A Short Story: 480 Hours in Silence

Halfway through the first 10 days in silence, all I wanted to do was share what I was experiencing with others. I was hell-bent on getting this piece written so that others could go and experience the wonders I’d stumbled upon. As we’re not allowed to write, I had it perfectly mapped out in my head. It was insightful, balanced, and electric. Now, I can’t even start without overthinking what you, the reader, might think. Though that’s one lesson I was told to listen for in the silence: to live in reality as it is, not how I would like it to be. Simple.

The now, currently, is 5 months from my first 10-day course and three weeks from my second, and honestly, these words now make me want to run to my bookshelf and burn every self-help book I’ve ever read. I’ve gone through hours of meditation, and many more of devaluation. Dreams of burning comforting words to days of realising my own. Ups, downs, and round-a-bouts trying to crack this technique for what it really is. And days, all be them few, of thinking life would be far easier if I had never fallen upon the practice. But this is the process of Vipassana: impermanence. One dives deep inside their body where they experience joy beside suffering, pleasure beside pain. To begin with, one craves the former and averts the latter. But over time, we’re taught - by some limited guidance doused in our own experiences - that the art is found in observing these emotions and sensations with absolute balance, and that the truth lies in knowing: this will also change

(Dhamma Makaranda Vipassana Centre)

This is a short story of how these (slow) realisations came to pass following the odd moment I walked away from 480 hours in silence. 

The Quiet Corners of My Mind

Eight days of silence have passed, and the warning posts have come alive. They’ve become protestors against my hollow impatience and the words ‘Course Boundary,’ strewn across their banners, mock me into claustrophobia. I’m lost in emotion, and the forest offers no solace. It watches, ashamed, as another falsely inquisitive student pinballs across its floor. I look to the trees for answers, but their wisdom refuses to talk to a mind so corrupted by emotion:

That person just had a panic attack; are you sure you don’t need one? 

There’s a man over there shaking in the grass. Weird.

You haven’t seen a woman in eight days. Are you okay?

The man who moved beds last night is trying to kill you.

I had thought that sitting down with my mind might help me better understand the company I’m stuck with. The cacophony of opinions, judgements, doubts, and anxieties that dine upstairs, aside their not-so-gluttonous entourage: rationality, resolve, confidence, and security. The more I sit silently, the more I am drawn to their quarrels and the possibilities that might unfurl if I can just figure out how to tame them. Yet eight days of prodding ignorance had left me defeated in its wake. It seemed, after all, that the quiet corners of my mind had better been left untouched.

Our teacher, S. N. Goenka, reassures me otherwise, insisting that a surgery of the body and mind is a necessary step along the journey, and it is why we’re so strongly advised against leaving once we’ve committed to the 10 days. 

‘So that you may remove the pus,’ he nods, ‘to remove the impurities.’

But what if I slice the wrong part, Mr Goenka? What then, eh? You’d better have liability insurance my wise little friend…

Night falls, and I lie awake in bed as visions of my lobotomy turning pear-shaped circle me like orcas playing with a seal. The iceberg floats, for now, orchestrated by waves of anxiety that gently lull me to sleep:

Eight days in and nothing has changed.

It’s probably about 3 am.

You’re never going to fall asleep.

Without a phone, book, or laptop, there is no form of escape from the chatter, and that evening, my mind dined loudly. 

The Wicked Game it Plays

’Don’t believe anything I tell you.’ Our teacher insisted. It was day one, and he was passionately evoking the practice of Vipassana to be nothing of a divine right or ritual, urging us to challenge it at all times: "The highest authority is one’s own experience of truth... each of you, make yourself an island, make yourself your refuge; there is no other refuge. Make truth your island, make truth your refuge; there is no other refuge.”

In other words, the only refuge in life, where one may stand on solid ground, is truth, and this can only be experienced within oneself; it cannot be intellectually taught. No doubt, talking about truth in this manner is nothing if not esoteric, but that was a steep part of the learning curve: talking about it was besides the point; we were here to experience it.

Experience truth. I thought. How bizarre.

