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#writing #spirituality

On Meditation

~36 min read

Table of contents

On Meditation

I couldn’t tell you exactly when I discovered meditation. The term probably came to prominence in my mind sometime in my early 0’s, five or six, and back then I likely related it loosely to sitting around for long periods of time in silence, or a bald fat guy who always seemed to be laughing in the wood carving of him my dad had. Later on, meditation began to incorporate new ideas. It embodied TM, or transcendental meditation, a type of meditation popularized by David Lynch that supposed that the careful repetition of a mantra could promote awareness of higher states of consciousness. I also learned about the notion of Zen through books like Gödel Escher Bach, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. These books incorporated a flurry of ideas, but on Zen they discussed an idea called anti dualism, which posits that all things in the Universe are not separate, and that our distinctions between them are illusory distinctions to aid in a pragmatic navigation of the world. This is an interesting topic and I am not doing it justice, but I’ll leave it for another day. My point in saying this is that while my understanding of meditation expanded as I grew older and discovered more of what the world had to offer, I never once seriously engaged with meditative practice. My time spent meditating by this point was likely less than a half dozen hours in twenty years, if that.

My intimate association with meditation first began with a girl, which is as good a reason as any to begin anything. This isn’t about her, but she’s essential to my motivations behind the topic of the essay so I’ll share a bit about her.

I met her in China on a trip run by my school. We missed each other in the orientation, in the airport, and in the chaotic gathering of the hotel lobby before everyone went to bed and then again in the morning for breakfast and again on the bus to the first attraction. It was later, after we’d all filed off and been split again into groups, in a stairwell, that I noticed her. She was beautiful, of course. She stood out in a crowd. She was undeniably unique—the single one of her kind—a starlight gem even then in China where I met her. She wore conservative clothes and a peripheral demeanor, fitting the cold weather and tourist-etiquette. But later on I would know her by a lack of shoes, flowy clothes and colorful colours. By a lack of makeup and simple hair, psylocibin and Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues, a smell of frankincense and patchouli that travelled everywhere she went and lingered deeply in the air. Even there so muted there I felt an immediate fundamental attraction, like a proton on neutron, and a deep want to simply occupy her space.

We got along well almost immediately. The conversation and connection flowed effortlessly. I remember writing in a journal that talking to her was like “breathing fresh air”, a nice respite from my prior experience, which distinctly trudged along Sisyphean-ly as if through mud. Before long we were sharing more intimate moments, and I account those experiences with a great cognitive shift that made me who I am now, in terms of the experiences I now have an open mind to and the things I’ve learned to expect and desire in my life.

At some point she mentioned she’d meditated in the past, following a practice known as Vipassana. She told me that she’d done it for a few years at that point after attending a 10 day course in the desert near Joshua Tree and the Mojave Desert, but had stopped after some time. Later on, by some alignment of identity (or seeking thereof) she started meditating again, and I remember distinctly she’d get up at six in the morning and meditate for an hour, every day, before lazily coming back to bed to get up at a later time.

A few months later I decided to attend one of these sessions myself. I signed up for a course at the same center she had gone to, a quaint little complex out in the small desert town of Twenty-Nine Palms. With an average Summer Temperatures of 104°F (40.0°C) and meagre population of ~28,000, it is known for little besides serving as a gateway into nearby national parks, and, briefly, as the namesake of a short-lived skincare product line once associated with Jared Leto.

I drove out to the facility, which covered maybe 3 acres of desert. The buildings were spread out in a splatter connected by rock-lined path. There were the living quarters, each consisting of a large shared bathroom space and simple rooms, each with nothing more than a bed, an alarm clock, and a cabinet. Each room was shared by two people and split by a curtain which covered only half the width of the room at a time and hardly went to your knees. At the nucleus of the center was the meditation hall, a big empty room with benches for the teaching assistants, a set of pillows arranged in a grid on the floor, and a modest arrangement of wall speakers, lights, and tv sets facing inward. Lastly there was the dining hall, which doubled as the welcome center. Notably, the entire place was mirrored across an invisible center line, from the buildings themselves to the trails between them, so that the program could be split up by gender. The meditation hall and the dining hall, positioned on this axis, were reflected, with a symmetrical arrangement of tables, chairs, and serving station. It was as if the complex had been designed on one side and then doubled over like a Rorschach card. I found this somewhat archaic but the concept was pragmatic: It’s pretty hard to maintain consistent focus if there’s any possibility of comingling; better, perhaps, to destroy the impulse altogether. It would seem curiosity was not entirely suppressed however. Later, while walking the trails or between meals and meditations I’d sometimes steal a glimpse across the veil, only to see a staring back at me.

