I am writing this by hand, in my hurried, messy cursive-all caps hybrid, on a yellow legal pad. I didn’t bring my computer and my phone has been turned off and put away. I’ve changed my clothes into simple, comfortable garb, washed off my makeup, and braided my hair. My jewelry is all gone, except for my mala, wrapped loosely around my right wrist. I am alone in the great hall; my first time here in nearly four years, and it feels like a homecoming. There is a heavy peace here, punctuated by the strong smells of spice and sour emanating from the kitchen and the fading daylight streaming in through the wall of windows facing the west. Golden Tara sits upon her moon-disc, up high on the altar, her right foot dangling towards me, and a thin, white shawl wrapped around her burnished torso. My yogi job is to care for her this weekend, so I have already watered her orchids and lit her candles, dipping my head in reverence each time I approach. It is unusual for a Buddhist Temple to revere the divine feminine as the central figure; most feature the male Buddha. But here, Tara reigns supreme.
I’m not one hundred percent clear on why I’m here this weekend; I arrived with no expectations. But my soul has been craving this silence, this removal from society, this isolation and solitude. This place is a container for practice, so I suppose I was seeking a container. It will be some time before the other retreatants and the lamas enter the meditation hall, so I have this space for myself now. I settle into my cushion, grounding down through my seat, gently lengthening my spinal column as I exhale and close my eyes. I cup my hands lightly in my lap and let my shoulders and my forehead relax with a sigh.
When you are first learning how to meditate, you start with the simplest access points to your awareness; grounding, mindfulness, connecting with the breath and the body, maybe even noticing the emotional and energy bodies and naming your current human experiences. You might link to a mantra or take refuge, or call on a deity. These are all wonderful practices, and they all lead you to the same pond. But my practice is older now, deeper, different. I am familiar with residing in open-ended awareness, and slip into it easily now. I no longer require a path, there is just... pond. When I meditate, I exist inside of myself and just wait; something will arise. This time, I watch as Tonglen arises, and I breathe for others for a bit, but I let the practice go as easily as it came. Next, my Bodhisattva vows materialize, and I enjoy repeating them for a few rounds before they dissolve into mantra. My conceptual mind is still telling stories, trying to keep ahold of me, as my vows dissolve into the Tara mantra. Years of following “practices” makes my thinking mind automatically try to use them when I sit, but I know that these practices all involve a self that doesn’t really exist, so I don’t get caught up in them. I wait.
Practices stop coming after a while, and then there is nothing. I sink. As I begin to wake down, towards the bottom of the pond, my “self” starts to go away. I am in the mud now, the murky, primordial place where I have no name and no face. This is the nys mind, the place where there is only pure awareness, the place where everything exists before my thoughts label and categorize and explain it all. Maybe this is where “I” don’t exist anymore. Maybe this is where I am everything and nothing… and both… and neither. I feel on the threshold of something here, as if maybe I have found the emptiness, and yet it is full… of something. Is this where I am enlightened? The mud is pure, and dark, a place of origin. It is old here. And new. And neither. I am not a human here; maybe I don't even exist anymore. Or maybe this is just another level, a barrier I still need to cross. I’m not sure; it’s as far as I’ve ever gone. It’s difficult to stay here without your thinking mind interrupting and pulling you back up, so I am only the mud for a few moments. My mind rises reluctantly, even as I recognize the irony in the grasping and how attachment is the reason I rise in the first place. I return to the breath. I am still meditating but I am no longer in my inner landscape. I am back to a body.
I discuss this later with my teacher (we break noble silence for Dharma talks with Lamas). She remarks that I am very self aware, that I need more than they are offering this weekend, and encourages me to begin the Margha or Vajrayana programs, which are more formal programs to develop more deeply onto the path. I am hesitant to make such a big commitment. We argue about loving and being loved, and which one is required first in order to experience the other. Her face lights up when I tell her my theories about “beginner” meditation practices, and how I see them as useful access points, but not authentic, as they all include the existence of a self or the focus on an impermanent object. She agrees with me. We contemplate together the fear of death as a counterpoint to the comfort of emptiness. She asks me how I feel about plant medicine and (shockingly) recommends a foray into psilocybin. I am hesitant about that as well, and tell her so. Our time is up quickly, and I must return to noble silence. I am still thinking about the plant medicine thing…
Our next Sangha session is a benefactor practice, and I focus deeply on my love for my husband, and how it feels to be loved by him. I understand that meditating on an impermanent object that includes a “self” is not the path, but it feels good, so I do it anyway. I leave this meditation insanely homesick and cry in my room before dinner. I am just a human girl after all, and my feet are cold, I’m lonely, I’m bored, and I am far, far, so far from the bottom of my pond right now. I am on retreat.
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