Spectacular Jellyfish

Spring Colors in the Sea

Mystical Sea Horse

Spring Lilacs

Cherry Blossoms

Gently Tend Your Mindful Garden

It has been healing writing these stories. One could argue that they serve no purpose. Whatever the experience was, it is already in the past, and by writing them now, I could be falling into the trap of solidifying a story that has no reality in this present moment. There is some truth in that.

At the same time, however, these experiences have caused a ripple effect bringing me differently into this moment, the only moment I can really experience. By writing each story, it somehow has helped me enter the present with a lighter heart and mind. Maybe the best part of a story is not the telling of it, but giving an important experience shape so that it can be let go of.

The other day I was at a park with a young girl I do  art and play  therapy with. She was running with a bubble maker, and I was running behind with a hula hoop, trying to pass the hula hoop over the floating bubbles without touching them. We were both giggling. Some of the bubbles smashed into the hoop obliterating their brief existence. Others crashed into  the ground, while a few  rose up, caught in the drift of the air current for their moment of glory. They each had a lifespan, some longer, some shorter, but eventually they all popped into oblivion. We expect soap bubbles to pop and don’t get upset about their demise.

I see these stories like that. In the telling of each experience, they have floated free, each to go where they will before fading away. In the telling and the letting go, there has been a feeling of freedom. I have re-entered this life I call my own, with a sense of openness that was not there before. Sometimes I feel vulnerable, knowing there is more healing to come, and the ego always struggles with that prospect. And sometimes I chase soap bubbles with a hula hoop, exhilarating in a moment of giggles.

The ups and downs of life. How could one really expect anything else?

Image of Soap Bubbles

]]> http://vancouverislandmeditation.wordpress.com/2010/06/16/meditation-retreat-at-ims-part-9-final-reflections/feed/ 0 vancouverislandmeditation http://vancouverislandmeditation.wordpress.com/2010/06/15/meditation-retreat-at-ims-part-8-healing-the-heart/ http://vancouverislandmeditation.wordpress.com/2010/06/15/meditation-retreat-at-ims-part-8-healing-the-heart/#comments Tue, 15 Jun 2010 02:33:51 +0000 vancouverislandmeditation http://vancouverislandmeditation.wordpress.com/?p=367 ]]> In the previous blog, I mentioned how judgmental my mind was, including demands of my own heart. It was actually a bit deeper than that. When I perceived my heart as placing unfair demands upon me, I saw the image of my departed mother. This came as a shock. For most of my life, my mother and I had a tumultuous relationship. We could be the best of friends at times, and drive each other to distraction at other times. I often felt that I was locked in various ‘mother issues’ that I couldn’t escape from.

A year prior to her death, I spent almost  two months on various retreats in two temples in Thailand, Wat Ram Poeng and Wat Chom Tong, and as one could expect, seemed to let go of many issues, stories and beliefs that I had held on to for a lifetime. Literally on the day I returned  to Canada, my mother became ill and started her dying process. Within a week my wife and I were down at my parents’ retirement home and spent her last months being a support to both of them. It was both a difficult and a wonderful time. It was so painful witnessing the intense suffering that both my parents were experiencing as their lives were falling apart. At the same time, however, all my old issues with my mother had vanished, only to be replaced by a depth of love that both of us shared with each other in simple but profound ways. Even minutes before her death, our eyes were locked onto each other such that our hearts touched as never before. Since her death, I have never felt any of the old issues returning.

Until this retreat, that is. When I felt my heart making demands upon me, I saw an image of her, which I reacted to by  trying to push away. It was disturbing, but thankfully, I was able to acknowledge this without too much self- judgment. The following day, my mother came to me again. This time it felt as if she was actually present in the room, touching my body. There were no demands this time, but rather she was reaching out to me with a feeling of deep love. It seemed so real. Sitting there in meditation, I was filled with gratitude for being able to be open to her and this experience.

