My intention was to fully surrender,
to the Vipassana method,
Seriously, ardently, patiently, and persistently
Emptying and observing,
And accepting what insight ten days of practice might bring.
Day 1
Adjusting to silence, averted gaze, and predawn rising,
fifty tired women, new and old students,
queue for lunch.
Careful to gather sufficiency,
for there is no dinner,
Caitlin waddles awkwardly toward her bench
balancing all three courses,
and her drink bottle,
wedged between knee and thigh.
the clanking orchestra of spoons gives way to washing, walking and rest.
So when the Gang Gang cockatoo calls at 12.15,
Antigone, my neighbour, sings her response
from behind the bathroom door.
Day 2
Start Again, start again,
start again implores the teacher:
Start with a clear and quiet mind,
A calm and equanimous mind,
Accepting of constant change,
Accepting the monotony of personal indiscipline.
Day 3
Accepting Sally’s advice
I asked for a chair,
And though seated in plastic comfort
with the other aged wallflowers,
for hour on endless hour,
I regret my lack of preparation,
and the rising numbness.
Abha, in front,
has a three-tiered blow-up neck pillow
and props for hips and knees.
After lunch she produces a generously cushioned
portable seat,
and pats it with love.
Day 4
Though the toll of Noble silence is familiar,
I still baulk.
‘Know thyself’, the teacher exhorts:
I am equally recalcitrant,
and compliant.
I rescue a silverfish from the shower recess,
then worry about too-rough handling.
I pry open my left eye to administer drops,
using one hand, while maneuvering the bottle with the other.
I concentrate to watch the drop descend,
And resist squinting against it.
But I am always shocked by the fall.
Day 5
I am here to meditate,
not to compose poetry.
But I allow a break from the discipline,
to mark my 55th birthday.
I plan to sleep through the 4am automated gong,
But rise instead at 4.30.
Drat!
So, I rifle through my bag for a pen,
eager for contraband activity.
One weak verse on paper towel,
And the ink runs out.
Day 6
I would start again,
But I am too tired.
Between group meditation sessions I go back to bed.
I am waiting for this to be over.
Day Seven
Start again, start again,
Start again at breakfast,
with steaming prune compote on cooling porridge.
Switched today for orange syrup,
to prevent attachment?
Start again at lunch time,
with delicious mung-bean dahl,
roasted sweet potatoes and that crispy salad with the sharp tahini dressing.
I draw on the support of the seated silent,
like lovely Polly opposite,
who uses fork and spoon like chopsticks,
or Louise, who wears the same green track pants all week,
and rescues abandoned apple cores from the bucket,
and golden Clementina the power walker,
whose worsening back ache
makes us all wince.
Day Eight
I am not lacking in strong determination.
So, I dont report the unintended movement,
the shivering and quaking,
that developed on day four.
Instead, I gather myself to the silence,
and allow this deep sinking into God
that envelops, exhausts and stills.
Then after group sittings,
I flee disoriented to my room,
and lie sprawled-out on the floor,
considering why?
Day Nine
Ungrateful guest, with Sankhara’s still piling,
I keep on noticing that the women’s walking track,
at the bottom of the retreat grounds,
wends past the septic tank,
now straining.
No New Women here.
The men’s path,
I presume, is protected by elevation.
I am so sick of this,
Sick of me.
Day Ten
But when the time to leave approaches
And isolation gives way to chatter and connection,
I want to stay longer,
to comprehend this new experience of self and community,
To understand our difference,
But the automated bells are relentless,
ending our communion,
sounding the end of this rare peace.
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