back to the present moment, and touch life deeply."
I came across these words written by Thich Nhat Hanh, the world-renowned Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk. Thay (as his students called him, meaning teacher) was a peace activist and author who lived from 1926 to 2022. He was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Martin Luther King Jr. in 1967 as an “apostle of peace and non-violence.” Thay’s words in the above passage became especially meaningful to me after a recent Zen experience.
I just got back from a four-day silent retreat (called sesshin). It ran from Wednesday evening until Sunday at noon. Cell phones, computers, and media of any kind are not allowed during sesshin. Not only that, reading books and journaling are also not permitted. Participants meditate multiple times a day, eat in silence, walk in silence, and work in silence. And we must not leave the premises for any reason.
I wasn't too concerned about all the silence. Most of my life has been marked by an inordinate amount of time alone. My two siblings were much older than me, so I was essentially an only child from about 8 years old until I left home. At various office jobs I’ve held, I was most often by myself doing my work in my own little world. Quiet and alone is mostly routine for me. I wish I could say that I followed the sesshin mandates readily and flawlessly. I did not. I wasn’t brash in my fumblings, but fumble I did.
I obsessed about two things during the retreat: what was the daily forecast, and when would I have a non-forced bowel movement? Luckily, I have a smart watch that gives a 5-day forecast, as well as hour-by-hour, so I was set there. As for the other—well, let's just say there was no device to assist me with an accurate forecast.
I realize the smart watch counts as media, but I felt okay about bending that rule for this. Plus, I needed the silent pulsing alarm on my wrist so I could get up long before everyone else to drink coffee and hope for a successful bathroom visit. I had my cell phone hidden away too. I only used it a few times to text my wife. I knew she was thinking about me, and I wanted her to know I was thinking about her. And I'll admit that I might have complained to her about my temporary impairment.
As we were preparing to enter silence on the inaugural night, the teacher (or Roshi) gave us some important guidelines. He told us to mind our own business. Even if we saw that someone needed help, we should just let it be. We were to remain silent at all times except for a quiet whisper if we needed clarity about our work duties or had something important to communicate with our roommate. He also said not to worry about what others were thinking about us, and not to worry about what we imagined he was thinking about us. "Keep your eyes downward, focus on yourself, and please, take care of your body," he said, with a special emphasis on self-care. I was so glad he said those things. I had to wholly take them to heart.
When I crawled into bed Wednesday night, I was thrilled to be there but also expected a few hiccups. No gathering of people ever goes perfectly. My expectation was met, and then some. That first night, I didn't sleep. My roommate, who is a great guy, snored—openly, loudly, and consistently. I brought earplugs as suggested on the provided retreat packing list, even though I already knew they wouldn't work. My wife and I had already been down that perilous road.
At first I panicked, then I reminded myself that this retreat is all about noticing what happens within ourselves—our mind, body, and emotions—and getting quiet with our breath. The hours passed, then somewhere around 3:30 a.m., I decided to fully engage with Roomie's rhythmic nasal air sucking. I discovered something delightful about the human breathing apparatus. The nasal passage goes to great lengths to assure that the proper amount of air fills the lungs, allowing oxygen to nourish every cell. There are high-pitched sounds, low-pitched sounds, squeaks, and rumbles. I noticed with Roomie there was even staccato breathing, which made me wonder if he was running to or from something in his dreams. Once I abandoned all hope of going to sleep and decided to celebrate this great marvel, I silently giggled with great enthusiasm as each surprising tone presented itself. This seemed like the most rational thing to do as I was attempting to work on my silent awareness. I found this exercise to be uplifting and entertaining, and was relieved that it got me through the night.
Every day, each attendee had the opportunity to meet privately with Roshi. My first meeting on Thursday was about how I was settling into my first sesshin. I told Roshi I was doing "okay" and that I'd be fine. I explained that I had not yet slept and that my roommate snored. He showed some gentle compassion and suggested a few things. "You could try earplugs," he said with a friendly smile. "I tried, they didn't work," I said, mildly resolved. "There's a sound machine you could borrow, see if that helps," he said, hopeful. I just smiled and nodded a little. I didn't want to complain or reveal to him that two sound machines plus earplugs hadn’t worked for my wife and me at home.
After two rounds of zazen (sitting meditation) that first morning, I went back to my room to try to sleep. I dozed a little, which helped. After my nap, we started our "personal time," so I took a walk in the woods. I surmised that I needed to come up with an alternative plan in case I was not able to sleep at all during this four-day sesshin. I knew that lack of sleep would eventually creep into my head and turn meditation into interminable nodding.
