Continued vipassana post. Why am I posting this as a series? Because it's really long, and also, because frankly I think every human on the planet should take the 11-12 days to do a full vipassana retreat. It has been the single most important thing I could have done for myself, for my ability to deal with stress and the world, that I have ever done in my life. If you're on the fence, climb on over.
At the end of Day 3, TEO explained that we were now leaving Anapana breathing and going to start Vipassana. The actual practice. As he explained it, Vipassana is about self-transformation through self-observation. You scan your body from head to foot and then feet to head, observing sensations without reacting to them. Pleasant or unpleasant, it doesn't matter. You just observe. The whole thing is built on understanding Anicca — impermanence. Everything changes. Nothing stays.
By the 4th day, I knew from speaking with the teachers that the overall goal was to be able to make one full hour of group meditation without moving. So that was it, everything boiled down to this one concept. By Day 4 at 4am, I was determined that I would jump-start my Vipassana by making it at least one full hour-long session without moving, or at least without changing my leg position.
For the first 2-hour session, I didn't make it, but I did sit in the proper cross-legged position the full time. I only extended my legs after about 30 minutes because the pain reached a level 8 or 9.
By the time the first group meditation came up after breakfast, I was ready to attack with all my determination.
While we were not meant to be thinking at all, this session and subsequent sessions usually went along the lines of this type of diatribe inside my meditation.
Minutes 1 to 10. TEO starts by doing some chanting and then slips into a Hindi explanation of what Vipassana is about. Then he starts on the English. Start with a calm and quiet mind. An activated mind. Search for perfect equanimity with the knowledge of Anicca or impermanence. Perfect equanimity with the knowledge or wisdom of anicca, anicca, anicca. Now these are some pretty complex concepts, for some of them it took me a few days to understand what he was trying to say. But I would repeat them throughout the meditation. Perfect equanimity with the wisdom of anicca. At first, I didn't understand what I was saying. I thought I did, but I would just keep saying them anyway.
Minutes 10 to 20. Hmm, that's odd, I think my left leg may be falling asleep. Let me just touch my toes with my resting hands lying in my lap. That's not cheating, and I'd like to just check in to see how badly my leg is falling asleep. Yes, it's falling asleep. I wonder if that's dangerous or not to just leave it to fall asleep indefinitely.
Minutes 20 to 35. By now, the leg is fully asleep and I am becoming quite alarmed. Before coming to Vipassana, I had been starting to use ChatGPT, and my brain was now thinking — I wish I had AI. AI, what makes a leg fall asleep? I must remember to check what makes a limb fall asleep, and whether it is dangerous or not to leave it.
Minutes 35 to 45. By now, the first thoughts of a medieval torture device. A girdle that would be placed on the individual and slowly cranked down to cause extreme pain in the lower hips, groin, upper hips, lower back and about halfway up the back. The girdle of liquid fire is what I began calling this imaginary torture device.
Minutes 45 to 50. Pain levels approaching level 9. I still hadn't moved as I was determined to reach my goal of not moving. I should say that I had moved my arms, and shifted my back position, but I hadn't opened my eyes yet or moved my legs. The left leg by now was fully asleep and I imagined a tourniquet being tied around the upper limb with the portion below now going blue. As I hadn't opened my eyes, and we were wearing long pants, I couldn't see the leg, but I was imagining it as a bloated balloon-shaped appendage.
Minutes 50 to 55. Thinking of breaking out of this position, but I know that I must be close to the end. At this point, I'm holding on by single breaths. Make it for one more breath. OK, you did that one, now do one more. I'm breathing deep breaths just to stay in the position for a few seconds longer. Sweat starts to drip down my sides, my back, my forehead. I welcome the distraction, anything to keep my mind off my leg which has fallen asleep and my groin, hips and lower back in the girdle of liquid fire. Do the work. Do the work. I keep repeating to make it through one more single breath.
Minutes 55 to 60. TEO starts his singing. I know that there are only 5 minutes now, so I can simply count my breaths to make it to the end. I have pre-counted that 8 deep breaths take 1 minute, so I start counting them down. I shift my posture to lean forward towards the front giving my lower back some relief. I feel some blood coming back down into my lower back, but at the expense of my hips which now feel more weight. Each breath brings me closer to the end. It's within my grasp now. I know these words in the chant, it's getting down to the last 90 seconds. Make it through one more breath, one more, one more. Then the final — Sarung, Sarung, Sarung — which means it is the end of the meditation. I gingerly take both hands and pull my left leg straight and the leg is fully asleep. The pain of pins and needles rushed back in. The coolness rushed back into the girdle of liquid fire. My shirt was drenched in sweat, but it was enough. Make the claim, make the claim. I did a silent fist pump as I had made my first full hour-long meditation without moving my legs. It was far from being perfect, or like the other more experienced meditators or the teachers, but I had made my primary objective.
It was during this break when I discovered the lotus pond.
