I have practised for quite a number of years, receiving help from various people in different traditions. My practice has tended to be erratic, never very strong or sustained - though I might sit every day. Sometimes it has just been half-hearted, but my main problem has been doubting the worth of the practice, and more importantly doubting my own ability to practice fully or make any real progress.
The doubts have been a long running theme that I have taken to retreats before. This time I sensed there might be a turning point; I even left a note saying as much. I had felt quite determined before previous sessions, which had proved to be quite punishing and physically painful and in the end not very productive. This time I wanted to practice as fully as I could, but I had also decided not to put myself through a lot of agony for no good reason. I thought 'If I can't continue sitting then I'll just lie on the floor and meditate'. I think this more relaxed, and slightly 'to hell with it' approach, was quite important. I wasn't quite so wound up at the beginning.
The schedule was difficult, but not impossible. I remembered from previous retreats that energy started to build after a day or so, and then it felt as if one was being helped. I never really doubted that I could get through it somehow or other (even if I had to break the schedule to do it), and I think this left me free to get on with the retreat. I also remembered how thinking about the pain I was in, or wondering if I was doing the right thing etc, had caused me a lot of grief in the past. Trying to 'figure it out' had been a disaster and had only prolonged periods of gloom and despondency, which otherwise could shift with extraordinary, even alarming, rapidity.
I settled in to the retreat fairly quickly, at least I don't remember any problems that I couldn't get through. I sat cross-legged and knelt alternately, so that I was never in pain to the point where I couldn't maintain some attention. Although there were plenty of wandering thoughts, I managed to maintain some concentration in spite of them. I had an image of the retreat as being a kind of train I had to board in the first day or two. If I just made a bit of effort and got started, got on the rails, then the retreat would start to carry me. The way to get started was not to think too much, rather than to make 'Herculean' efforts. In any case I didn't think I was capable of making Herculean efforts, so I had to find some other way.
The early morning talks were extraordinarily helpful and gave me tremendous confidence. From the very first I seemed to be able to put the 'thoughts for the day' into practice to some extent. Put all thoughts of your life aside - I wanted to and did. Let the universe do it - I felt that was just what I wanted to do. In the first few days the retreat acquired a momentum for me. This description makes it seem that progress was solid and continuous, with few distractions. However in the afternoons, as is usual with me, I was fighting sleep, my mind was wandering and concentration was difficult. However, I never completely lost my way, and the momentum built up in spite of these difficulties.
During the morning of the third day, I began to cry during one of the meditations. Eventually I went out, engulfed in waves of sobbing, coming fight from my guts. I don't recall very clearly what feelings accompanied this, or what provoked it. I remember saying 'all this effort' to myself feeling sad that we all had to make such efforts to... to be happy I suppose. When the sobbing stopped, it simply finished. The whole episode was very clean, feeling like a release of tension. It seemed to have no special meaning - but there may have been a shift to a less 'effortful' practice.
On the morning of the fourth day, John spoke of Shifu's method of dealing with thoughts. I think he talked about noticing similar thoughts with the same theme - rounding them up like sheep, and then letting them go. This struck me very much, and I really applied myself to it during the first meditations - though without much feeling of making a great effort. It was more that I really wanted to do it, felt it was all I wanted to do at that moment, so the effort, which must have been there, was natural. The image that came to me, was of putting thoughts in a boat, then just pushing them out to sea. Whatever came up, I noticed it, then pushed it away into ... whatever, away out to sea.
Suddenly a remarkable thing began to happen. The thoughts began to move away of their own accord. I no longer had to push. I just watched in amazement. A huge space began to open up, without any effort or intervention on my part. I remember that parts of myself not just my thoughts, began to ebb away. (I can think of no other way of describing his). I remember thinking or realising, that even a sense of time could just slip away into the sea. I felt a tremendous release, as if from some burden. I was flooded with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude, and began to cry gently. The memory of this time is rather blank, perhaps because the events and feelings were so unusual. I find it hard to say why I was so grateful. It was something to do with the fact that whatever was happening was not coming from me. It was a gift of immense worth, and also a confirmation that things could happen in meditation that really did produce massive change. I remember saying to myself 'I can't believe it. I got what I wanted', repeating this. The tears must have lasted for two hours. I was continually struck by the beauty around me and the kindness of everyone. The slightest thing would set me off again. At breakfast Evie, seeing that I was rather lost, poured me a cup of tea. This brought a flood of tears again.
