Going On Into The Snow Alone

The opening words of the retreat "Where the path stops, you go on into the snow alone" have an enormously powerful effect on me and the combination of the clear Welsh air, the burning incense, the peace, and the clarity of the bell bring tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat so that I am unable to join in the words myself.

The retreat begins, the guest master cheerfully and conscientiously marking the passage of time in ways that become familiar and comforting. The spring weather is beautiful and whilst there is something mystical about Maenllwyd in the depth of winter illuminated in the gloom of firelight and candles, there is also a magic about the liberation of summer; the blossom; the carpets of bluebells; the lambs and their mothers endlessly seeking one another; the riot of birdsong, that brings the Universe to me. Not that it has ever gone away , but sometimes I have difficulty in finding it.

The group contains fewer regulars than usual. Quite a number had come as a result of the radio broadcast 'A Place of Silence' and some had not anticipated the rude accommodation. Even though I had been before and knew what to expect, I cannot say that I enjoy the physical limitations. Despite ten years at boarding school, embracing the austerity of a monastic retreat does not mean that I enjoy a stranger snoring during the night well within the territorial limits of my personal space, or that I can then find the strength of character to sleep despite the noisy intruder. This time I brought a tent which becomes my monastic cell. I relegate all the junk to my car leaving myself only the essentials. Peace in the open air lulls me to sleep at night to awake refreshed in the morning. We also erected John's spectacular Tibetan tent that rapidly became known as 'the lama tent' and was where some of our meditation sessions took place. The tent was very striking against the hillside and must have aroused renewed speculation amongst the villagers far below. The new composting toilets were a great success and engendered queues, whilst the ordinary flush toilets remained vacant.

I had come to the retreat with a lot of pressure from work and a couple of difficult decisions to make. I do not think I meditate very well and I was a dismal failure at the Silent Illumination technique. But I sat and sat and eventually the mind settled and the problems of the world resumed their proper perspective. On the second morning I was timekeeper. I had never done this before and I was keen to get it right. I found myself worrying about the ending of a session. "Would I time it correctly, was it one, two or three rings, would I drop the bell, would I . . .?" and then it dawned on me what a daft thing I was doing . . fretting the time away in the now so that I could achieve an effect in the future. As far as time was concerned, there is no difference between the last minute of a session and the first, so why should it be so for me? It was my anxieties, my projections, my fears that were spoiling the present moment.

After that, things became easier. With some guidance from John, I was able to look at things differently. I resolved my career dilemma to my entire satisfaction in a most surprising way. It does not matter what I do as long as I can stay me. End of problem.

Issues of time preoccupied me considerably: "What is life, where does my life fit in the great scheme of things, where was I before I was born and where shall I be after I die?" John had earlier spoken of a Chinese poem describing a river flowing with "no front, no back, no stop". Since death is inevitable and our progress towards it so inexorable, why are we so worried about it? Is this simply my old timekeeper problem again?

After some changes, my koan becomes "What is Now?" I realised that Now is so small yet so infinitely precious. A drop from the river of time. It defines life. Yet so often have I deferred Now in favour of Later. Now is when I am alive, even lunch is history. I can define my life in terms of the absence of Now and I see the need to change. During one communication exercise I stated inadvertently "I need to play with this question". Now opens up all sorts of possibilities. Is it living Now that enables me to lose myself and burst into floods of real tears during the afternoon chant, to feel the sound of the conch resonating in my being, to feel overwhelmingly grateful during the grace after meals with "the universe as the boundless sky"?

At one with the food we eat we identify with the Universe. The Universe is as the boundless sky, always moving. Whenever now arrives it has gone. Thus come, thus go. What can we do with that?

A little story to conclude. After the retreat there were several large rubbish bags needing disposal. I put some in my car but failed to find the Rhayader dump where I had been told I could deposit them So there they sat all 150 miles home where I called in at our municipal tip. When I met my wife I told her that I had brought a whole load of rubbish back from the Maenllwyd but had managed to off-load it in the local dump.

"Well in that case it was obviously a very good retreat!" she said.