I faced a sheet-less bed accompanied by a small table, wonky light, and box-curtains dangling from an open-top wooden structure. It’s one of nine curtained cabins in an attic that was designed to perpetuate snoring. Not being able to speak to my roommates of similar age wasn’t odd; it was categorically weird. I could hear their thoughts as each one walked past my toy car duvet, and all I wanted was to break free and tell them it was the only one in the cupboard when I left home. But of course, here, we’re not allowed to talk, read, write, squark, wheep, nor bite. Nothing but meditate for 10 hours a day. As was customary every hour or so, I lay down and questioned my reason for being here. I’d decided I was never going to amount to much if I were to only talk about meditation without doing it all that much, a common trait amongst millennials. I hadn’t done it properly for a couple of years, and the Zaofu was more of a cushion to the side of my room to let visitors know I had a bit of depth. 

Once my reassurance was completed and my thoughts diluted, I lay down, taking time to accustom myself to my cabin entertainment: a 6-page manuscript on Vipassana meditation, a tidy-up guide for day 11, and an alarm clock. Needless to say, I could recite the tidy-up with my eyes closed after day two. A short rest without entertainment is mentally prolonged by thought; ten minutes feels like an hour. A gong saved me from any more, and I joined the queue of 60 silent men awaiting their first meditation. 

Once in, I nervously scanned the room along with 240 other sets of eyes as we searched for our numbers assigned at check-in, hoping we had got a good spot. As if the speed would help my number appear closer to the front, closer to the old master sitting cross-legged and painless, I hastily weaved through the traffic and made it to the front. No sign of F10. Deep in a flurry, I found myself back at the door, having circumnavigated the entire square plane of seats. Strange, I thought. I looked down to start again and realised I’d just skipped the one closest to the door: F10, alas. My contentment was soon repainted in a thick coat of disdain as the realisation struck me: I’m right next to the door. I’m sure I don’t need to exhaust my list of creative adjectives to express how annoying it was to be seated next to the swinging mechanism that 60 men use to get in and out of a silent hall. As one of the people I met remarked when my name and number were called out last during registration:

‘Last, but certainly not least, buddy!’

First of all, Nigel, you don’t even know me, so I don’t know where you’re getting that information from. And secondly, it turns out I am the least in this place because I’ve noticed all the wise old men are sat at the front opposite the teacher, whilst I’m sat here in the next door postcode tending to the exit like a fucking bell boy.

And there it was. The crude, unfiltered, shameless me that lived upstairs:

You and I in this wee cabin for 10 days, you’re about to meet you’re maker! It gloated in an ironic Scottish accent before putting on ‘Wicked Game’ by Chris Isaak on loop for the rest of the hour. 

Canis Lupus

The first session was a two-minute meditation drenched in mental chatter. I was viciously introduced to my mind in a stream of the most raw, unfiltered thoughts I had ever endured. Before this, my longest meditation had been 25 minutes, which was such an achievement that I’d decided to retire from the practice for two years until now. As I peeled myself out of the first sitting, my concern for lack of focus was put at ease by a moment of eye contact with a girl across the hall. Thankfully, the dull light room hid my blush, but there was more than enough light for her to see me go flying over the next-door block of flats my neighbour had kindly built from his cushions as I attempted to leave. Nevertheless, that short moment of ease had struck me hard enough to overcome my embarrassment as I walked back that evening. 

I lay in bed that night, playing over the look in my head. Outside of this place, I would probably have been thinking romantic thoughts, but not here. Here I began to compare it to Fantastic Mr Fox’s timeless encounter with the dire wolf and the scene, with its perfect score, played over and over in my mind. Like Mr Fox and the Wolf, the woman had given me a look of solidarity, and, in that one simple gesture, all the encouragement I needed to rest easy that night. 

This is a strange place. I thought as my eyes softened.

The Loonie is Free: Someone Call the Chocolate Fire-brigade

 

The following morning, I awoke to more of Mr Fox’s lessons, only this time, in his eyes as they well up to the sound of his own words: 

“I have a phobia of wolves.” He shouts. Drawing a deep breath, he smiles and swallows his fearful tears - facing up to his shadow. He raises his right fist in a gesture of acknowledgement as the wolf follows suit.

“What a beautiful creature.” He sighs.

