Why are you Here?

I felt an immense sense of fear and trepidation when I sent my cheque in for my first WZR. Previous to this my record at sitting was about 12 minutes, during which I would usually get terribly restless and my ankles would hurt due to the amount of sport I have played. On the other side I had spent years devouring books on Buddhism and quite a few other ‘isms’ too. My father had always been interested in Zen and was involved with Christmas Humphreys and Buddhism a long time ago but seemed to have dissociated himself from the group, I think because he hated clubs and organisations of any kind. He was a bit of a maverick intellectually and preferred to pursue his interests on his own.

My childhood house was full of books on Buddhism and Zen in particular. Now and again I used to dip into them to see if I could find out a bit more about where my Dad was at. He found it difficult to explain his fascination with these ideas to me. When I looked into the books I found them incomprehensible, like riddles with little or no meaning. Sometimes I would ask my father what he got out of it and he would reply enigmatically with something like: "Sitting quietly, doing nothing. Spring comes and the grass grows under your feet." Knowing my Dad, I took this as a recipe for non-action, something he was quite good at.

However after living for some years in Mexico and experimenting with hallucinogens I became much more interested in Buddhism; but while I continued to read a lot, my life became increasingly chaotic and intolerable.

So it was with this background that I arrived at Maenllwyd. I thought of packing the boot of the car with beer and fags, my two main addictions. I wrestled with whether or not to bring my tobacco, would I be able to sneak off and have a quiet beer and a puff? I decided against it since I imagined myself in the hall obsessing about my next fix. When I arrived the hall seemed very formal, I wasn't up to this, not advanced enough.

The retreat began. Sitting was very hard, all my old injuries came back to haunt me, they visited me one by one, even the ones I thought I had got over. On the second day I felt very bad, felt like I was being abused, very annoyed at John and Simon and the bloody click-clickity thing that woke me every morning. I check out how easily I might get my car out and discovered it was right at the back of the yard so that in order to move it a lot of other people would have to move their cars too; I gave up the idea. At this point I felt I had been kicked all over my back. Yet, on the next day most of the pain miraculously disappeared. At moments I felt as if I was floating. I even looked forward to sitting. I felt a bit trippy and was aware how this feeling came and went. It wasn't constant.

Then I decide I must look like shit. I must have a shave. But when? Yes - during the tea after the early morning exercises. So I rush upstairs leaving the solemn tea party, finally I have got a bit of space for myself! I am a desperate man. I turn on my torch - for there's no electricity here - I smear shaving foam on my face, pick up the razor when, horror of horrors, the bell rings and I feel completely stressed out. I shave in ten seconds, knock the torch over and swearing loudly I rush headlong into the hall. Thank God, I just made it. Then during sitting I start to smile at how uptight I have gotten, for some reason I start to have a sense of humour about myself and also feel a bit kinder to myself. Perhaps the retreat has in some way worn down my resistance.

I also experience frustrating feelings during the communication exercises. At one point I feel that if any one else asks me `Who I am', I will clock them. I get called for an interview with John. He is very patient and says quietly "Why are you here?" I feel tears well up in my eyes, something about allowing feelings and intuition in too.

Funny thing about time. On the retreat I often lost track of what day it was, sometimes I felt I just had to ask other participants. I felt I was in some kind of alternative world. Some days seemed very long, others zipped by. When I returned home it seemed at moments that the retreat had only lasted a few hours, very weird. My six year-old son asked me whether I had been to the moon. I said, "Maybe".

What I am aware of in these weeks after the retreat is that I seem to have more space to live in, it is easier to just let thoughts and feelings arise and then go; a feeling that I am not the whole story and also the whole story too.