"I sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world" - Walt Whitman
Like most sensitive young men, I was introduced to the work of Walt Whitman just as I imagine he would have intended: By Robin Williams during the Saturday Evening Movie, "Dead Poets' Society." At the time, being an emotionally unstable child of thirteen, I wept like a baby while carefully hiding my tears from my father. I would say, in retrospect, that I identified more with "Todd" (Ethan Hawke), the stammering, inarticulate mope longing for meaning and connection in a world he doesn't understand, but I aspired to be "Charlie" the rebel who re-christens himself "Nawanda" and always stands up to authority. Of course, the film's appeal is easy to discribe: It's about finding something transcendant, in this case through the power of language, about finding something perfectly true and beautiful in a world that feels false. It's the same thing that appeals to us about love or drugs or music or even sports, and it's also why people do crazy things like spend their time in a meditation center in Nepal.
I went to the Panditerama International Vipassana Meditation Center knowing little about it. I've dabbled a little in eastern religious philosophy and tried my hand at meditation a time or two, but this was quite different. This was a group of true seekers: 18 individuals under the care of 1 monk and 3 nuns, focusing 18 hours per day on the search for enlightenment. Far from sounding the "barbaric YAWP" of Mr. Whitman, there is not a peep to be heard from the meditators. We spoke only for ten minutes per day, in hushed tones, and only to the clergy in their capacity of guiding our practice. Most of the other meditators (I gathered, having never spoken to them) were there for at least a month. I was just a dilitente, passing through to see the sights.
I could write a lot about my time in this place, but for the time being I'll keep it brief. This was one of the most intense, physically and mentally chalenging experiences I've ever had. The sitting itself is painful, on the knees, on the back, and on the hips (particularly for the world's least flexible person: me). You learn to seperate yourself from the pain and view it as an object, detatched, as if it's not part of you, but this only works for awhile and the times I thought I had mastered it were balanced by the times when I was shaking, sweating, frustrated and just wanting it to end. Add to this the mental chalenge: Label each thought that comes into your head, observe it, and try to know its nature, then bring your focus again to your physical self, to the pain, to the rise and fall of your abdomen, to the itch on your nose and do the same. Label it, observe it, know its nature. When you're not sitting, you're walking in slow motion, observing the rise and fall of your feet, examining each contraction and relaxation of each muscle and, again, labeling and observing every thought. If you remember the girl who broke your heart or your favorite line from The Wire, you label it: "Remembering. Remembering." If you start thinking about how you'll describe the experience on your blog, you label it: "Planning. Planning."
As turns out, this is extremely difficult to do for 18 hours per day. I considered giving up several times, but there was always the interview with the clergy to get me back on track, to gently guide me and correct my thinking. It was a unique experience and I'm glad I did it and I'm glad I didn't leave, but I'm relieved it's over. In the end, I'd have to say that I prefer a more "yawping" approach to my transcendance, but I can see that the silent approach does have its merits.
There's a strike today which shuts down the buses, so it's one more night in the remote jungle town of Lumbini, the birthplace of The Buddah. After that, it's off to Pokhara for some views of the Himilayas for Christmas.
Like most sensitive young men, I was introduced to the work of Walt Whitman just as I imagine he would have intended: By Robin Williams during the Saturday Evening Movie, "Dead Poets' Society." At the time, being an emotionally unstable child of thirteen, I wept like a baby while carefully hiding my tears from my father. I would say, in retrospect, that I identified more with "Todd" (Ethan Hawke), the stammering, inarticulate mope longing for meaning and connection in a world he doesn't understand, but I aspired to be "Charlie" the rebel who re-christens himself "Nawanda" and always stands up to authority. Of course, the film's appeal is easy to discribe: It's about finding something transcendant, in this case through the power of language, about finding something perfectly true and beautiful in a world that feels false. It's the same thing that appeals to us about love or drugs or music or even sports, and it's also why people do crazy things like spend their time in a meditation center in Nepal.
I went to the Panditerama International Vipassana Meditation Center knowing little about it. I've dabbled a little in eastern religious philosophy and tried my hand at meditation a time or two, but this was quite different. This was a group of true seekers: 18 individuals under the care of 1 monk and 3 nuns, focusing 18 hours per day on the search for enlightenment. Far from sounding the "barbaric YAWP" of Mr. Whitman, there is not a peep to be heard from the meditators. We spoke only for ten minutes per day, in hushed tones, and only to the clergy in their capacity of guiding our practice. Most of the other meditators (I gathered, having never spoken to them) were there for at least a month. I was just a dilitente, passing through to see the sights.
I could write a lot about my time in this place, but for the time being I'll keep it brief. This was one of the most intense, physically and mentally chalenging experiences I've ever had. The sitting itself is painful, on the knees, on the back, and on the hips (particularly for the world's least flexible person: me). You learn to seperate yourself from the pain and view it as an object, detatched, as if it's not part of you, but this only works for awhile and the times I thought I had mastered it were balanced by the times when I was shaking, sweating, frustrated and just wanting it to end. Add to this the mental chalenge: Label each thought that comes into your head, observe it, and try to know its nature, then bring your focus again to your physical self, to the pain, to the rise and fall of your abdomen, to the itch on your nose and do the same. Label it, observe it, know its nature. When you're not sitting, you're walking in slow motion, observing the rise and fall of your feet, examining each contraction and relaxation of each muscle and, again, labeling and observing every thought. If you remember the girl who broke your heart or your favorite line from The Wire, you label it: "Remembering. Remembering." If you start thinking about how you'll describe the experience on your blog, you label it: "Planning. Planning."
As turns out, this is extremely difficult to do for 18 hours per day. I considered giving up several times, but there was always the interview with the clergy to get me back on track, to gently guide me and correct my thinking. It was a unique experience and I'm glad I did it and I'm glad I didn't leave, but I'm relieved it's over. In the end, I'd have to say that I prefer a more "yawping" approach to my transcendance, but I can see that the silent approach does have its merits.
There's a strike today which shuts down the buses, so it's one more night in the remote jungle town of Lumbini, the birthplace of The Buddah. After that, it's off to Pokhara for some views of the Himilayas for Christmas.
Sounds like an intense experience, congratulations on completing the week! ~Joeciey
ReplyDeleteSounds like a perfect experience to have, considering your goals for this trip. I'm with you on the flexibility thing. I can't sit on the floor for 18 minutes, let alone 18 hours.
ReplyDeleteThanks for raising the bar
ReplyDelete-Micah