Some days, I feel like the orb of God and the light that has cut the cord of desire, no longer feels the pain, but floats above the problems like with a cherub in the sky. The other day, I planned the murder of a man who was doing construction work on my house.
I already had an eight-week online meditation course with the first one. It’s free, one of my favorite four letter words, when I’m busy and have nothing to do. It’s time to do nothing.
“Let’s all begin to close our eyes and notice our breathing,” the teacher began. A gentle and gentle man, like those who think often, with a bald head, like the wise.
“It may have been a while since we checked with ourselves. So just take this time to find out.”
Despite the airy nature of his speech, the course was built on medical school. Jon Kabat-Zinn argues that if people with chronic pain could experience pain without punishment, they would be less likely to suffer. Contrary to many of my life choices, I am open to a little pain.
Eight other thinkers on my screen—some young, some old, some hippies, some professionals—close their eyes. My heart was racing. I closed my eyes and received the thoughts of the sages:
This is a waste of time. For what? My hip hurts.
During the two hours, we did short guided meditations and light yoga poses. It was difficult, but when the class was over, I felt refreshed and renewed. I look forward to the next session a week later until I learn homework: one hour of meditation a day, every day.
I laid on my office floor the next morning and listened to a recorded thought guide.
“What does your toe do for you today?”
Honestly, my toes don’t give me much data.
“Focus on your other toe and step on your left foot,” the recording continued. “And up your left leg.”
Contrary to many of my life choices, I am open to a little pain.
There was some feeling in my leg at least, and I wondered if something was wrong.
“Thoughts, thoughts, and feelings come from the body,” as the voice replies. “We just look at them without judgment.”
But my hip hurts a lot. Am I going to die? Also, what if a tweet of mine goes viral now? I need to check my phone.
I ended the session, stretched out my lap, and checked my device for a flood of texts and likes. Nothing.
Every day for the next six, I laid on the floor of my tiny house and trained my brain to focus on the parts of my body that weren’t working. At our next group meeting, everyone shared stories of how hard it was to make time for work. I didn’t, so time wasn’t the problem; just spending time with myself scared me.
This is a waste of time. For what? You are worthless.
“During our fifth week, we will do a full day of silent meditation,” the instructor told us. “In a way, this is a job for that.”
*
After my freshman year of college, when I learned that not everyone is an evangelical, including myself, I decided to find out as much as I could about “all the other crazy people” people will believe.” An internet search of “Summer Buddhism,” funding from my school’s Department of Religion, and trips from Virginia to Texas to Tokyo to Taiwan took me out of the country for the first time.
Venerable Yifa, a 5-foot-tall nun with a shaved head, greeted me at the Taipei airport. He smiled as if he knew something I didn’t.
“Hello, Zach! You’re going to enjoy your time here, right? he assured me as he led me to a white car. For the next thirty days, I will live like a Buddhist monk.
The monastery is a kind of university: dormitories, a restaurant, classrooms, gardens, corridors, and a village of meditation rooms. Forty other students I sat four in a room and were given white robes to wear. Days were filled with lectures on classic Buddhist texts, and nights with quiet meditation. There is less here, so there is nothing: no computer, no cell phone, no meat, no personal.
We used chopsticks – a novelty for me at home, a necessity here – to eat our food noisily in a large restaurant. Our last bit of bok choy was used to wash the last bits of rice into our bowl of soup. Nothing is finished. Our minds and bellies are full.
In the face of religious authority, I rebelled. As we took the brooms to an abandoned area for “reflection,” I questioned the enlightening value of the work. The group of mosquitoes we disturbed agreed. Some members decided to shave their heads as a sign of liberation from desire and freedom from vanity. I chose to keep my locks.
The trip ends with a week-long meditation retreat. We entered the dimly lit meditation room that was our home away from home for seven days of silence. Our seats were around his area, and our eyes were looking down when the face broke the silence.
Sitting still is difficult for tall people. I have legs, so folding my trees in a nice, neat, tight way is a struggle. Enlightenment may be the responsibility of those who are close to the earth. The first day, I spread them out as much as I could, but the pain brought on bad feelings.
What does this mean? Why did I come here? This is a waste of time.
“Think what you think,” Yifa said.
Frustrated and bored, I decided to sing Legly Blonde: The Song. One and a half Legly Blondes before going to meditation, another Act One before lunch. On the fourth day, when I read about Elle Woods’ journey to self-actualization, my heart sank. I felt isolated from my home, friends, and family, from verbal communication, laughter, and conversation. The silence was painful, as if it was ignoring your screams. Frustrated, I opened my eyes and saw my companions: forty small immovable mountains on their beds. I’m not alone.
The week ended with a hike up a small mountain. We took two steps, then bowed on our knees, stood up, two steps, bowed, two feet, bowed. When we reached the top of the hill, a huge golden Buddha temple looked down. I was afraid, not of anything divine, but of the human teaching that built this statue, standing 100 feet high above us all.
*
During my return to digital audio thinking one day, the instructor covered his watch. The more I meditated during class, the more familiar I became with my storm flow.
Time is not the problem; just spending time with myself scared me.
This is a waste of time. Go do something. You are worthless.
I have been listening to these talking songs for years, but for the first time, I can see how it affects my body. A year of silence allowed me to hear the noise of my mind, the stream of negative words and decisions I didn’t question, adding to my pain.
This is a waste of time waste of time.
I put my hand on my heart, a movement that the teacher taught us, and gave me love. For lunch, I had a Starbucks brand string cheese. The other day I opened my phone to a flood of intimate photos, jokes, statuses, and news – real and fake – I saw a familiar nun in a black dress. Yifa is keeping her mind alive.
“On the first day, I did online thinking without any skills,
OK? Yifa told me after I messaged her to catch up. “The second day, the camera went sideways. Ninety degrees up and down!” He smiled.
“How many people watched?”
“Six hundred viewers the first night on the Facebook live-stream. The second: twenty viewers.
He laughed again.
“If my intention is to become a guru with a million people, that life is miserable. I will try to make these people happy.”
Always a good teacher, he turned the conversation to his student.
“Don’t just follow it out. Zach, if you don’t have your life in it, you’re going to lose it, right? Our lives have ups and downs, success and failure, perfection and failure. C’est la vie.”
“Is that a Buddhist teaching?” I was joking.
“It’s French.”
My smile didn’t land.
“Buddhism says dukkha—Life is a problem. Not painful, but uncomfortable. When you are unhappy with your life, you are going to suffer.
I complained to my landlord about the construction on my apartment, and he offered to lower my rent. With extra money, I entered an office boasting a quiet room. On my first day, I sat in a cubicle with several other employees. It is sacred, silent, like a meditation hall in Taiwan, where the small mountains make themselves and do not join to die in the waterfall.
When I went to work, a jackhammer was working outside. The machine broke the silence.
I relax, take a deep breath (in and out), and put on headphones.
Killing people will only increase the noise.
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Removed from Is it Hot in Here? (Or will I suffer forever for the sins I have committed on earth)? by Zach Zimmerman. Copyright © 2023. Available from Chronicle Books.