I’ll admit it, I was scared. That long, staring at a wall, no talking? For all my talk of how wonderful it would be, when the time came I didn’t think I could do it. No way, nuh-huh, not gonna happen. These folks are serious sitters; at this point I was still spending most of my time sitting zazen in a chair. There was no way I could keep up with them. Mulling it over the night before, I revised my ambitions down to “stick it out for as long as I can”.
Sesshin began late afternoon Tuesday with Oryoki training. Oryoki is the ritualized way we would be taking our meals while in the zendo. I’m not quite sure how to explain it to you. The training began with each of us being given a bundle of cloths, nested bowls, and utensils. The Ino (monk in charge of the temple) then gave precise instructions on how to unfold the bundles and lay out these objects: cloths on your left leg, under your napkin, bowls largest to smallest left to right, utensils just so. Next: how to interact with our servers (no eye contact, when to bow, hand signals to use); the precise forms for eating (which to eat first, where to place our utensils as we shifted from bowl to bowl, and the different offerings during the different meals. If I hadn’t been intimidated enough about sesshin before, I was now. After dinner was the formal welcome, a review of the day-to-day schedule, and an opportunity for last minute questions. At the end of the meeting we bowed and left for our rooms in silence.
This week’s schedule would also be more rigorous than the last two. Zazen began an hour earlier; what had been heralded by the bell of a nearby church ringing dawn’s light during the previous weeks now unfolded in the silence of darkness. I would sit, one of twenty-four, following my breath, eyes loosely focussed on a seam in the polished wood floor, and sense the light slowly shift from reflected candlelight to a hint of sun. The bell would ring and we would kinhin, slow mindful walking (and washroom break), and I would slip to the enclosed walkway behind the zendo to walk in the unfolding dawn. Another bell and we were back to the cushion for more sitting and the morning service. But now, a change from previous weeks, a chime, and ‘Prepare for Oriyoki’. We would scoot back our mats and the ritualized meal would begin.
After a short break, it was back in the zendo for the morning schedule. We began with an hour of samu (work practice). Then, in a slight deviation from a ‘normal’ sesshin: a ‘dharma hike’. We met in the Buddha Garden, slowly circling around the fountain. Then, still in silence, we snake out in a line to the top of the parking lot and east along the road to a local trail. The trail wound up a dry canyon between two collections of homes, the runoff from yards (technically illegal in this dry climate) creating an occasional pocket of meadow grasses and reeds. We would stop at an intersection halfway up the hill, circle and wait for the slower walkers (okay, the other folks would wait for me), and then walk back the way we came. Over the days we self-organized, the faster walkers were up front and the slower straggling along behind like the ice tail of a comet. We would meet folks along the way: trail runners, mountain bikers, dog walkers, and one lady, walking by herself the same time every day (as we were) with a sad lonely look on her face. I would wonder what they thought of us, a long line of somewhat shabby people, walking in silence, hands clasped at our bellies, eyes slightly down. After trail it was another hour in the zendo (sit, walk, sit) and lunch. Afternoon was a similar schedule: samu, an hour of yoga instead of walking and more sitting. After dinner we had one final sit, evening service, and then it was lights out.I was horrible at all of it.
First, the sitting. How hard could it be, you ask? Didn’t you sit for hours at your desk, or curled up reading on the weekends? You would be surprised. For one, there is the physical posture. There were four sitting options, three on a cushion (lotus, half-lotus and kneeling), and the chair. It became obvious the first week that I should stick to the chair. I had been fine doing this during the lectures, but it seemed a little lame to do an entire sesshin in a black folding chair. Fortunately, one of my fellow retreatants was a yoga teacher, and he encouraged me to try different sitting poses and heights (one cushion, two cushions, or sometimes three). By the time sesshin came around I had found one that I could hold for most of a sit without my legs falling asleep. But I still wasn’t up for a full day.Then there was the mental posture. The goal in zen is to watch your breath without attachment. Of course the mind wanders, and the trick is to catch it an bring your attention back to your breath. I am usually pretty good at the wandering part, it is the catching it part I was hoping to improve. Lucky for me, with the five sits a day I had plenty of opportunities. But with the expanded schedule, I encountered a new and unexpected challenge. The Tibetans believe that monks who fall asleep during practice come back as a dog. Lets just say that by the lunchtime on the second day it was clear I will be a dog in my next life.
The other challenge was oryoki. I had done my best to follow the instructions during the training, but to be honest, with no prior exposure it was like drinking from a fire hose. Normally this is accommodated by alternating novice and veteran on the seating chart, but somehow during meals I ended up on the end of my row paired with a novice. Lets just say we did our best, and with the most sincerity we could muster. But mistakes were made, and I was the frequent recipient of corrections from the Abbot.
My favorite part of sesshin by far was the yoga. If you have seen me get up from a long stretch at my computer any time recently, you know I could use more of this. I say ‘more’ as I have been doing yoga, either to a video or in a class on and off for about twenty years. And late afternoon, after our third sit, was the perfect time for it. I would get up from the cushion, lower legs half asleep (and despite this, sore!), hips slightly creaky, and after a quick break position my mat with the others to one side of the zendo. Since this was silent yoga the two teachers worked in tandem, one at the front of the group alerting changes with a deep out-breath, while the other moved among the group providing adjustments. Together they led us through a series of slow restorative poses designed to increase our energy and stretch us out from the hours on the cushion. But I was out of practice, and huffed and puffed through the sequences, my body resisting every posture.
Then, on the third day, something shifted. We filed in to the zendo, took our places on our cushions, and once the bell rang slipped in to silence. As the minutes passed, it became a beautiful silence, a clear silence more silent than any I had heard before, the silence that arises from twenty-four people deliberately holding mind and body still. Someone would cough, and instead of rippling through the room, we held each other in practice and silence would emerge again. This synchronicity carried through the day: I was able to keep up during the walk; I noticed (and corrected) the visual illusion that was causing me to nod off; and at lunchtime our seats were rearranged so I was next to an experienced oryoki-er. Even my yoga improved: muscle memory began to kick in and I was able to stretch in to the forms.On the fourth day we awoke to a special treat. Lying in bed, the world seemed stiller than usual, as if the resonant silence from the day before had carried through the night. I stumbled bleary-eyed to the kitchen, and there, framed by the kitchen window and lit by the courtyard light: falling snow. It must have started in the night; as I watched, the new flakes added to the thin blanket of snow that hovered above the grasses and and nestled in the leaves of sage. The snow continued as we sat, and I got up during kinhin so I could watch it fall and then sit below the window as the sun rose behind the clouds. But the fragile precip was no match for the thin dry high desert air. The sun emerged from the clouds as we emerged from breakfast, it was melting steadily during our walk, and by lunchtime it was gone.
The fifth morning was our last together, and I was a bit nostalgic as I traipsed down the flagstones to our haven. We took our seats, set our intentions, and then sat together one last time. Breathing in, breathing out, the monk next to me a rock, an occasional cough on my other side, with muffled sobs and heavy breathing (or quiet snores ) from further down the row. Then, too soon, the bell and we began our morning chants and bows. Once finished, for the first time since we began “Good Morning” closed the service and we filed to the kitchen for breakfast. After ten minutes the clackers clacked. A ‘thank you’ and our quiet intimacy was over.
I had made it all the way through. No one was more surprised than me.
Of course there was much more than I have included here, many stumbles and small kindnesses as we helped each other through the week, and watching spring unfold. There was also the odd way silence can create relationships more intimate than words. I may circle back at some point with more memories. But for now, back to the world of spoken language.