After a few minutes I realized that the face that I was seeing of my mother was one I had never seen before. She was a young woman, before I was born. There was a spiritual feeling about her countenance.  Her expression was filled with hope and joy, with a longing to escape the difficulties in her home life, to find a new life of love and freedom. I thought I never knew this person; from the time my memories began, I saw someone consumed with anxiety and insecurity. On this day however, I saw her as her true self. What hit me suddenly was that the spiritual quest that I have always been on was an extension of her longing, and that the heart that I have protected for so long was also her heart. We shared the same heart. And I knew that her heart was born of her family, just as mine has been passed onto my children and  granddaughter, who as a young woman is already on a spiritual quest.

Tears rolled down my face during this and subsequent meditations. We had been having Dharma talks about Anatta (non-self) – the lesson that the Buddha taught that the image that we identify with as a self is purely an illusion. This sounded good in theory, but I certainly hadn’t expect to experience this as my heart being inextricably bound with the hopes and longing of those in my family over the generations.

Interestingly enough, my mother’s Russian name, Luba means ‘love’. Her Hebrew name, Ahava, means the same. I realize now that this longing was always there, but due to my own pain and protectiveness, I was blinded by false perceptions. Now as I look into her eyes during the last moments of her life – an image that remains as bright now as it did then – I know that it was not just that our hearts were touching in a way that cannot diminish with the end of a life, but that our hearts are one.

Isn’t it interesting that by simply following the awareness of petty judgment, I was able to heal a lifetime of  longing by allowing myself to enter the spaciousness of an open mind and heart. The rest took care of itself. Without a doubt, this was the greatest gift I received at the Monastic Meditation Retreat at the IMS, and one that I am truly grateful for.

Buddha Statue, Retreat Center at Insight Meditation Society

Photo by Lucy Frank

One day I was having strong cravings for something. It is the human condition to fall prey to desire – for food, love, success, sex, money, consumer goods, intoxicants, whatever – as if getting this object would really fill the inner need for happiness. On this particular day I had enough awareness to observe my cravings, knowing it had nothing to do with the object in my mind. So I watched my thought process and heard the words ‘I am longing…’ Interestingly enough, I knew that I was not longing for the object that had previously been in my mind – that the fantasy of obtaining it would really give me nothing of value. Rather,  I was simply longing. There was no object, just the verb, ‘longing’. It seemed ancient, and like a hole that was too deep to fill. It didn’t make rational sense. I am very happy – a good home life in a loving marriage, a fascinating job, dear friends, good relationships with my family, a sense of having my real needs fulfilled – there really isn’t anything missing. But there is nothing rational about the perceived needs of one’s mind and heart. I hoped to come to terms with this at the upcoming retreat.

The second observation came up in a discussion of the small Dharma Study Group I am involved in. I realized that I had been on a spiritual quest as far back as I could remember. Even as a young child, I had an image of being a wanderer, searching for something. It never made much sense because it was so contrary to the suburban lifestyle and all the people I was in contact with as a child. I don’t even remember the word ‘spirituality’ being in the vocabulary of anybody I knew. The discussion that day left me feeling curious about it all.

Coming to the retreat, I had a sense that I would be dealing with issues of the heart. So it was certainly a shock when one of the first things that arose was being judgmental of other participants. That person is walking too fast. This person seems to full of himself. Why is that person having a cup of tea when we are supposed to be doing walking meditation? That person seems like a very good meditator, probably better than me.

At first I fell into the stories that were spinning in my head. But it didn’t take long to recognize that it obviously had nothing to do with other people, so I became more mindful, naming my judgmental mind whenever I noticed it. But it wouldn’t stop. Day after day it continued. I started becoming judgmental of myself for doing this until I realized that fighting fire with fire was not the most skillful approach. So I continued to observe my thought process.

Trying to get more into the body experience of these stories, I noticed how my heart would be beating away when these thoughts occurred. So what was my first response? That’s right – I became critical of my heart for placing demands on me. But at least I was getting somewhere now. I hadn’t been aware of seeing my heart as making demands before. So I watched and waited, noticing how often this was occurring. Soon a deep sadness filled me – I didn’t want to treat myself this way. But this time, rather than criticizing mysef,  I placed  my hand on my heart,  and whispered that I wanted to heal from being so harsh on myself. I offered to listen more and criticize less.