The clock read 4:20 am, and as I brushed my teeth, the mirrored image of these two canines made me wonder two things: what shadows lurk behind my mind? And will I be able to face them as valiantly as Mr Fox? Our teacher, S. N. Goenka, took over the lesson here by introducing us to a friend with whom we could approach these shadows, alongside all other encounters in our lives: equanimity. To develop this, however, we must learn how to ‘master our mind’ (regarding this practice). Thus, the meditations began with Anapana, which is the tool used to develop such mental mastery, achieved through focus and concentration. We were told to sit and observe the natural breath for some time. If it is short, it is short; if it is long, it is long; if it is heavy, it is heavy; if it is soft, it is soft. We do nothing to try and alter its natural rhythm, only observe it in whatever form it takes. Our focus is cast onto the reality that this form takes on colder sensations during inhalations and warmer sensations upon exhalations, or that light sensations of air being dragged across the space between the nostrils and upper lip exist. During this process, the mind becomes more and more still; more and more subtle. The breath also becomes finer but not through conscious action, because all we’re doing is observing, but rather through the process of our minds becoming objectively attuned with our bodies. Sounds become dull, pains become fuzzy, memories of placement become distant, whilst we’re brought to absolute presence by the nature of our own breath. One is able to sit for hours here, where distraction feels like a fairytale. 

It feels like being empty, or absolutely whole, or the other way round; though I suppose they’re the same if absolute. Evidently, I’m yet to understand what it truly is. The words presence, truth, peace, and harmony float around in my head amongst others, but they evoke too much meaning to be suitable. Like a dream, the more I try to grasp it once I’m back to reality, or not, depending on where it is you’re looking from, the further away it seems. Annapanna insists that you maintain concentration on a small part of your body whilst being aware of your breath so that you continually narrow down your focus. However, this place feels so blissful, with warm, fuzzing sensations all over your body and a completely still mind, that it is hard, practically impossible, to do so. After all, who would willingly bring themselves back to the pain in the legs, the incessant chatter of the mind, the anxieties of the future, and the coughs and splutters of fidgeting neighbours?

Better stay here for a while. I thought as I lost myself in bliss for what felt like eternity before being rudely awoken by the gong. 

I stepped outside to a different day, though only an hour had passed. The trees now waved at me while wind whistled in my ears and birds danced above my head. I remember walking through what felt like a new forest that day. With a silent mind, I noticed the creaking of branches which seemed as though they turned as I walked by, or were at least aware of my presence. I didn’t even think about the barefoot loonies I’d been judging the day before; I just took off my shoes and joined them. I wandered through the overgrowth, felt bark beneath my feet, grass in my hands, and nature in my heart. It felt like it was happening automatically, but actually, my movement had just been oiled by free thought. I hugged trees and thought nothing of the eyes watching me, I walked at the pace of the leaves falling beside me and watched haste pass by me by like an ex-girlfriend. I watched it awkwardly walk off, accompanied by construction and judgment. Of course, it was the same forest, the same me, but my perception had changed, or better said: lifted, as it was the same mind only without all the thought-filled, pre-conceived filters. It felt like someone had removed a pair of sunglasses I’d been wearing in a dim room. 

Needless to say, once I was back in the food hall, these sunnies were firmly secured back on my head, and I was out of the presence once more. I was slowly reintroduced, and watching all of my perceptions slot back into place was a fascinating experience in and of itself. I couldn’t help it, and as much as I tried to remain aware, equanimous, and present, my thoughts simply folded themselves back into the makeup of my mind. I smiled and was grateful to have experienced the opportunity I was given. To this day, I have never managed to replicate that headspace, and as much as I used to try to, I’m beginning to learn that the effort is about as useful as a chocolate fireman. 

This Will Also Change

There goes a story we were told that I think about almost every day. In short, it follows two brothers, each given a ring after the death of their father, one set with a valuable diamond, and the other an ordinary silver ring:

The elder brother implored his younger brother, ”I should take the diamond as it has been kept in the family for generations, and as such it should remain. Therefore, I, being elder, shall keep it”. 

The younger brother smiled and said, “All right, be happy with the diamond ring, I’ll be happy with the silver one.”

Both of them placed their rings on their fingers and went their ways. 

Sometime later, the younger brother thought about why his father had kept this ordinary silver ring so safely alongside the precious diamond ring and decided to examine the ring closely. He found some words engraved on the inside:

This will also change.

“Oh, this is the mantra of my father: this will also change!” He said before placing the ring on his finger. 

Both brothers faced all the ups and downs of life. When spring came, the elder brother became highly elated, losing his balance of mind. When autumn or winter came, he fell into deep depression, again losing his mental balance. He became tense, unable to sleep at night, and began using sleeping pills. As for the younger brother with the silver ring, when spring came, he enjoyed it; he didn’t try to run away from it. He enjoyed it, but looked at his ring and remembered:

This will also change.

