The context for attending this retreat feels important. It was the first retreat I had sat as a participant for 2 years - I had acted as Guestmaster on a couple of retreats since then, the last occasion being six months previously on a Western Zen Retreat, when I had sat in on some interviews with the retreat leader. I had really enjoyed this, but I continue to feel it is a privilege to be asked to develop in this role - sometimes I wonder if I will be up to it. Self-doubt, I have learned since I first came to Wales seven years ago, is a samskara which can have an insidious hold on me: and it usually shows itself on retreat. There was to be no exception this time.
The seventh anniversary of my first visit was another strand of this retreat's context. Why it should feel significant I'm not sure: maybe it has something to do with the notion one reads about here and there, that we are literally transformed every seven years or so - a completely new set of cells construct us during that period. To say that I have been transformed in other ways over the last seven years smacks of hyperbole, but neither do I want to minimise the impact that Maenllwyd has had on me during that time. Discovering Chan and struggling to open myself to what I intuit as its profoundly liberating impulses feels like a gift and a blessing which has been bestowed on me, for which I could not be more grateful. So I think that part of my purpose in coming to sit again was the opportunity it would give me to express that gratitude.
The third strand of my everyday life which I brought with me to this retreat was a period of disturbance and difficulty in my professional life which went back almost two years. The direction of my career had been disrupted by management decisions outside my control; two consequences of this were, firstly, a move to what sounded like a job which would bring me back on the course I had set myself, but which turned out to be nothing of the kind: and secondly, disruption to my training as a psychotherapist. One of the consequences of these events was that I found it increasingly difficult to make time in my life for regular meditation, either on my own at home or at the weekly group which I had been attending on and off for a year or two. I felt both guilty and frustrated about this - and I was apprehensive about sitting a full retreat following some months when I had hardly sat at all. On the positive side, I had been in a new job for four months which felt very promising, and I had the feeling that maybe I was moving on from what had been an unsettling time.
The retreat began well enough. My sitting was OK, and I felt that over the years I had been coming here I was sufficiently familiar with my obstacles for them to have become manageable, and less overwhelming than in my early visits. Towards the end of the first full day I noticed another retreatant going into the interview room, and for some reason this unsettled me as I went into the hall for the start of the period. Is he having difficulties already?, I said to myself; this seemed to knock my own confidence, and as I sat on my mood darkened and familiar feelings of a sort of helpless paralysis and inadequacy invaded me. I took these feelings to bed with me, and they remained there the following morning. They were joined by another familiar feeling, which became most evident during morning service: a childish, sullen resentment of what was going on around me, and a reluctance to add my voice to the chanting and recitation (on a previous visit this feeling had got the better of me and I had left the hall for the duration of the service).
Later that morning the first full round of interviews began. Of course when my turn came these feelings found their outlet, and as I sat crying I tried to articulate my sense of helpless frustration that this pattern should be repeating itself once more. Had I learned nothing in the past seven years? We tried to work out what was going on together, and it was not straightforward: grief was certainly a part of it, but relief also seemed important - relief that once again I had come to this precious place, where I had found during my very first visit that so much buried feeling could be allowed to flow and fall away from me. Simon seemed to think that my meditation was doing its work - I was "with" what was arising as I sat (silence), and I was clearly aware of it! (illumination). Simon also felt that there might be some more subtle, as yet unclear, facets to this particular "knot", or koan - so there is more enquiring to be done here. In doing so, I also need to consider how projection and transference are operating in my relationship with retreat leaders, whoever it may be.
Later in the retreat I described this early upset in terms of a sudden stormy squall hitting a ship as it leaves the harbour. From then on, my voyage settled, the sea calmed: my sitting improved, and I felt I was acquiring a richer and more three-dimensional understanding of Silent Illumination and its subtleties. Equally importantly, I found I was being kinder to myself as I hit tricky patches - I had more spontaneous, playful conversations with myself, and invented new ways of bringing my awareness to bear on my whole body. As the days passed I had a deepening experience of my body as immensely solid, weighty, even rock-like; and I noticed that the experience of physical discomfort or pain was subtly altered the more my awareness broadened. My mind gradually quietened and became more spacious and relaxed. This process was assisted by Simon's morning talks, which often seemed to be in tune with something that was surfacing within. Of special relevance to me was his suggestion that we need to cultivate a balance between humility and confidence as we encounter the ups and downs of practice - if we fall into pride at our progress, or excessive self-doubt, then ego is present and silence will retreat. I found this enormously helpful.
On two evenings before supper we made prostrations. This gave me the opportunity to express gratitude for having found Chan, Maenllwyd and everything that I have discovered in the last seven years. Tears of relief and joy flowed, mingled with laughter and delight at having such an opportunity given to me. Bowing, prostrating - these aspects of practice acquired a new energy and significance on this retreat: they are emphasised in the Opening Ceremony, which Simon explored in one of his talks:-
"We vow to bow in gratitude for life, for being together in this place and time. We bow knowing full well that a man or woman cannot live without suffering. We bow knowing full well that a man or woman cannot live without at some time hurting another. We bow in the knowledge that the path to peace may lead through hell. We bow in contrition, gratitude, tenderness."
In his talk, Simon joked that maybe we usually just recite the ceremony without paying too much attention to the words. For me they have always been intensely moving, and there are points at which I struggle to speak, so beautifully do they catch at my heart:
"In our hearts we reflect upon-
The perfection of silence.
"In our hearts we reflect upon -
The perfection of love.
"In our hearts we reflect upon -
The perfection of compassion."