Interestingly enough, the judgments of other people continued, but now I saw it as a conditioned response that I didn’t need to fall prey to. Instead I could use it as an opportunity to listen to my own heart and mind, get past the old self limiting stories, and see what came up.

What finally came up was beyond anything I had expected, not only tying together the two seemingly unconnected observations prior to coming here, but opening up an entirely new perspective of who I am.

Behind Retreat Center where I did walking meditation

Photo by Lucy Frank

To be continued.

Some friendships have a relationship built on ease. One would think that would be good. Sometimes it is. But sometimes, we grow complacent with ease, not taking the friendship seriously enough, not nurturing it, no calling. There is always tomorrow, we rationalize. But a string of tomorrows can grow long, too long  to locate the beginning.

Some friendships have a relationship built on struggle. One would think that would be bad. Sometimes it is. But sometimes, if we consider the relationship important enough, we dig deep, struggle through it, engage in healing and find openings that we never knew existed before. Where there was darkness, the sun rises brilliantly.

My friend’s name is Pain. We have struggled before. Having Lyme Disease, he moved into my head, giving me migraine headaches everyday for 5 years. There were times I hated him. But when I took an honest look, I realized that I had lived in my head for so long, that it was really me who had invited him in.  There were more times that I blamed him for ruining my life. Because of him, I couldn’t carry on my life anymore and had to give up my home, career, being close to family and friends, even giving up beloved pets. But in giving up what I had known and loved, I opened myself to new possibilities that took me on a healing journey unlike anything I had ever experienced before. It took me to the gateway of Wat Ram Poeng, The Northern Insight Mediation Center outside of Chiangmai, Thailand, where I was introduced to the path of Buddhist meditation that has so profoundly opened my heart and eyes.

In every retreat, Pain seems to arrive on the third day, lodging himself somewhere below my right shoulder blade. In previous retreats, oh how I cursed him. My teacher, Phra Ajahn Supahn tried to teach me about being an observer, taking a neutral attitude, recognizing that the pain wasn’t me, accepting it with equanimity. I had no idea what he was talking about at first, but one night, I opened my mind and Pain altered into something that was both unpleasurable and pleasurable,  neither and both, but ultimately just a physical sensation. In my mind, I was able to rest with it in peace.

He returned again this time on the third day, back in the same old place, but right from the start, he just felt like an old familiar companion coming along for the ride. I didn’t struggle with him, and he came and went on his own schedule. It had very little to do with me.

For sitting meditation, I was determined to sit in a lotus position. At times my lower back ached, but I remained erect. My ankles and knees would sometimes ache, sometimes scream, but I remained in position. I could have chosen to sit in a chair, but like the first type of friendship, it would have been easy to fall into complacency. And besides, some other issue probably would have arisen that was just as difficult.

Most days, I was able to take a neutral stance, observing Pain without trying to distance my mind from it. Knowing it would arise and pass away, I could sit with it with relative ease. One sitting, I had trouble distancing from the pain. Then the thought occurred to me that pain was just a concept that I identified as negative. So taking a closer look, I saw past the pain into a pulsating energy. It wasn’t pleasant, but simply viewing it as a physical phenomenon, I could be curious rather than identify with disliking it.

On the second to last day, there was a sitting where my right leg was screaming. Staying in a neutral mind was not easy. So with my mind, I reached deep into my breath, and discovered the great joy that is inherent in each and every breath. The pain continued, but the joy deepened. It wasn’t a conflict – not a matter of one winning over the other, but rather a recognition that there was a balance between both suffering and joy. Each transformed the other, and ultimately, I wasn’t captured by either. When the gong sounded, I continued to sit for another minute without moving, acknowledging the capacity of the mind to live in balance.

Why do this? It’s not that I’m a masochist. And Buddhist practice doesn’t encourage looking for pain. There are enough struggles in life to come to terms with without dredging up more.  The answer is simple. At 64 years of age, I know that a time will come when my body will cease to function well. There might be pain, illness, disability or weakness. I don’t know what will happen or when, but there will be physical challenges. How can it be otherwise? I can’t stop nature from taking its course. All I can do is train my mind to enter into this relationship with as much grace, strength and ease as possible. I figured that this retreat offered as good a training ground as I would ever receive.