The rest of the day passed easily as far as I remember. I was aware that the experience of the morning was not really complete, but wasn't really troubled by this. Towards the evening I was sitting quite purposefully, and pushing into the meditation, wanting to go further. The next morning, I eagerly awaited the talk, which had helped me so much on previous mornings, seeming to be exactly judged to give me what I needed. John talked about ordinary mind. The need to be ordinary at this point of the retreat, not to push for experiences and so on. I hated it! It was not what I wanted to hear The next two periods of meditation were full of furious thoughts. Looking back it must have been a kind of fury mixed with serenity, as I don't remember being swamped by it. I calmed down after a while and later, during the work period, began to feel that this was all a bit silly. I realised that I'd reacted that way, precisely because I'd begun to push too much, to push for 'an experience'. In fact the early morning talk had again had a precise, though salutary, effect.
The meditations settled then. Later in the morning we did an exercise in the field, after which John told us to sit for a period outside. I went up to the stream, as did many people, as the sound really echoes through me when the thoughts are quiet. I saw all the cars parked, which didn't seem an ideal place to sit, but I thought, well, this is the twentieth century, I'll sit by the cars. I only mention this rather daft conversation with myself, as looking back, it seems to me that I wasn't (for once) trying to set up any particularly perfect conditions. I felt quite content, found a pleasant place to sit and made myself comfortable.
I sat down, enjoying looking over the stream. I felt clear and happy. Thoughts continued to run through my mind, though without stopping - if that makes any sense. They were sometimes there, moving at speed, but disappeared equally fast and so did not seem to interfere with the meditation. It didn't seem to matter that my mind wasn't completely quiet. Then the character and quality of the meditation, and my experience, began to change - again without any effort or wish on my part. The world seemed brighter, illuminated is the only word; it was more than the freshness the scenery has after periods of meditation. The phrase 'Serene illumination' came into my mind - though I didn't know or even consider whether this was what was meant by it. At times I seemed to be locked into what was happening. This probably gives the wrong impression - locked onto is probably better, I was so close to my experience, that no thoughts could intrude. There was just a continuous experience. I remember the phrase 'one thought for a thousand years' suddenly made sense. These experiences must have lasted for most of the meditation period. When the bell rang, I shook my head, thinking 'marvellous'. Marvellous was the exact word; it was a marvel. Walking back up to the house I had a sense of passing through a door, and entering some different, lighter state of mind. This was quite undramatic, but seemed very important.
The interviews were very important for me in that John acknowledged, and so validated what I described. In the first one, he said at some point "you've certainly got some experience or you wouldn't be able to talk like that". This helped my confidence early on. The talks, particularly in the evening, also brought confirmation in that he described experiences, in a general way, that I had recently had. The gratitude I felt, and the shifting of self, carried a feeling of certainty. I didn't doubt, for once, that I was recounting something important that was a result or fruit of the retreat process. Nevertheless, I was very glad that John quizzed me about it, satisfying himself that I wasn't completely adrift. Also glad that he seemed pleased too - some return for his own work perhaps. More important though was a later interview, which I asked for after sitting on the bank. I almost 'didn't bother him', and just let it go. Looking back this seems extraordinary, and confirms my amazing capacity to doubt myself and my experiences. Still, I wouldn't have attached much importance to it if John hadn't again quizzed me about it rather carefully, to find out what I'd found, and by his manner shown that this was a more important step than I'd realized. I was touched and encouraged when he said that he would be disappointed if I did not feel more confident in my practice after what had happened. Looking back, I feel that whereas the gratitude was a beginning, the illumination was a move to a different quality of meditation altogether - in which the joy and the silence were brought together.