I decided that I would find a way to sleep in the cab of my truck. Vehicles were parked a good distance away from the main buildings, so I wasn't really worried about people seeing me early in the morning. It was entirely too cold outside to sleep in the truck bed, plus it was filthy from old brush and compost I'd been hauling. I had hoped that my old sleeping bag was still stashed behind the seat. Late in the afternoon between zazens, I snuck out to my truck. "Yes!" I whispered excitedly. The sleeping bag was still there. I would need that and the blanket and pillow I had brought from home. I slid both seats back, got in the passenger side, and wiggled around until I was in a decent sleeping position. "This will work!" I said out loud to myself. Now for the rest of the plan. I went back to my room and gathered clean clothes, my towel, washcloth, and toiletries. I walked over to the bathhouse, and stuffed the items in an old wooden cubby that was affixed to the wall next to the shower.
After the last zazen Thursday night, I went to my room, set my shoes, socks, and flashlight where I could quickly get to them in the middle of the night, then settled into bed. Everything was in place; I had a plan. If I woke up to Roomie's snoring, I'd slip out quietly and sleep in my truck. (I didn't want to start the night out in my truck because I didn't want to tempt Roomie to worry about where I was or feel bad that he kept me awake.) In a funny bit of irony, now that I had a backup plan, I no longer felt stressed to think about the possibility of no sleep for four days. I slept like a baby that night and, for the most part, the rest of the retreat. Sometimes just having a plan makes everything alright.
I am an insatiably curious person. It wasn't long before I began sneaking peeks at people's faces, trying to get a read on their experience. And there were activities where I still lacked experience, like when (or if) I should bow, or how to properly eat the Oryoki meal. The Oryoki ritual is absorbing but nerve-wracking for first-timers like me. Thank goodness Roshi sent a video to retreat participants ahead of time to demonstrate how it is done. Had he not, I would have performed this ritual even more messily than I did.
We all sat at a long table. The person at the head of the table passed the food down the center. Everyone had their own set of three bowls, utensils, a napkin, and a cleaning cloth. These were stored behind our sitting cushions when not in use. One day I accidentally took another guy's set, which forced him to speak. From his expression, I don't think he was very pleased with me.
In this clever ritual, you take what you want, with the intention to take "just enough," which is what the word Oryoki literally means. The entire process is a meditation. Your eyes are to remain cast downward while you eat, not looking around or looking at other people. My curiosity and apprehension kept getting the best of me. Sometimes the food was coming down the table pretty quickly, and I didn't want to hold up the line or miss a scoop of the delicious food. I wasn't always sure when to start eating or when to start cleaning. Mostly, I just couldn't stare down at my food. I looked out the windows, I looked left and right, I looked at other people's faces. I confess that when I finished eating, I drummed my fingers on my knees under the table, trying my best to keep my eyes down. At the end of the meal, hot water is passed down the table, and everyone cleans their set and packs it back up in a neat little cloth, tied at the corners. The result reminded me of an illustration from an antique children's book of a boy carrying a stick with a sack tied at the end. His sack contained everything a boy needs to sustain himself while he explores the world. This was definitely a new world for me to explore.
Every participant had a job for the duration of the retreat. Roomie and I were assigned evening kitchen cleanup. I was pleased to have that job because I move like lightning when cleaning a kitchen. It didn't dawn on me until much later that I should have mindfully washed pots and pans rather than man-handle them like I was at a military training base where everything is done quickly. Roomie was a veteran of sesshin; he smiled a lot and graciously tolerated my talking during our work period.
The main theme of the retreat was the Three Pillars of Zen. Great Faith (that one can awaken to one’s own nature), Great Doubt (questioning the core of existence) and Great Determination (dedication to practice). There was a simple richness to the dharma talks (teachings through everyday activities and direct experiences). During one, Roshi used a stick to illustrate these three essentials. The top of the stick, Faith; the bottom of the stick, Doubt; the meat of the stick, Determination. I get a little squirmy around the word "faith" because for me, a former Christian, its meaning has a lot of associated negativity. But I've been pondering the word for some time now, and I'm more comfortable with it than I used to be. After all, it takes a lot of faith to be an atheist.
I decided to test the stick analogy. The Zen center sits on a large piece of property with plenty of woods to explore. I wanted to find a stick to see if I agreed with Roshi. At first, I thought faith should be the bottom of the stick, having faith that it would hold up if I lean on it or poke at things with it. And doubt should be at the top because, well, I hold a lot of doubt about many things.