I know  that Pain, or some other physical issue… ‘will be coming around the mountain when he comes’. I can’t prevent that. But I can await his arrival with my other friend, Joy, and together greet him at the front door with dignity and respect. There is always another view of the mountain, if one takes the opportunity to look. I owe a lot of gratitude to my dear friends, Pain and Joy.

Buddhist Statue at Retreat Center at IMS

Photo by Lucy Frank

A day before Ajahn Amaro gave his dharma talk on the unreliability of beliefs and perceptions that we cling onto for a false sense of security (see previous blog), a list went on the bulletin board  for volunteers to sing a Pali chant. It is tradition that before a dharma talk, one of the students chants a request in Pali, the language spoken at the time of the Buddha, for the teaching.

As I silently walked past the bulletin board towards a meditation, the little lizard who lives at the base of my brain and is in charge of my survival, immediately woke up from his nap and declared:  “Don’t even think about it!”  I assured him that I wasn’t that crazy as I walked into the meditation hall. After the meditation, I found myself back at the bulletin board. “Keep on moving!”, little lizard said, it’s time for walking meditation. But for reasons that I couldn’t understand, my feet seemed frozen, and before I knew it, my hand was holding a pencil and writing my name on the sign-up sheet. I’m not sure who was doing this action; it sure didn’t seem like me. Another lesson in non-self, I guess.

Little lizard was now on red alert and spitting. “Are you out of your mind? Are you trying to commit suicide? Erase your name immediately. That’s why pencils have erasers – so we lizards can keep you fools safe!”

“I sang in a karaoke bar in Doi Maesalong (previous blog) and survived”, I meekly defended myself.  “I can do this. I did come here with determination, remember?”

“Determination my lizard  butt! That was in a small bar and you sang in English. This is in front of respected monks and 100 experienced meditators at one of the foremost meditation centers in North America, and it is in Pali. What do you know about Pali? They’ll be laughing at you for years. This is worse than suicide!”

Part of me believed my little friend, but I seemed to be struck with the fever of determination. I told him to go back to sleep and that somehow I would get us through this, although to be quite honest, I was having my own doubts.

The next evening, a few other people who had signed up, including my darling wife Lucy, met with Tan Caganando to practice the chant. We met for a couple of nights, forming what we jokingly called the dharma choir. I have to admit, I sounded god-awful, and on more than one occasion little lizard almost convinced me to erase my name. Tan Caganando turned out to be an inspiring and patient teacher, however,  and something about his reverence told me that I could do this.

Tan Caganando

For 5 days, little lizard was thrashing around in distress, mustering every argument that he could, but I practiced diligently nonetheless, and by Friday evening, I was as ready as I would ever be.

How did it turn out? I’m sure my pronunciation of the Pali words was totally incorrect, only to be outmatched by my inability to carry the tune properly, but I sang from my heart and felt wonderful. It was such an honour to be part of an ancient respected tradition hat has touched me so profoundly. After it was over, even little lizard settled down for a well deserved nap after I offered my gratitude for how he has tirelessly tried to ensure my survival for many decades, and I felt peaceful knowing that some of my biggest fears are nothing but mind constructs made from shifting sand.

On the last day, when we could once again talk, I passed Tan Caganando in the hallway. He stopped and told me that it was obvious that I had rehearsed well and what a good job I had done. Bless his gentle wonderful heart.

Well, I’m not afraid of public speaking. But singing in public; now that I can relate to. I think I would prefer nuclear holocaust; at least I wouldn’t be suffering alone. It brought back memories of going up to Doi Maesaolong, a small town up in the mountains near the Burmese border in Golden Triangle of Northern Thailand, that used to be a Chinese refugee camp, and where the warlords grew opium, until the government convinced them to convert to tea and coffee. When we arrived in 2003 it was still relatively undiscovered by tourists, with very few people in town speaking English. The story continues in this exerpt from my book, Illness is Not for the Faint of Heart.

