This article appears in the Winter 2010-2011 edition of Woodfish.
Attacking Self-Nature: Paul Majchrzyk’s Solo Retreat Diary, September 20th-29th 2007
Diarist’s note: The first time I sat a solo retreat, I forgot much of what happened after a few months, and I decided to keep a diary this time to help me recall more details of the experience. There is very little free time on a solo retreat, and the “diary” is a couple sheets of hastily-scribbled notes describing whatever seemed important to me in the rare instances when I could find a few minutes of spare time for writing. The diary portrays how a solo retreat is experienced—as a series of short vivid images, impressions and insights that are complete in themselves, if not related to each other in a linear way.
Thursday 9/20:
As I do last-minute packing for the retreat, I find myself agonizing about little things – what clothes to bring, how much food, which books, clocks, medicines, etc. I’m reminded that our founding teacher compared entering and leaving a retreat to an airplane taking off or landing. There’s extra stress on the plane’s structure at those times, so lots of creaking and rumbling.
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When boarding the train for Providence, I have to use every ounce of self-control to restrain myself from trampling my fellow passengers in that compulsory stampede for better seats. What is that? Why not wait for everyone else to board the train and then take the worst seat? After so many years of practice, why is it still so hard to resist the herd mentality?
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I begin the retreat with evening chanting and everything seems fine. But when I begin sitting meditation, I realize that my energy is terrible: I feel weak, cold, nauseous, feverish, exhausted. If it’s already this bad after a few hours, I certainly won’t be able to last for ten days, and I immediately start planning to give up (which mostly means inventing the most heroic-sounding justifications for quitting.) I know on some level that this urge to quit is my “opposites mind” reversing the direction of my meditation ardor— “I can’t wait to be on retreat!” morphs into “I have to escape this retreat now!” —but the desire to flee is genuine and overpowering.
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Midnight bows outdoors in the cool moonlight with the crickets invigorate me, and give me energy to get through the first late-night sitting session. I guess I’ll put aside those quitting plans… for now.
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Friday, 9/21
When preparing breakfast I realize that the fridge doesn’t work (although the motor is running), and all my perishable food has spoiled. I feel angry and ready to give up again. I spend the entire morning meditation session grumbling about “what a dump this place is.”
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During afternoon sitting, things suddenly become very quiet and ordinary. All that stress, anger and grumbling has settled down by itself.
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When I did a solo retreat in April, the bird songs and animal sounds were beautiful, melodious, and brimming over with the energy and optimism of springtime courtship and mating. But now the daytime sounds are full of territoriality and aggression as the animals get ready to hunker down for the winter—like one big continuous fight. I can hear and feel the aggression in their tone, and it puts me in the same frame of mind. I want to run out and tell them to shut up and cut the crap (which would undoubtedly be very effective).
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Saturday, 9/22
There were football games all day at the nearby high-school stadium. I can hear the play-by-play on the PA system as if I were watching TV in the hut. Not the retreat atmosphere I had envisioned, and it’s so hard to stop myself from following along and visualizing the game. I decide to become another forest animal with no idea of what those words mean—just a constant droning in the background.
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My chipmunk pal: He lives under the hut, or in a hole nearby. The first day I came out, he darted away and watched from afar. Now he brings acorns to a rock about three feet from the porch, and sits there calmly eating while he watches me do walking meditation. He must know I’m on silent retreat, or he surely would have struck up a conversation by now.
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Overall, this has been a low-key retreat for me. No mood swings, highs or lows, no trying to hold the question. There’s nothing I want to do or accomplish. But something in me is not quite OK with that, and feels that I’m wasting the retreat. So I’m trying to at least “be present” as much as possible. Which is correct? Just letting it be, or making an intentional effort to stay alert?
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Sunday, 9/23
I’ve never had a retreat that went the way I wanted it to go, or the way I planned (even when my plan was to have no plan). Yet I’m never sorry. This is retreat’s great value. It helps us see these deeply-embedded ideas we measure ourselves against, and that continuously color our experience. Someone is never quite happy or satisfied? Who is that?
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You’ll never see things clearly until you see through your expectations, and since expectations are numberless, the process is endless. The Four Great Vows are in this sense just a realistic reminder that practice never ends. It takes away our idea and love of an endgame.
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Cricket sounds – nature’s “white noise.” It’s such a soothing sound. Even better than New York’s traffic sounds.
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A large grey spider (at least 3 inches in diameter) uses the retreat hut as his hunting ground. At night he’s usually perched on the wall a foot or two above my head, his many eyes glistening in the moonlight. His body turns each time I pass under him during walking meditation, like a tennis spectator following the ball in slow motion. I try to control that tinge of fear I feel when I’m directly beneath him. On occasion I imagine him pouncing on my neck, sinking his fangs into my jugular, and bleeding me to death.