While people continued to arrive, the other people all sat around tables with tea or fruit. Personally I was intrigued by anyone who had decided to undertake such a course. Anyone in the orbit of meditative techniques and willing to depart from regular life must surely be interesting. There was Smalls, an English teacher from Los Angeles who had done the program 10 times in the past twenty years. We quickly took to talking about everything from hitchhiking to mindfulness to Hamlet. I could tell he was a teacher not just in job but at heart. He would talk, and then listen, then question, navigating conversation gracefully in search of some driving focus. You could tell his drive was as much habit as in search of some greater virtue. Another man, whose name I’ve sadly forgotten, happened to be a Phd student who coincidentally had studied Shakespeare and Hamlet extensively. His passion and depth quickly outpaced my own, and I waned, but Smalls did a good job keeping the conversation grounded. I still remember him asking, with a smile, “But what does it mean? What is the essence?”.

There was Terence as well, a Japanese man in full adidas tracksuit (which he maintained for the duration of the course, including during its completion) who had just returned from a 40 day retreat before this. Afterwards he said he was off to China to attend a 100 day session. The apprehension of the 10 day course in front of me was daunting enough, and so the concept of a an almost half-year in meditation was unfathomable. I realized that one man’s mountain was sometimes merely another’s stepping stone.

Next was Louie, a quiet man who only talked when I prompted him. He was going down the path of living a life, but after discovering he had a brain tumor, had quit his job and travelled the world. He’d puked his guts out in South America in the throes an an Ayahuasca trip, undergone life saving surgeries which he was ensured several times would kill him, and forgotten significant portions of his life.

There were other people as well, several of which I would get to know over the course of the meditation. My relationship with them would be very one-sided though. After the start of the course, I wouldn’t talk to any other attendees until its completion, and for a special reason.

In Vipassana, or at least in the course I was taught, you are obligated to observe something called Noble Silence. To quote from the handbook given to us at the introduction, Noble Silence means “silence of body, speech, and mind. Any form of communication with fellow students, whether by gestures, sign language, written notes, etc., is prohibited”. This also included the handing over of our phones for the duration of the course. For ten days, we would do nothing but exist within the small bounds of the facility, eat two times a day (with a break for tea substituting for dinner), and meditate for at least ten hours a day. The thought of spending ten days in silence without even the ability to write was daunting to say the least, moreso because knowing myself, I would give the program the ability to argue its techniques, and that meant pursuing its teachings wholeheartedly. This didn’t mean that I was willing to adopt its beliefs and practices without consideration of their merit. I simply suppose that to fully understand the potential of something, it should have opportunity to present itself truthfully before considerations are made.

This is a good place to explain what Vipassana is. I’ll first use the explanation given by the organization itself: Vipassana is one of India’s most ancient meditation techniques. Long lost to humanity, it was rediscovered by Gotama the Buddha more than 2500 years ago. Vipassana means seeing things as they really are. It is the process of self-purification by self-observation. One begins by observing the natural breath to concentrate the mind. With a sharpened awareness one processed to observe the changing nature of body and mind, and experiences the universal truths of impermanence, suffering, and egolessness. This truth-realization by direct experience is the process of purification. The entire path (Dhamma) is a universal remedy for universal problems, and has nothing to do with any organized religion or sectarianism… …Vipassana eliminates the three causes of all unhappiness: craving, aversion, and ignorance. With continued practice, the meditation releases the tensions developed in everyday life, opening the knots tied by the old habit of reacting in an unbalanced way to pleasant and unpleasant situations.

In pursuit of clarity, reference to the course I took, or any readings from the organization, are specifically referring to the teachings of S.N. Goenka and the Vipassana Research Institute, an organization he founded in 1985 to help preserve and spread Vipassana to the greater world. If I am referring to a concept of Vipassana, it can likely be attributed to either the VRI or Goenka himself. Goenka learned Vipassana from the teacher Sayagyi U Ba Khin, a high ranking government official in the Burmese government turned spiritual leader who popularized Vipassana in the 20th century. The VRI, Goenka, and Sayagyi U Ba Khin trace Vipassana as a practice directly to the Buddha through a continuous line of teachers. It is said to have later disappeared from India, where it was considered a long-lost technique. Despite disappearing for 2500 years, it was purportedly preserved in Burma until being revived in the 20th century and later being popularized in India and the world at large. It grew for a time in India and surrounding regions, before Vipassanā hopped the pond in the mid-1980s. It entered a cultural moment already energized by Eastern spirituality, psychedelic experimentation, and the broader countercultural movement. Figures like the Beatles, who popularized Indian teachers and meditation, and Timothy Leary, who championed early psychedelic use and thought, had already made Western audiences receptive to practices exploring the mind and inner experience, and Vipassana quickly took hold in centers across the United States.

