Two Retreats. Part Two: Kyol Che at Wubongsa, Falenica, near Warsaw, Poland, March 2017

Sitting meditation at Wubongsa

The monk next to me is falling asleep, his rhythmic breathing has become more audible, his back a little less erect. We are sitting side by side on our meditation cushions, knees just a few inches away from one another. Eighteen Zen practitioners sit facing the walls of the meditation hall for the annual three month winter retreat (kyol che). Some are sitting the whole thing, others, like me, are here for only a week.
Usually we sit erect and unmoving, legs crossed, knees touching our thick mats, eyes gazing softly at the polished wooden floor. Our hands are held gently against our bellies just below the navel in an oval shape, thumbs gently touching, focussed on the body’s energy centre, from where our breathing, relaxed, naturally originates.
After a few moments my friend quietly awakens and the room returns to silence. If my eyes were closed, I would think I was sitting alone. I repeat my mantra while my whole being is absorbed by the question “What is this?” Meditating with this question makes plain what I am not. I am not just my body; I am not just my thinking. But what am I? I don’t know.
Loud clattering of the bamboo clapper signals the end of sitting. We stretch our legs before standing, then begin walking meditation. You can hear the soft thumping of the stockinged feet of those who have just joined the retreat, while those who have been here longer tend to move soundlessly across the polished floor. In settling our minds our bodies just naturally become quieter. What is this? Only try, try, try for 10,000 years. Only go straight, don’t know. Birds sing, a dog barks, the floor is brown and the walls are white.

Daily Schedule

A.M.
5:00 Wake up
5:15 108 bows, chanting
6:40 Sitting
8:00 Breakfast
8:50 Work
10:30 Sitting
P.M.
12:45 Lunch
2:30 Walk outside
3:20 Sitting
5:00 Dinner
6:30 Chanting
7:35 Sitting
9:35 Sleep

Two Retreats. Part One: A Three Week Solo Retreat at Temenos

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Temenos, Shutesbury, Massachusetts, U.S.A., March 2001

All of the large storage cupboards in the cabin I have just moved into have been stuffed floor to ceiling with kindling for the wood-burning stove. The previous retreatant has cut it during his 100 day stay here. A gift, if only he had left some space for my things. Oh well, the floor will have to do.
Snow continues to fall, adding to the several feet already on the ground. I go out in it several times a day to draw water from the well, use the outdoor toilet, get logs for the stove, and just to walk.
Apart from the caretaker who lives through the woods I am alone in my cabin on a small mountain, my husband three hours’ drive away. The amount of snow alarms me, fueling a growing terror that I am abandoned here without hope of rescue. My food will run out, my husband unable to reach me when my three weeks are up. It is familiar to me and, in one form or another, to many others when on retreat. May be the car won’t start when they’re ready to go home, or something dreadful has happened to a loved one. What is going on here?
Days dark with cloud, snow, high winds, sometimes rain: “Why am I doing this?” Sometimes comes the response, “Who is it that complains?” Birds, chipmunks, ground squirrels don’t complain as they go about their daily business, and Zen Master Seung Sahn said “Don’t make good or bad. Everything in the universe is your good friend.” Nevertheless…
How to maintain this retreat when there is so much more solitude than I had ever imagined? The answer is to follow the daily schedule and focus only on the requirements of each moment. How is it right now?
The emphasis on chanting and prostrations is designed to provide the necessary energy, grounding, and focus. When I chant my voice sounds calm and strong. Closing my eyes I focus on this, not on the small, scared person of my fears. Bird song from outside fills the spaces between words, creating a continuous flow of sound. Repeated high, sharp bird sound penetrates and merges. Stillness. Behind the clouds there is a mountain.
One day I hike down to the nearest road so that I can see if it has been cleared of snow. Maybe I can hitch a ride out of here. But after a few moments gazing at the black tarmac I realize that the road to freedom is up the mountain and I turn back.
As I settle into stillness the unbidden voices in my head sound louder. At meals: “C’mon luv, eat up yer rice (pause) yes, well I know you had it yesterday, but it’s brown rice, luv, it’s good for yer.” Or outside: “snow knife” (sun-warmed twig sinking slowly in deep snow); “It’s the snow that’s high, not the branch that’s low.”
Silence, night time. Kerosene lamp casting flickery shadows. I sit in meditation, steady mantra, steady breathing. Then screams coming closer, fast. The door has no lock. Oh no! A party of drunken kids rioting up the mountainside! Closer, closer…Then, gliding past my window, a screech owl. Oh yes, now I remember: the mind makes everything!
This morning I am the only human on the mountain and, when I stop crunching through the snow, the only sound is the whoosh of blood in my ears. The hemlocks are teaching: their supple branches bend to the ground under the weight of snow and are anchored there. They bow unbroken until released by snow’s melt.

DAILY SCHEDULE

A.M.
4:00 Get up, light stove
4:30 108 bows, chanting
6:15 Sitting
7:30 Breakfast
8:00 Work period
9:30 108 bows, chanting
10:30 Sitting 12:00 Lunch
P.M.
1:00 Walk outside
1:30 108 bows, chanting
2:30 Sitting
4:00 Work period
5:00 Dinner
6:00 108 bows, chanting
7:30 Sitting
9:30 Sleep