And when it changed, he could smile and say, “Well, I knew it was going to change. It has changed, so what!” When autumn or winter came, again he looked at his ring and remembered, “This will also change.” He didn’t start crying, knowing that this would also change. And yes, it also changed; it also passed away. He did not lose his balance of mind, and he lived a peaceful, happy life. 

As we observe in meditation, we come to terms with one basic fact: everything is always changing. One day there is pain, another day there is bliss, most days there is noise, some days there is quiet. Everything inside oneself, physical and mental, just as in the world outside, is changing every moment. Impermanence is the only guarantee; therefore, attachment can only lead to misery. This is the basic principle for understanding how efforts to hold onto something, by saying “this is I, this is mine, this is me”, are bound to make one unhappy, which is where the dissolution of self through egolessness begins to manifest. I’m still yet to wrap my head around this part of the practice, so I won’t be going any deeper today!  We observe this impermanence in our bodies through ever-changing sensations (pain, fuzzing, hot, cold, perspiration, dryness, etc.) One starts with just the outside, feeling big chunks alongside barren blind spots, but little by little, as your mind gets subtler and subtler, you start feeling more and more. In short, this leads to a free flow of subtle vibrations all across your body, which can be felt head to toe in a single breath. You then start to pierce from the inside out until you feel a whole dissolution of the body, only vibrations, all at once. This train of thought simplified the practice for me to begin with, but led to a brick wall further down the path. Why? Because I forgot about impermanence. I began to see the practice as if it were some sort of skill to be learnt, believing that feeling vibrations throughout my body in one breath secured accomplishment of that level and was ready for the next. Linear thinking, in this regard, is wrong. But remember, I’m not here to tell you what's right or wrong; this is just my experience. In fact, I’m not really here to tell you anything at all. I just like writing and don’t expect many to have actually read this far. If you have… well, welcome to my mind… make yourself a brew and read on….

Though a simple practice, the nature of thinking about it too much leads to the prevalence of logic over feeling. The practice stresses that first one must intellectualise it, of course, but then quickly move onto experiencing it; this is where the truth lies. 

As another friend told me after my first course:

'The path is not a straight line: it’s circular, or a spiral of sorts.'

I was too busy trying to tell the veteran of all the amazing sensations I’d experienced, expecting praise to accompany my hollow gloating, and I paid no attention to these words. It was only after day eight of my second course that they came back to me with a jacket of humility that I shamefully put on. It fit me perfectly.

Before the jacket, I had been flying down the path on my high horse, penetrating further and further into the subconscious to a point where I cut open a deep area. As a result, my next sitting was overcome by a storm of negativity, which manifested in big patches of pain in my back. These shook my mind and brought me back to the surface, where, instead of maintaining equanimity with the understanding of impermanence, I reacted with agitation and cravings for the vibrations I had been so strongly experiencing. As a result, my last two days were spent with little feeling at all, only annoyance at my regression. After some guidance and contemplation, I came to the realisation that these were, and always will be, some of the most important moments in the practice; ones that truly test awareness, equanimity, and balance. Life was going good, I was successful in my endeavours, but in the face of change, through one small upset, I lost the balance of my mind and plunged into mental defeat. A straight line is comforting because you can see, or at least know, wherein lies the end; a spiral is daunting because you can’t. I had reached the turn of the spiral. Back to square one and needing to understand that, here, regression is progression. I can comfortably admit that so far, not so good. Though one thing is for certain:

This will also change.

(Impermenance)

I just wish it would come sooner. I crave for it to come sooner. 

A man may be destroyed, but never defeated

Each session proved to be unique in its topics of distractions, but largely the structure remained the same: 5 minutes of settling down; 25 minutes of thinking I’m never going to be able to stop thinking; 20 minutes of not thinking, and 10 minutes of thinking how good it’ll feel when I get up. But amongst all that, one metaphor kept me moving forward during the 40 minutes spent on the edge of defeat. The same metaphor that I mentioned in the previous party: my high horse. After 15 minutes of focusing on my breath alone, I would glide into an open land encircled by distant mountains. As my concentration increased, so would my proximity to a four-legged, mighty figure. Sometimes the image would end just there, and I would find myself back in the hall as thoughts came to pass. However, other times I would float down closer to the figure, eventually finding her to be a magnificent horse: wild and extraordinary. As my concentration managed to hold for longer periods, I was able to spend longer down there with her. I simply sat there, observing her buck and kick in circles. Until one day, I approached her and shyly muttered the words: 

Shall we begin?