While there is little direct historical evidence linking contemporary Vipassana practice to the Buddha’s original practice, it is not my intent to imply that S.N. Goenka or his centers are being disingenuous in their teachings by appealing to a greater level of spiritual authority. Instead, I believe that the historical and current teachers of Vipassana aim to provide a meditative method that reduces suffering and promotes mindfulness across cultures. That said, it’s worth noting that the organization’s claims are not entirely historically verifiable, and instead adhere to a spiritual lineage as is common with many spiritual and religious practices.

After all the participants had arrived we had a small introduction to the program in the dining area and was then informed that we would go to the central meditation hall to formally begin the program. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about but I distinctly remember a feeling of nervous anticipation. We walked the short path to the hall and took our places among cushions laid out in a grid. We all faced forward at the center bench, which sat a male and female instructor respectively. I don’t want to spoil the specifics of the program for anyone interested in attending, but after a short ritual, the Noble Silence began and with that the start of the next ten days. We all arose and walked noiselessly out of the hall, as if under some spell yet to be understood. I remember stepping out of the hall with intrepidity, looking out at the sun sinking over the desert hills on that first warm summer night.

The Practice

The first step to the practice is to lay a foundation to all later actions. You begin with Sila, or morale conduct. Which requires practitioners to conscientiously observe five precepts, as well as three additional precepts for those returning to the course.

  1. Abstain from Killing
  2. Abstain from stealing
  3. Abstain from all sexual activity
  4. Abstain from telling lies (Which the Noble Silence supports intentionally)
  5. Abstain from Intoxicants

The additional precepts are:

  1. Abstain from eating after midday
  2. Abstain from sensual entertainment and bodily decoration (An interesting problem for people with tattoos)
  3. and abstention from high or luxurious beds

These all make sense from a glance. In the pursuit of total liberation, good conduct and the elimination of negativity and harm would likely be involved. And If the intent is to practice mindfulness and concentration, it would be helpful to eliminate distraction. Indeed, repeatedly the teachings emphasized that the observation of these precepts “allows the mind to calm down sufficiently to proceed further with the task at hand”. The limited movement, simple rooms, isolation, and strict schedules help with this, and are reminiscent of a prison-like experience. Indeed, the entire facility is even surrounded by a fence, though I was informed this was simply to keep out a species of tortoise endemic to the region. However, if you wanted to leave you could at any time, and this was made clear to everyone. Over the duration of the course I only noticed three of the roughly thirty participants dropping out . A better description might be that the environment is reminiscent of a Monk-like lifestyle, free of stimulus, hedonism or personal desire. However you put it, the similarities between the course and a prison-like or monk-like environment is not ignored in the teachings. Indeed, it is intentional and actually presented as a positive. In our daily world of obligation, personal preferences, habits, and sensationalism, it is unlikely that any of us could adhere to such a strict code of conduct even if it were a precept to eternal satisfaction. The course, once undertaken, offers a reasonably plausible justification for undertaking such discomfort that the user likely couldn’t engage with on their own. The isolation is actually a gift given by the program, and in India, where meditation enjoys a larger presence, practitioners are sometimes even locked in individual cells for the duration of courses.

After the course, it was intended that to those who keep up with the meditation should also keep up with the precepts. While the precepts definitely supported the experience, I can’t say I kept up these precepts after the course’s completion, and my meditative practice fell through soon after that, whether those things are correlated or not.

The next step is the development of samadhi, or concentration of the mind. This comes from the meditative practices themselves, which first includes Anapana. Ana, or “in breath”, and Apana, meaning “out breath”, roughly translates to “inhalation, exhalation”. The practitioner simply breathes through the nostrils and notices the touch of the breath on the upper lip. It is not intended to purify the mind as Vipassana is, instead serving as a way to calibrate concentration. It’s done for the first three and a half days before the actual technique of Vipassana is even introduced.