The weather during the retreat was entirely typical of Spring, and of these Welsh hills: driving rain, mud, wind, cloudy skies, clear skies, bright sunshine in a bright blue sky. The fields were full of ewes with their lambs, who would maraud around the hedgerows in excitable gangs. We could sometimes practice kinhin or direct contemplation outside, usually in the late afternoon as the wind dropped. Spring seemed to be taking hold at last.
The last full day of the retreat was bright and sunny. My sitting continued to feel solid, and I did not slip back into the mire which had briefly stuck to me earlier in the week. I was sitting in the hall during the first period after lunch, and felt very stable, sitting through the brief break. Towards the end of the hour, not long before the walk, there was a sudden shift in my perception, which I described later to John and Simon as being like the negative of a colour photograph - I saw myself in these terms just sitting there on the cushion. There was a sort of "turning around" in my body as tears welled up, and I just sat there letting it all flow. Quite quickly it switched to delighted laughter, and the two impulses came and went as they would. By now everyone had left the hall for the walk. I felt strange - slightly shaky, and my breathing had changed. I stood up slowly, thinking I would do some prostrations to calm things down. I did them, but the strangeness persisted as I stood facing the altar: I found myself saying, "What is it?" over and over, as I looked around at my surroundings. All was exactly the same, but not so at all - it is very hard to describe the feeling it evoked. I began to walk tentatively towards the door, and my body continued to feel shaky - the thought of a new-born calf taking its first shaky steps is the image that I used later.
I walked out into the yard, into the dazzling blue of the sky and the bright sunlight. Everything seemed bathed in a luminous intense stillness, a sharp clarity which seemed too much to take in: everything appeared quietly and intently SO. It was as if I had been blind from birth, and that following a miraculous operation to cure me, the bandages had been removed from my eyes, and I was seeing the world for the first time. I sat on the bench against the wall of the Chan Hall, gaping wide-eyed at this intensity, this too-much-presentness; still I asked "What is it? What is this?", as I held onto the arm of the bench for safety, still shaking slightly.
No-one was around. I needed to talk to someone. I'll see if John is in his room, I thought. I made my way over to the house and went upstairs. "John?" I called, querulously, outside his room with its door ajar. No reply, and I realised I had disturbed the cook taking his rest in the corner. I returned to the yard as quietly as I could, and resumed my seat. Before long Simon emerged from the house. "Simon! Simon! I need to talk to you", I cried, and he came over and led me into the library and we sat facing one another as we had so many times before. There he was. Here I was. I just sat and looked at him, and he looked at me, and once again, we were just SO. It was overwhelming, and I don't recall all I said, but I bet I was inarticulate and rambling and crying with the weird wonder of it all. I kept leaning forward intently to look at Simon, and there was nothing in the way, and I grasped his hands and said "You're Simon, aren't you?", and he said "Yes, just me - no projections." "What is this?" I asked, and he said "You've got out of the way." "Is there a name for it?" I asked a moment or two later, and Simon said "One mind". I continued to sit facing him, crying and smiling like an idiot, gasps of wonder still bursting from me in rapt astonishment: Simon said "You've got me going now", and we stood up and hugged each other.
I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering up the hill and into the fields, still with the sense of someone newly-born: my limbs felt strange to me, and every look or touch I gave to my surroundings felt fresh and dazzlingly clear. The grass and moss were unutterably grass-y and moss-y: the sheep blinking at me were revealed in all their essential sheep-iness, and I gasped in wonder yet again as I looked at them. (Only "I" was not doing any of this, I guess - hence the sense of unmediated intense clarity in the experiencing that was taking place, devoid of - or, at least, much less coloured by - the normal fog of interpretation with its attachments and disdains.)
I made myself a mug of tea and got some cake from the kitchen, and sat by the stream where it goes through a concrete arch. The stream bubbled away beneath me as the shadows gradually lengthened down the steep wooded valley above the house. Above me were the tight sharp buds on a slender tree, a deep pink in colour, set against the deep blue of the early evening sky. People drifted into view and took up positions here and there to practice Direct Contemplation.
I wandered down into the fields below the Chan Hall again, now in full shadow, and stood among the ewes and lambs for a while. The lambs continued to bleat and bounce around in constantly changing groups and alliances. I turned to see Simon at the door of the hall, and waved, and he beckoned me. I went up and sat in the library with Simon and Jake, and recounted my experience in more detail as far as I could. As I did so, I was swept up in great gusts of the most intense, gutsy laughter possible, and reaching out to feel the solid presence of things in the room, such as the small desk, or my chair. That made me laugh even more. It felt as if the universe was laughing.
Later I shared my experience with John in his room, and we also talked together the following morning in the quiet of the first sit of the day. He told me that, of course, the experience would fade, but that I should not become depressed about it. It would give me confidence. Had I really been silent illumination? It seemed so. I said I felt stunned by what had occurred; but now, looking back a week or two, the more enduring feeling is that of being blessed. As I walked through the park during my lunch break just now, seeing the burgeoning blossom and unfurling leaves on the trees, I knew that it was still there: just out of sight, slightly obscured - but it didn't matter.
One morning after our exercises in the yard, Simon had talked about our normal waking and sleeping states. Did we think we were really awake now, just having left our beds and our unconscious world? He challenged us to really "Wake up!" as we continued to practice. And during another talk he considered Hongzhi's poem "The Lancet of Sitting Chan", which I think ends with the line, "Where does this wonder exist?"
I did wake up.
I have seen the wonder.