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Monday, 9/24
The re-usable Reynolds wrap skillet—my great bodhisattva: I’ve been eating only raw food until now—cereal, crackers, nuts, fruits—because I forgot to bring a pan, and I’m too noble to snatch one of the temple’s two small pans. But today I realized that I can sculpt a little skillet from several layers of aluminum foil, and it works like a charm. My first warm meal (reheated potato omelet from the temple kitchen) is indescribably wonderful—better than enlightenment. It even surpasses the Buddhas and patriarchs.
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I thought chipmunks were nature’s ultimate cute shy little creatures. But today I discovered that they’re the ones making that continuous ear-splitting territorial chirping. They actually stand nose to nose about six inches apart and chirp rhythmically at each other for hours on end, leaning forward to deliver a chirp attack, and backward when receiving . . . until one of them finally gives in. But it never comes to violence.
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Today my body finally went bad on me. Back, shoulders, and that ever reliable left knee are painful, throbbing, and raw. After my knees buckle during walking, I give in and use a chair for a few periods. This activates my inner Zen critic and my ideas about what a sucky practitioner I am (“Can’t even sit cross-legged for more than three days, you wimp?”). I try my “don’t judge your practice” lecture on myself, but am not impressed.
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As usual, I am not happy or satisfied with my experience, especially during sitting meditation. I feel like I’m wasting time, or I’m not intense enough, or I try to generate states of mind like “being present”, “before words and speech,” “just being,” etc. I always feel some level of dissatisfaction during a retreat, and only afterwards do I fully realize the value of what has happened and feel gratitude.
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Our Temple Rules for retreats say “Do not think you are a great and free person . . .” There were a few times during this retreat when I almost believed I was one. But when gardening time rolls around and I try to set up that lawn sprinkler from hell, I invariably end up in a water-soaked wrestling match with that infernal piece of plastic that reduces me to a cursing, drooling idiot in mere seconds. So thank you for your teaching . . . you $1.29 WalMart piece of shit!
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Tuesday, 9/25
Today the chipmunk warriors are chirping at the right speed for daily chanting, so I use their chirps to keep the beat for the Heart Sutra and the Great Dharani. They chirp somewhat irregularly, so I have to be totally alert and react instantaneously to stay in sync with them. An interesting exercise in reflexive concentration.
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Today I noticed that during meditation, I often drift off within a few minutes of sitting down. My body lists slightly to the left, and my field of vision glazes over, allowing internal meanderings. By setting visual cues on the floor and keeping a perfectly straight back, I was able to “return to now” much more effectively.
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When getting ready for sitting meditation this evening, I heard myself say “Sitting!! Whup dee doo!! Just what I need some more of!” Then I laughed uncontrollably for about three minutes.
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The Fifth Great Vow: “Allergy medicines are numberless. I vow to take them all.”
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Sometimes I think today’s Zen students know too much about Zen. For example, when I’m feeling unmotivated or having some kind of resistance to Zen practice, I think “Oh, that’s just great doubt. That’s one of the Three Essential Elements of Zen. My practice is fine.” Has the effectiveness of these methods been diluted by us knowing about them? I wonder if I will ever experience authentic great doubt.
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Wednesday, 9/26
Today I got so sick of listening to animal fighting sounds—chipmunks, squirrels, blue jays (nature’s Dick Cheneys) that I turned on the fan to drown them out. What a welcome relief, and a good lesson for those of us who tend to romanticize nature.
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What am I? I look and look, but have never found any “self.” Only everything else reflected without a subject/object interface. But I still feel like a self, I still get angry (even at stupid things), and my habit energies do not abate or weaken. Why doesn’t the realization penetrate? Why does pure clear original nature take on so many bad habits when it assumes human form?
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Thoughts appearing in the mind during meditation is “natural process.” Struggling with the thoughts that appear during meditation (instead of letting them play out) is also “natural process.” That’s how we eventually learn to stop struggling and just let them play out.
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Sometimes when I’m stumbling bleary-eyed through the woods at 3:00 AM, I imagine how convenient it would be to have a bathroom in the hut. But actually, these unscripted excursions into nature at all hours of the day and night are a unique and valuable part of the retreat experience. The demise of the outhouse has separated us from nature, and contributed a bit to the dulling of human experience.