I found myself out there in the woods picking up long sticks and slamming them into tree trunks to test their determination to stay intact. I stirred the water in the creek and imagined, "Is it faith or is it doubt?" I came to the conclusion that I indeed had doubts about what was in that water, but held on to faith that the stick would figure it out. I sat down on a rock by the water and listened for a while. Looking down at a small rock at my feet I noticed green moss growing on it. With the doubting end of the stick I scratched four straight lines, each to represent the Four Noble Truths. Suffering, the cause of suffering, the end of suffering, and the path that leads to the end of suffering.
After a while I began to feel a little silly and decided it was probably better to just be in the woods and not try to analyze every little thing. I did, however, find a suitable stick to take home with plans to carve it into an official walking stick and ponder the three essentials.
I should mention that while I was out there roaming around, I suddenly realized that not only was I lost in my stick thoughts, I was lost in the woods! I looked at my watch. I had 20 minutes to find my way back to the zendo for the next zazen. Oh no! How long had I been daydreaming? How far did I meander? I tried to trace my steps back and thought I'd found the creek I'd been following, but it turned out to be an old dried-up one instead. Squinting through the trees, I saw the outlines of a house. "Oh, good!" I said, picking up my pace. "I can't be the only person this has ever happened to." I hoped someone would be at home and could point me back to the Zen center. "It can't be that far," I said to my stick of determination.
Dogs. I froze. Two dogs came out and loudly announced their presence. They were free roaming and I was clearly in their jurisdiction. I immediately began a series of baby-talk words and sweet cooing to dissuade any inclination for gnawing on fresh bones. They were wagging their tails but the closer I got, the louder they barked, pouncing forcefully on their front paws. "Nope!" I said out loud. I sighed. The dogs stopped and watched me closely. For a moment, I thought about shouting "Hello, is anyone home?" But then I worried that my voice might carry through the woods to the zen center and people would think I might be in trouble. I looked at the dog that seemed to be in charge. I struck my chest flat-handed, then pointed to the woods.
"Which way back?"
"Woof!" inching forward.
"This way?" I pointed the opposite direction of where I thought I should go.
"Woof, woof!" still inching forward.
So I went that opposite way in an act of faith and carrying some doubt. Lo and behold, I soon saw the roof to one of the buildings and got back to the zendo just in time for zazen! I entered quickly, WITH MY SHOES ON! Ack! "Excuse me, I'm sorry," I said as I scurried around people and went out the wrong door. If anyone's patience with me was running thin, it was probably then.
One day I got confused about whose turn it was to meet with Roshi and missed mine. The next round, I was determined not to let that happen again. In a noisy kerfuffle just outside the zendo, three of us were trying to figure out who was doing what. Honestly, it was me who was most confused. I was certain that it was my turn to go. What I didn't know was that the last bell signifying the end of one-on-one meetings had been rung. Not realizing this, I barged in on Roshi as he was leaving. Clearly a bit put off by my bold entrance, he still sat back down with me in all my untidy inexperience. I needed to talk to him. I needed him to know that despite my failings, I didn't want to leave. Coincidentally and embarrassingly, earlier that day, in pain because I had gone too long without a bowel movement, I decided to just drive home and stay there until the spirit moved me. It worked, and I was only gone for maybe an hour. While gone I had texted Roshi to explain that I needed to take care of my body, as he had carefully instructed. He was kind in his text back to me, and he was kind now, in person. I was grateful, knowing that leaving during sesshin is probably the worst infraction.
Despite my many failures, I cannot express enough how wonderful it was to practice zazen with the sangha, all of us united in a single purpose—to experience the nowness of now. (Sangha is the formal name for the community you practice with.) The sitting, walking, and chanting were truly a beautiful experience. I was keenly aware of the joy that was springing up from deep inside—not like the instant joy when you see an old friend or receive an unexpected gift. It’s a fresh and lasting joy. I have standard meditation time at home, so the practice itself isn't unfamiliar. But doing it in a zendo with others is more than magical. It feels as good as the sensation you get when dipping into a cool body of water on a hot summer day.
Sunday at noon arrived and sesshin was over. I was relieved, but I was also still feeling that unmistakable joy. It stayed with me the entire time I was there, even in my unenlightened state. I wondered if it was okay that I was feeling joy, and decided that it was.
It is no small thing that I attended an event like this. With my long history of living with religious torment and spending countless hours and dollars in therapy trying to recover from it, the fact that I even found the courage to try a sesshin is marvelously shocking. Failing with joy, yeah, I'll take that any day of the week.
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