Each time she would stare at me, as if testing my sincerity and resolve, before allowing me to ride with her a while; this time straight and towards the highest mountain. We would always ride in a vast landscape, untouched by little else except small shrubs and a hazy sun. Forever in the unrecognisable moment that felt like the end of dawn and start of dusk, we would ride on towards the outline of the mountain in distant haze. It never got closer, though somehow I knew it was always becoming so. The horse and its tiring energy were a testament to that belief. 

Hemingway once told me that a man is not made for defeat; he may be destroyed, but never defeated. Of the 40 minutes spent meddling with destruction, those 20 minutes in Wonderland kept me from defeat each session. They kept me moving. In this way, destruction also took on a new form: now that defeat had been defeated, it had no end. One day, it simply returned, but without pain. Instead, it brought a perceivable image of suffering. One in which I could feel but not become lost to. Rebellion against destruction suddenly became an alliance as I let go of the tension between us and swam alongside it. Now a part of my journey, it could be utilised as a tool for progress, which became stronger as I rode the horse. The evolution of destruction in its loss of defeat was one of my closest companions in my journey towards the mountain, and somehow, I know it always will be. 

Disclaimer: I have just come back from my second ten days in silence, and I can tell you that such imaginings are not the goal of Vipassana meditation. We’re advised against using imagery during practice. Equally, this is also a good time to mention that none of this is supposed to be in any way a lesson, only a recount of my experience…

Pain vs Suffering: Neither, Thanks 

The resilience I’d developed on day four was needed by day five. But not from pain, nor suffering, as the title misleads; from laughter. The agnostic congregation had gathered in the hall like any other day, expecting the same old: mental chatter accompanied by a glimmer of silence. Once we were settled, you could hear the tip of a pin drop that day. There was something in the air, a lull in the cacophony of coughs. Perhaps this was a sign of preparation I should have acknowledged because the following caught me so off guard that I had to run out of the room. About 40 minutes into the meditation, at the height of the lull, someone had seemingly slipped a little too deep into meditation and let off one of the loudest, crispest, most heroic passings of winds I had ever heard. It ricocheted off every wall and, in the silence, sounded like someone had tried, just once, to turn over an old engine in the centre of the hall. Nobody moved an inch. Maybe it's a sign of my youth, but that is objectively funny. Yet, these older folk maintained absolute silence. I bit at my tongue hard enough that I was at the border of severance and tried to maintain the same, putting all of my training to practice: resilience, equanimity, wisdom, and humility. In the wake of passing wind, the words now sounded ironic and only added to the entertainment. However, on the cusp of breaking, a girl sat right in the far corner and let out the faintest of giggles. A pause pursued. It was broken by a man in his 60s, which I discerned after having to open my eyes to see who had dashed past me. His laughter in the foyer echoed throughout the hall; the whistle had sounded - the race was on. Streams of meditators broke composure and ran to the door like moths to a light. I gladly joined the swarm and ran outside, into the woods that were now filled with echoes of laughter. There were moments of madness during the course, but this was truly bonkers. I had 70-year-old men sprinting past me, disappearing into the woods in hysterics. This made the whole ordeal all the more entertaining, and it took me a good 10 minutes to calm down. I couldn’t face the hall for the rest of the afternoon, but desperately wanted to find the heroic man who caused the commotion and thank him for the slice of ludicrous normality he inspired. A lapse in bodily attention gifted us freedom that day, and carried many of us on for the rest of the course. 