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Friday, 9/28
Yesterday morning, my frustration at my inability to stop thinking and “stay present” came to a head, and I began hitting myself with the chukpi on the thigh every time I caught myself drifting off. This went on for nearly two days as my anger mounted to a fever pitch, and the self-discipline intensified until I had welts on both thighs. And then it happened! My cherished state of one-pointed concentration appeared. I was totally alert and present—when thoughts appeared I was not pulled off center and they dissipated almost immediately. This continued for several sitting periods, until I noticed that there was an emotionless quality to this alertness, and it dawned on me that my inner disciplinarian had simply beaten all the other components of my personality into submission. I had conducted a kind of Pavlovian Zen experiment on myself, and the resulting state was clear and alert, but also cold and lifeless. It was not anyplace worth staying.
Seeing this was like having a great weight lifted from my shoulders, and in the relaxed state that spontaneously ensued, I picked up and bored into the question of self-nature. “What am I?” “Who was so angry just before?” “How is it just now?” “At this very moment, what is it that sees and hears?” And within a short time I was immersed in a new and very different state of consciousness that lasted for most of the evening sitting session. There were several distinguishing aspects about this experience. One was that all boundaries had dissolved between me and the world, between inside and outside, between “this” and “that.” Things looked and sounded as they always do, but everything—form, light, color, sound, thought—was made of the same energy, which I saw visually as very thin glowing lines or grains of light flowing between things. Another aspect of this experience was a subtle sense of warmth, calmness, well-being, and of belonging. I felt comfortable and at home. And finally, there was an awareness that my small self and its needs had fallen away, so it seemed natural to devote more time to others (not so much a feeling of proactive altruism, but more like “what else is there to do?”)
Now that the world looks “normal” again, and the feeling of euphoria is receding, I think there may have been a mild hallucinogenic component to this experience, perhaps induced by all the endorphins released into my bloodstream after two days of self-mortification. However, I was here in the hut the whole time, following the schedule, sitting, walking, and so forth—so I wasn’t out of control either. I know I shouldn’t ascribe undue importance to this experience because of its “specialness.” But I don’t want to completely discount its meaning either. Perhaps this was a window on an equally valid way of experiencing the world when the conceptual mind is cut off. At minimum, it reminds me that the world is not quite the way it seems, and this somehow energizes my practice, and reinforces my belief in the Zen view of the underlying unity of all things.
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Saturday, 9/29
My retreat ends after this morning’s meditation session. I had hoped to finish on a peaceful, reflective note, and the world seemed to be cooperating. But then the sun rose and the animals began fighting even more noisily than usual. They were going to give me a rousing send-off.
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When I sat down for the final meditation period while the din of animal fighting continued, something in me decided it was time to take action. I felt some energy rise up in me that wasn’t exactly anger, but more like tough love parenting energy (“So you like fighting? I’ll show you fighting!”) And next thing I knew I was charging into the woods swinging the broom wildly and yelling war hoops, driving a small wave of squirrels, chipmunks and birds before me. That only bought me a few minutes of peace, but undaunted I charged a second time, clearing a wider area on all sides of the hut—and this time it worked. The woods were peaceful for almost twenty minutes—just a few plaintive bird calls in the distance. Perhaps not the clearest way to mark the end of a retreat, but I finally got to hear nature at rest in the daytime, and the peace and quiet were so beautiful.
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Postscript (written on train ride home)
It’s hard to explain to non-meditators why anyone would subject themselves to the rigors of a retreat over and over again. Sometimes I think the main reason I’ve been consistent in my Zen practice for so many years is that I know too well the many rough and combative parts of my personality that are simmering just below the surface, and this is the best way I’ve found to keep a close eye on this mountain of habits, opinions, ideas, desires, and behaviors that constitute my “conditioned self.”
Sitting retreats has taught me to appreciate the primary importance of the most basic aspects of meditation practice—namely, sticking to the schedule and following the forms. This is because being on retreat pulls my inner demons to the surface, where the relentlessness of the schedule can magnify their intensity to almost primal levels. When this happens “I” am completely taken over by the raw emotional energy of these inner voices, and using meditation methods to stabilize my mind—mantra practice, or “observing as thoughts come and go like clouds” —is not possible. But somehow through it all, I wake up, bow, meditate, chant, cook, eat, and garden like clockwork. The schedule acts like an anchor that allows me to stay centered and persevere as these inner voices express themselves, burn up their energy, and then subside, often suddenly—like the edge of a storm cloud passing over. The unexpected state of relaxed openness that follows is indescribable, and is often accompanied by a profound but beautiful sense of sadness—and a spontaneous feeling of wanting to help or give something back. Just recognizing how this happens (on retreat and in daily life) gradually breaks the grip that thoughts and feelings have on my consciousness, so they are less likely to influence my state of mind or affect how I relate to the world.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to tell this jerk behind me to stop yammering on his cell phone so I can enjoy the view from the train in peace (where’s a broom when you really need one).
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