Wat (Buddhist Temple) above Doe Maesalong

We met a delightful group of backpackers, and decided to…tag along to the local Karaoke bar after dinner…to a Karaoke bar, featuring Thai, Chinese and English songs.

At first I mutter that there is no way on God’s green mountains near Burma that I will get up and make a fool of myself. Looking through the song list, however, one song jumps out at me and exclaims that sometimes life gives you only one opportunity to rectify the traumas of life.

What song could possibly make that claim, you could reasonably ask, dear reader? Believe it or not, it is; ‘You Are My Sunshine’.  Being old even before my time, it is hardly an oldie but goodie, but it has a story that carries a very sad history.

Approximately 45 years before, a young boy was in summer camp in the Laurentian Mountains of Quebec, Canada. One evening there was a talent night. Now, this boy was shy and scared witless about having to perform in front of a crowd. He found another boy, probably just as shy, and together, arm in arm, they sang the above-mentioned song. It is unlikely that any two notes remotely fit together into a tune that evening, but that was not his primary concern. All he wanted to do was get up, get it over with, and slink back down into his seat as painlessly as possible. Unfortunately, and this is the tragic part, they sang so out of tune that everyone laughed hysterically.

That very night a lifelong complex was born. For the next 45 years, this poor boy, grown into a man, would never again sing in public. Or if he did, he made sure that there were other people singing loudly enough to drown him out.

Almost half a century later, he gets up with his honey, and in front of a multi-lingual crowd, not only bellows out songs but gesticulates wildly, as only a true entertainer can do. Is there laughter coming from the audience, as he gets down on one knee with wide-open arms, in front of one very embarrassed Lucy, and sings of his love for her? Oh yes, but this time he knows it is because of a fabulous act. Their laughter only spurs him on to greater feats of amusement.

Later I am told that I put on the best performance of the evening. Through some miracle that is beyond my comprehension, I apparently even sang in tune. It took arriving in Doe Maesalong, an infamous town of Chinese warlords planting opium in the isolated mountains close to the Burma border, where until recently a foreigner would take his life into his hands if he foolishly came here, to overcome a lifelong neurotic complex.

Doi Maesalong

Well, singing in English in a small Karaoke  bar in the mountains near Burma was one thing. But chanting in Pali in front of respected monks and 100 meditators was another.

To be continued.

In a meditation retreat, moods and issues will arise and cease even more rapidly. As one settles down, moves away from all the distractions of our usual lives including all the electronic gadgets that supposedly keep us connected 24-7, cut down on emotional eating, socializing   and live in silence, meditating for hours a day, a space in the mind is opened in which issues pass through. One becomes aware of body issues, emotions, energy states and thoughts.

In past retreats, one of the big issues that I kept having to deal with was exhaustion. Sleepiness can have 3 causes according to Jack Kornfield in A Path With Heart, and co-founder of the Insight Meditation Society. The obvious solution to being physically tired is getting enough sleep. But if that doesn’t work, there may be two other solutions. If we live a stressful enough life, even the hint of relaxation can take us directly to slumber land without passing go. Or, it can be one of the5 major distractions to being mentally aware that the Buddha discussed. In fact, the goal of meditation is liberating the mind into a state of vivid wakefulness and insight in reality.

Buddha stutue outside IMS

Photo by Lucy Frank

In past retreats, it wasn’t just physical exhaustion, although that played a small role.  No amount of sleep was able to satiate my craving for more. It seemed that my motto was: ‘When the going gets tough, the tough go to sleep’. No maiden could have been more seductive than my desire to crawl onto my bed for a nap. At times it consumed me, and often I gave in to this seductive delusion that I could escape difficulties by drifting into a dream state. In my daily reporting to my teacher, I was taught that this was a major distraction that I could pay attention to, but in the early days, I don’t think I really believed it.

As my meditation has deepened over the past year, I have come to realize the truth of how I have used sleepiness to avoid difficult mind states and from an inner experience no longer felt seduced by it. I would often still feel sleepy, but have tried to become aware of how it was acting upon my mind. I didn’t need to fight it, but didn’t need to give in to it either. On the second day of this retreat, the sleepiness began. It tried to lure me, but I had a strong enough determination that I hadn’t come all this way simply to be seduced.