(Meditation Hall)

Aside from this, the practice of Vipassana, in my experience, is far from comfortable, and the comedic effect of my heroes tooting was short-lived. It was replaced by pain, mental and physical. However, over the course of ten days, we’re nudged to try and find the beauty in pain. Not for what it is, but for what it represents: impermanence. Seven days were spent learning this lesson. The first few meditations were mentally excruciating. I couldn’t keep still due to the discomfort in my crossed legs, and attempts at maintaining my position only ended in me becoming irritated by the pain. Once, I felt this boil up into my chest, to my neck, and then my head, until I was on the verge of passing out. I opened my eyes and had to run out of the room at the nausea caused by my sweating body and spinning head. This pain had occurred from feelings of mental impatience that manifested into physical adversity. I watched the whole process unfold in my boy - it was fascinating to endure. Similarly, after day three, it felt like someone had plunged a pocket knife deep into the right side of my back, between my shoulder blade and spine. This continued for four days, and I went to the teacher each afternoon, insisting I had to leave, get medical help, and come back another time. He urged me to stay and continue observing my pain objectively; not to become attached to it; not to react; not to turn it into mental suffering; to remember that it too follows the universal law of impermanence and, thus, that it too shall pass. 

There was nothing more annoying than those words. It’s like someone telling you to ‘just calm down’ despite being so angry you could lift a house. Only this time, I was slightly more aware of my anger. Just a small dose of perspective, but it was enough to let me know I was getting somewhere. To make matters worse, however, on day four of these six pain-stricken days, we were introduced to the technique of Adhiṭṭhāna(strong determination), where we’re advised not to move for the hour-long sittings so that we may develop absolute stillness, enhance our concentration, and objectively observe all sensations, be them pleasant or unpleasant. In this way, you (try to) observe itches without scratching, pain without moving, noises without irritation. Whilst also observing warmth without hoping it will stay, tingling without wishing for more, or lightness without clinging to the balloon. Instead, remain objectively aware of every one of these sensations by remaining equanimous. This offered a tool with which I could face my mental and physical unease.

To be equanimous, here, meant not reacting to our sensations with cravings or aversions. Simply to observe (be aware) and maintain inner stability (be equanimous) in the face of mental and physical adversity. In this way, we begin to replace negative reactions - the typical habit pattern of our mind - with considered action. We’re taught that if we are to take little home when we leave, let it be these two words: awareness and equanimity.

And just like that, I sat down on day six, aware and equanimous, and my pain was gone. I was offered an analogy with which I could visualise the process by a more experienced practitioner on my final day of the course. He held one end of a book and told me to pull the other end. With our two forces holding each side, the book became taught: this was my pain. He then told me to let go of my side, at which point I was left with no book, no pain. Of course, it is not quite that simple, but, for the sake of simplicity, the principle remained. My pain was a cause of my mind holding onto it, and it was in my hands to let it go by, firstly becoming aware, and then maintaining absolute equanimity. As such, we were beginning to experience impermanence, physically learning that everything shares the same two characteristics: arising and passing away. Thus, attachment can only lead to suffering.

I had become attached to my pain through aversions and was suffering as a result. But no more. I was forever cured and, in my eyes, I had mastered the art of Vipassana meditation. I was overjoyed, ecstatic, and in awe of the magic I had experienced. But therein lies the failure, back to the ring of the first son, I was bathing in success, unaware of the inevitable that it too shall pass. Two days later, I developed a wreaking anxiety in my abdomen and, in its overwhelming presence, I once again lost all awareness and equanimity. Nonetheless, that too came to pass. 

Such went the rest of my hours in silence, and so too shall go the rest of my days in impermanence. 

Simple Purity

I write for many hours about the peculiar discoveries of my time with closed eyes, but it feels right to leave the rest unsaid. After all, the main reason I wanted to write about this way of living was to implore others to go experience it for themselves. But I’d like to finish on two reasons, amongst many more, that I hold so much faith in this practice. 

Simplicity beacons the first. It stands resolute upon just three pillars: Sīla (pure morality), Samādhi (development in concentration), and Paññā (Vipassana; mastery of the mind; wisdom). Having been taught all three, the rest is learnt from within. Therefore, one's mind cannot be corrupted nor led astray by seekers of power. This is why, before and after we’re taught the lessons of these three pillars, we’re always reminded by our teacher:

Don’t believe anything I tell you.

During the lessons, we’re simply introduced to the obvious. That all of us seek peace and harmony in life and, as such, we strongly avoid dissatisfactions and irritations; that, most, if not all, develop cravings for that which makes us happy, and aversions to that which makes us sad; that our life is conducted by these two fervent forces and we are ignorant of their presence, let alone how or why they exist. Vipassana meditation offers reasoning: a path of insight into the true nature of reality. It is a path upon which we may look inside ourselves, objectively, to develop wisdom so that we may understand the habit pattern of our minds and experience our own personal truths of suffering. It offers reasoning to the madness. But never insists. It works with pure fidelity to its own technique, understanding that demands for faith and money hold no meaning here. When S.N. Goenka brought the practice to the West, he said it must be given for free. Advisors told him that this was not how the West works, and that people would hold suspicions, thinking him a spy or something of the like. He told us that when he spread it in India, he was told people would come for the free amenities and not the teachings. 