It showcases an important concept as well. The object of focus is the sensation of air over the upper lip. This is distinct from objects of focus in other practices. In TM for example, focus is put on an externality, a mantra assigned by a verified teacher of the practice. In another Buddhist practice, known as Kasina, focus is put on a specific visual object to cultivate samadhi. S.N. Goenka, in a discourse on the purification of the mind, said that: “we can train the mind to get concentrated with the help of many objects. But when we walk on the path of Dharma. . . . . .where no blind faith is involved, where no imagination is involved, where no speculation is involved— we have to work with the truth, the truth as it is” The goal of Vipassana is not merely to learn concentration but to purify the mind. And one of the core ideas of Vipassana is that you can only do so through observation of internal, natural processes. Goenka consistently refers to learning truth, or Dhamma through the truth as it is, or the truth pertaining to oneself. When you meditate, you are intended to focus only on your “physical structure”. Later on, Goenka argues that all truth, including the Noble Truths that lead directly to enlightenment, are discoverable only through the analysis of natural processes and sensations. Later on once samadhi is sufficiently developed, you are introduced to the actual process of Vipassana, which is said to “penetrate one’s entire physical and mental structure”, to gain the clarity of panna, or wisdom, but concentration still persists as the first obstacle.

Those first few days went by with momentum. I had decided beforehand to embrace the experience with enthusiasm, seeing it as a mental challenge to bear. The intro pamphlet emphasized that one should engage with the program with a genuine desire to seek its benefits, but the psychological intensity made it hard not to morph it into a sort of “experience tourism”, something to endure and then come out of for the better. I didn’t know what would happen, but surely ten days of silence and isolation would do something interesting to the mind. I would either find inner peace or at the very least dream vividly, maybe even have a hallucination or two. The worst outcome I suppose, would’ve been a boring or mundane resolution. I remember aliking the experience to the Monomyth of Joseph Campbell. In one version it follows a chosen figure who ventures into the unknown world, endures its trials, and returns with sacred knowledge. Even then I imagined myself trekking onto untrodden paths, eager to endure the dragons of this land in pursuit of a hidden ark.

To give you an idea of our schedule, at 4:00 AM every day an assistant would go around and ring a bell, signaling that it was time to wake up. You would then have roughly 30 minutes to pull yourself together, use the bathroom maybe, and then until 6:30 you would meditate either in your room or in the hall. After that till 8:00 AM was breakfast, where there was an assortment of cereals, tea, coffee, and fruit. Then an hour of group meditation till 9, then after a short break another meditation till 11:00 that was either as a group in the hall or in your room. They would usually use this time to check in with students or to introduce a new technique.

Next was lunch from 11:00 to 12:00, where a vegan or vegetarian meal was served. These meals were varied and high quality, and were always something to look forward to. Then was a rest till 1pm, another group meditation from 1 to 2:30, a solo meditation in your room or in the hall till 5, a short break for tea, and a meditation in the hall as a group from 6-7.

After this meditation they would play videos recorded from Goenka’s teachings. Here he would reinforce concepts, tell stories, and expand upon the Vipassana meditation. Considering these were the only external stimulus offered, I anticipated them with intense zeal akin to the consumption of an anticipated film. As for Goenka himself, we would learn a lot about his life over the course. He was born to Indian family in Burma. His family was Hindu, owners of a successful textile business, of which he became a successful member. Yet after experiencing severe migraines that avoided all conventional treatment, he met with the Vipassana teacher Sayagyi U Ba Khin. Goenka ended up studying under Ba Khin for 14 years, until he was given authorization from Ba Khin—who at this time was close to death—to go out and teach Vipassana worldwide. Goenka was undoubtedly a talented teacher and orator. He carefully mixed humor and lesson with anecdote, all the while relating the concepts of Vipassana to the viewer over 10 days. These videos were the crux of the course, and it makes sense that even though they are now nearing 20 years old, the organization has not found another teacher to record new videos, instead opting to teach his words which exist with the same vitality as when he was alive.

After the discourse, there was a final group meditation from 9 to 9:30. Then after that, everyone would file out into the warm desert night and retire for the night.

In these early days, I observed a number of interesting psychological effects. When we practiced Anapana and cultivated nothing but concentration, I would do nothing but sit with my eyes closed in a rigid seating pose, and focus on breathing in and out of my nose, focusing on how the breath touched the upper lip and sometimes the ring of the nostril. Continued concentration noticeably increased sensation. After awhile I noticed that the breath mostly came through one nostril at a time, sometimes the left and sometimes the right. You can try this right now actually. If you put your finger up to your nostril and blow, you’ll notice that the breath comes out from one nostril more than another. This is a phenomena that exists in most people, called the Nasal cycle, and it happens subconsciously, with airflow alternating between the nostrils once every 1-4 hours.