It was right outside the Dhamma Hall, and I decided to go over and sit by it. I was thinking about the concept of impermanence, which to me always had a negative connotation. Impermanence sucks, I remember our neighbour claiming one evening as we were visiting with them. Laughing, but being quite serious. Impermanence always meant death, or growing old, losing the things that you longed for, like youth, friends. This is how she was thinking of it, and at the time, while I didn't say anything, I remember agreeing with her.
Then I noticed that all of the lotus flowers were fully closed. That's odd because I remembered seeing the flowers open yesterday as I walked by. I had taken the time to stop and smell one. It just struck me — lotus flowers close at night and open in the day. Then a small frog jumped in the water off of a lily pad. There were bubbles in the water from this. Then a dragonfly landed right in front of me and sat there.
An epiphany struck me, and it became crystal clear that this lotus pond was the exact Buddhist principle of impermanence. Always changing. It wasn't bad or good. It was just changing. Just like life, our human lives, my life. Finn's death. Nothing bad, just impermanence, no different than the leaves in this pond dying. Or this dragonfly, or the bubbles which rise and then dissipate into the air. Or the wrinkles that slowly become ingrained around my eyes. Impermanence. Nothing negative, just an ever-changing world.
The lotus pond became a source for my meditations and the idea of being indifferent to the concept of impermanence.
Towards the end of the day, I had sat through 6 or 7 hours of meditation. Much of the sessions broken down into 10-minute stretches of different degrees of pain. Always, the girdle of liquid fire shifts slightly to ease pain in my groin, at the expense of intense pain picking up in my lower back. Once that becomes unbearable, I lean slightly back, straighten my back and feel some cool relief as blood returns down to my hips and back, but it flares up in my knees.
I imagine a chorus of engine room engineers all working together to help get through the meditation. The main area of focus is always in the girdle area, not that I have ever worn one, but I can imagine how this device would feel with hot knives being placed down in certain key areas to cause the maximum amount of pain. Each station — the knees, the groin, the hips, the area where the femur meets the pelvis, the lower back and even the middle of the back — is a work centre calling out different levels of pain, checking in to an imaginary command centre in the cortex of my brain.
I knew very well that I was meant to be emptying my mind of thoughts, and just focusing on the upper lip and lower nostrils, and doing the Vipassana body scans. The objective was to view different areas of the body, and think of the pain in my knee the same as a non-pain area, like my left shoulder. This was completely impossible. The ONLY thing I could think about at this point in the afternoon of the 4th day was extreme pain, and how I could survive without moving. This became a game for me, each pain point calling out to the command centre.
Houston, we have a problem. The groin.
OK, you can move the right leg a bit to give it relief — was the response from the command centre.
The shift gives a bit of relief. Then came another request. Red alert, red alert, lower back reaching level 8, please advise.
All of the different pain centres would then have to weigh in to see which pain level was at its highest. Knees, pain level 6. Right hip, pain level 7. Lower back, pain level 8. Groin at level 7. With the lower back being the worst, the command centre would give priority to the lower back, and allow a slight lean forward and straightening of the back. That cool feeling of relief, like cool water flowing over the hot knives inside the girdle of liquid fire. Slowly, the back would diminish from a level 8 or 9 down to a 6 or 7, while the knees and hips would go from level 6 or 7 up to 8. It was this constant battle between all the different pain centres, calling out their respective pain levels to the imaginary command centre like a battleship game. At times, I would imagine red lights flashing as pain levels would reach level 9.
Red alert, red alert. Pain level 9 in the left groin and hip. We're going down. Dive, dive, dive.
This game went on all day long. It is the only way I was able to make it through that horrendous 4th day.
Throughout the day, I would come back to the lotus pond and check the status of its ongoing state of impermanence. The dragonfly from the morning was still there, in the same position. 5 hours now. It was like a message. Just sit there. You can do it.
Once the glorious 5pm hour came up, which meant we had one hour for tea, I decided that all the pain was making me sick. I was coming down with something. I had a headache, I was feeling feverish, and all of my joints ached and were giving me grief.
I decided that I would stay in for the evening sessions. At 6pm, I went into my room and laid down to take a rest, fully with the intent to sleep the rest of the night to hopefully bring down my fever.
At about 6:20 the Dhamma Police knocked on my door. I knew immediately that it would be them, as no student would do this, nor my roommate who was fully in the zone and taking the meditations very seriously.
He kept knocking. I get up and open the door to see the Russian Drill Sergeant.
You must come to group meditation.
Sorry, I can't. I have a fever and am not feeling well. Do you think you could find some painkillers for my legs, and also something to help cut the fever?
No, this is not possible without the teacher's permission. I think it is only normal, it is the ego being killed by Vipassana.
No, this is a fever. I know what it is, and how I usually power through it. Which is just with ibuprofen. Do you think I can get some?
No, but you must come to the group meditation. Come now.
What, are you serious? Now? I'm going to bed, I told you that I have a fever and am sick.
No. You must come.
Grumbling, I quietly acquiesced and went to the group meditation fully being shamed into coming back against my better judgment to stay in and take care of myself.
As I walked by the lotus pond, I noticed that the dragonfly was still there, holding his pose. 6 hours.
It was an inspiration.