Fine, let them come. He said. As long as they practice.

He trusted in the nature of the technique to evoke purity in those who came to practice. And therein lies the second reason, amongst many, that this practice stands out to me like a panther amongst cats: Purity. 

I hope the purity of teaching has been shown already, though this is only one half of its lessons. The purity of the institution itself holds the other. The tradition runs solely on donations; each course houses, feeds, and teaches thousands of people, around 120 at a time, throughout the year, for absolutely nothing in return. We are also firmly reminded that we may only donate should we complete the full 10 days and are advised on how they should be given:

’No matter how small, so long as they’re given with the purity of intention to help others.

No teachers or volunteers receive a dime, and having experienced their selflessness for 10 days, juxtaposed by the world from which I entered - blindsided by its own foundations of money, individualism, and competition - these few, simple words became the most raw, pure, and true that I had ever heard on the final day of my second course. I believe this is why Vipassana has spread to all four corners of the globe on word alone. It doesn’t tell you to do anything, nor expect anything in return. It simply shows you a technique for experiencing the truth that we all hold within ourselves. And once you leave, having experienced such pure, uncorrupted truth, all one wants to do is share it with everyone they know. As such, the practice runs on the belief that people will resonate with this truth, spread their experiences, and give with the intention to provide for those who will be taking the next course. It’s a worldwide organisation based upon a practice that was first discovered by Gotama the Buddha in India 2500 years ago. 500 years later, it was said to have been dissolved by sects and corrupted teachings, but was maintained in its true form by a small lineage of teachers in Burma for 2000 years, waiting for the right moment to be reintroduced to the world. The clock of Vipassana struck around 50 years ago, and our teacher, S. N. Goenka, was tasked with its reintroduction. Today, there are around 265 dedicated centres across the world that run on the pure intention to help others. 

Finally, however, there is one question I often toss over in my mind, and it's worth asking here for the sake of balance. Is living a monastic life not the most selfish of all? If we were all to do so, would the world not stop spinning? 

The question is answered by our teacher:

It would be if there were an end in itself, but this is a means to an end that is not at all selfish: a healthy mind. When your body is sick, you enter a hospital to recover health. You don’t go there for your whole life, but simply to regain health, which you will then use in ordinary life. In the same way, you come to a meditation course to gain mental health, which you will use in ordinary life for your good and for the good of others.

We’re not all expected to become recluses for 50 years in a cave. This is not a practice reserved for monks alone, and although there is a final goal of enlightenment, each step along the path comes with its own perceivable benefits. One progresses in every moment of true awareness and equanimity. This is an art of living, not a system of belief. Thus, it can be practised by all, regardless of race, religion, ethnicity, culture, or identity. Something to keep in mind. 

Two Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

My mind had succumbed to its madness on the eighth day of warning signs. I’d been pacing round the forest like a madman, getting ever more annoyed by other lunatics around me. I passed one, three times staring at the same flower; one lying down in the grass, shaking; one hugging a tree; one with a horizontal stick locked between the inside of his elbows and his back, marching like a retired soldier; and one walking so slowly you could tie his planted shoe lace before it was ready for the next step. The list goes on, and I was firmly a part of it. If One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest were to have a sequel, casting would’ve had a blast that day. Yet by morning, on day nine, it was like nothing had ever happened. I was back in the same forest, only this time ambling, staring at flowers, and hugging trees. 

This juxtaposition in fleeting thought is when I began to truly understand the foundational teaching of impermanence that Vipassana meditation upholds. Though I feel like maybe I’m doing it wrong, as we’re constantly told to rationalise from our inside sensational experiences. But then tomorrow I will feel like I’m doing it right; the next day I won’t be doing it at all; the next day I will have mastered the craft; and the next day I will have packed my mental baggage up for a couple of weeks' holiday, away from all the madness. And such is life. Constantly changing. To truly understand this matter of fact is not an easy feat, and I feel a long way off. Nonetheless, I understand its value, and that is enough, for now, to keep me in the spiral.