So as the sleepiness arose during a meditation, I lovingly acknowledged its presence (Hello my dear seducer, I see you) and returned to my breath. I paid particular attention to the energy that is inherent in a breath, and from that place of invigoration simply watched the way that sleepiness arose and tried to take hold within my body, as was taught to us by Ajahn Amaro. A few times I silently repeated one on the Buddha’s primary lessons: Whatever has the nature to arise, has the nature to cease. And sure enough, it swirled around for a few minutes and then passed on. This happened several more times over the next day, each time with the same result. It was a good lesson in non-self, another of the primary lessons from the Buddha; it seemed to have very little to do with me.  When we don’t grasp onto something, it has a very impersonal nature and seems to move on of its own accord. It was a very freeing feeling.

Sleepiness didn’t return until the end of the week. The night before, I had slept poorly. This time I knew that I was physically tired, but even then mindfulness played an interesting role. I found myself grumpy, having negative thoughts and feeling a lack of motivation. At first this brought me down. Realizing that I was clinging onto this mood as if there was something wrong with me, I recognized that this was a conditioned response to exhaustion, and that it was providing another opportunity to watch what passed through my mind. I allowed myself a short nap (the first and only one during the retreat) and afterwards watched my mood become more positive.

It was just like the weather. I can’t hold onto a weather condition I like or push one away one that I don’t like. I can take steps to dress appropriately, but there’s nothing to take personally. It is what it is. It’s no different with energy states. It is what it is. And with that attitude, it helps carrying on with the day far more effortlessly.

About 10-15 minutes along a rural road outside of Barre, one arrives at the Retreat Centre of the Insight Meditation Society. Entering the property, one sees a colonial red-brick mansion, complete with white columns, sitting atop a spacious garden, that was apparently built by a member of the Massachusetts Legislature at the turn of the last century as his summer estate. Later it was sold to a Christian society who in turn sold it to the founders of the IMS; Joseph Goldstein, Jack Kornfield and Sharon Salzberg in 1976. They had each spent years studying Buddism and Vipassana (Insight)  Meditation in Asia, and were committed to passing this practice along to Westerners as a way of achieving inner happiness and awakening among the delusions and challenges of contemporary life. For 34 years now, thousands of people have come here for various meditation retreats that are offered all year long.

Everything about this centre speaks of clarity and peacefulness. I have never seen an organization, where everything from the running of the office and kitchen, to the silently closing doors, to the simple beauty of each room, runs so smoothly. It promotes a space of perfect harmony for 100 living together in ‘noble silence’ for the common purpose of devoting their minds to meditation, personal awareness and spiritual growth.

Lucy and I  were particularly interested in the annual Monastic Retreat as it would most emulate the experience we had in the wats (Buddhist temples) of Thailand. This particular retreat is designated for people with experience in Vipassana Meditation and who feel a devotion to the wise and spiritual teachings of the Buddha and the spiritual ceremony that goes along with it. Each day, as we sat in the meditation hall, we were led by four exemplary teachers on the podium. All have been schooled in the teachings of Ajahn Chah, the well known and beloved monk of the forestry tradition of north-eastern Thailand who founded over 100 Buddhist temples in the west. Three are Western monks. Ajahn Amaro, the leader of the retreat, often known as the happy monk, is the abbot of the Abhayagiri Monestary, in the Redwood Valley, California, the first forest monastery established in the U.S. His wise teachings, filled with humour and personal sharing were a true inspiration. Ajahn Punnadhammo, the abbot of the Arrow River Forest Hermitage outside of Thunder Bay, Ontario provided crystal clear teachings that cut right to the core of essential issues. Tan Caganando Bikkhu, who started off as a maintenance man at IMS has been a monk for 5 years. Although not yet qualified to give teachings, his absolute stillness in meditation, his beautiful voice when chanting and the reverence in his face was deeply touching. (On another day, I`ll write about how inspirational he was in helping me overcome one of my primary fears.)  Gloria Taraniya Ambrosia, self described as the `almost nun`, who has spent years living in Buddhist temples but not quite ready to give up earthly attachments, especially to muffins,  gave personal  talks that brought all the issues of spiritual growth down to such a human level.

Ajahn Amaro at Monastic Retreat at IMS

Photo by Lucy Frank

Several times a day we would chant Buddhist prayers. For me, it brought me back to Wat Ram Poeng in Thailand,l where I had been so reverently touched by the Buddhist ceremonies, meditations, prayers and chanting. The following is a brief excerpt from my book, Illness is Not for the Faint of Heart, about my healing journey from Lyme Disease:

“Living behind the secure walls of a Buddhist temple, one is immersed in…the daily monastic routine. At 4 a.m. precisely, the first bell of the day is sounded. You feel it reverberating in your bones. There is no sleeping through the first bell. By the time the second bell sounds mere seconds later, I am as fully awake as awake can be…Jumping into a cool shower, I am refreshed and eager to begin my morning meditation. Walking … in the dark, there is already chanting coming from three directions; the nuns in one building, monks from the main temple and the Thai students with a monk from the meditation hall. I could live lifetimes and never tire of the beatific morning ritual, long before the sun makes its first appearance.“

It felt like such a gift to once again become part of these ancient Pali chants that have been sung reverently by millions of people for two and a half milenia.

This history of the Buddhist traditions, the IMS`s regal effort in bringing them to the West, and the wisdom and love of our teachers created the space for our meditation and learning. In the next blog, I will begin sharing some of my personal experiences.

Retreat Center at IMS

Photo by Lucy Frank

But I am getting ahead of myself. Six months ago, my wife Lucy and I signed up for this retreat at the IMS. It would be two years since we had been in retreat at a temple in Thailand, and with our commitment towards a Buddhist path of awakening, it was time to take the next step. I went with both excitement and trepidation, knowing that when one meditates for hours a day under the guidance of gifted teachers, the mind opens up to new and clearer perspectives of one’s own experience.  At times that can be liberating and blissful, letting go of old patterns and beliefs that are no long self serving.  At other times, one can be thrown into turmoil as new troublesome issues arise on the horizon that was heretofore blocked from view.

There were two surprises. This was the gentlest experience I had ever had on retreat, with remarkable insights and openings occurring almost effortlessly. I know this wasn’t the case for everyone there, but it was for me. And my return home was fraught with more emotion than ever before, throwing me off guard into a state of vulnerability. Because of the latter, I have been unable to write until now.  In the days ahead, I want to share some of my experiences at the retreat, both to bring clarity for myself, and for any of you considering going to a meditation retreat. But let me start with where I am at present, by sharing today’s meditation.

When I sat down for my meditation, thoughts arose of being in conflict with someone. In reality, there has been no conflict with this person for a long time, but the mind can be very creative in dredging up old issues. Seeing that I was getting carried away by the story, I followed one of the techniques that many teachers advise; pull back from the story itself, and notice how it is experienced in the body. My chest was tight in a defensive posture, as if I was under attack. So I sat there, noticing the physical feelings, without trying to do anything other than be aware. An image arose of a long gun barrel pointing towards my heart. Interestingly enough, there was no image of a person holding the gun. At that moment, a second image arose behind me; that of a warrior poised to throw a rock at my invisible attacker. His face was turned away from view, but  I could tell he was fierce. As his face turned towards me, it softened into an effeminate look; I wasn’t even sure if the warrior was male or female. The warrior simply allowed the rock to fall out of his(or her) hands, and at the same moment, the gun disappeared. My chest felt open and soft, my breathing relaxed. When I checked back into the original thoughts of conflict a moment later, there was no energy there at all. I felt at peace.

Later, as I went for a walk along a beach, I realized that because of my experiences at the retreat, my emotions are more vulnerable than usual. I have been experiencing that as threatening, but that doesn’t have to be the case. I can let go of this belief and rest in the knowledge that like that gentle warrior, I can be grounded, open and non-combative.

Tomorrow I will begin to write about my experiences at the IMS retreat.