Additionally, the first few days were marked by significant visualizations. While meditating it was natural for the mind to drift, but you are instructed to persistently bring your attention back to focus when you notice it happening. As time went on this became easier, as if we were strengthening a muscle, and by the end of the program, I found I could sustain a “blank slate” of sorts, where I could render my mind totally focused without drifting. But in those early days I would picture vivid scenarios. I remember verbose mental objects appearing without regard to manipulation or intent. I remember picturing the wedding of my best friend, witnessing the whole ceremony and later giving a speech as best man. It was fully imagined, and yet felt like a glimpse into the future, as if I were an Oracle at Delphi. Another time I closed my eyes and could see all the people around me clearly in their seated spots, as if my eyelids were merely tinted glass. My theory is that these hallucinations were echoes of my default state of mind which had not yet been calibrated for such a low input, sensitive environments, and so were filling in the blanks.

My relation to my peers changed as well. The people I met initially began to take on new meaning as I familiarized myself with their presentations, their habits, and more importantly my internal representations of them. After a time it became hard to differentiate the real people from my mental constructions thereof, relying only on the few concrete facts I could garner and ever increasing inferences further from the base. Our short conversations, occurring over scarcely an hour, existed more and more as only a hazy dream. I also became invested by the vacuum of stimulus in any bit of information I could find. Louie would eat an apple every morning with black tea, no milk. Smalls would eat by the window for each meal, taking a walk two times around the track after lunch but never in the morning or at night. I would walk clockwise around the track, and he would walk the other way. Not once did our eyes ever meet. Another fellow, who I would later learn was named Ryan, would eat only an ascetic meal of oatmeal, and was never seen along the trails. Some people used the single cushion given to meditate, while others constructed elaborate contraptions of pillow to remain comfortable. There was also another person, with a half-shaved head like a punk-rocker, and a long stylized handlebar moustache. His body, face included, was covered in tattoos of various age. I spent a long time staring at him and his tattoos, inferring a model of who he was, what his life was like, what his story was, not knowing if any of it was actually correct.

Not much changes in the desert, but with little to do you become highly attuned to what does. Each night we would walk out of the hall to head to bed. Directly overhead was the Moon. Night by night it moved downward in the sky at a slow crawl. I watched it go through its phases over the duration of the course, and a meagre sliver of light grow into a large, confident slice. On the trail too there was activity. While walking one day I noticed that signs had started appearing in the dirt. On day one someone had drawn a long squiggly line in the sand. In another section there was a spiral by a cactus. Later I spotted a herd of zig-zags. At one sitting area there was a heart, which contained the message “T+M”. On day three, someone had humorously written “I LUV CHICKEN”, and the day after someone had added, “ME TOO”. Each day was something new, and I went out diligently when everyone had gone to see the new signs like I was reading the newspaper. I imagined myself an archeologist, interpreting the marks every day for hidden meaning. I would look around the tables at breakfast, trying to imagine who could’ve drawn what, whose personality matched the meaning of the different messages. Who was lovestruck enough to write a proclamation of love? Who was it who loved chicken? Eventually though, I realized that by following the markings I was being unfaithful to the purpose of the program. The marks were a distraction, besides the point. Slowly I began ignoring the marks and eventually, around day six, they began to fade away too.

After three and a half days of Anapana meditation we were taught Vipassana. As I said before, the goal of the program was not merely to learn samadhi, but panna, or direct knowledge. It was this knowledge that was said to manifest unknown truths and lead to liberation. The actual practice of Vipassana meditation was different from Anapana. Whereas in the latter you simply focus on the natural breath, Vipassana is more involved. You begin with a spot on the body, such as the soles of the feet or the top of the head, an then you “scan” up and down, noticing each and every sensation until the whole body has been scanned. The sensations may be broad and explicit, like the touch of cloth on an arm or the cold air of an air conditioner, or minute like the tiny prickle of on the skin. You are informed to experience these sensations from a state of equanimity and non-reactivity. In the words of the VRI, “the student is instructed to observe the truth of sensations throughout the body… …The student is instructed not to give any importance to any particular sensation or to have any bias or preference for any sensation. The student proceeds from the gross truths to the subtler truths to ultimately reach the subtlest truth. He observes the mind-matter phenomenon, the truth of the so-called ‘I’, the truth about the causes and effect of suffering and the way out of suffering. He makes this observation within the framework of the body, without any illusion, delusion, imagination or visualization.” This is where you begin to learn the truths of the universe as they say. From here on out, we would engage in Vipassana, or body scanning, day after day, in an environment that reinforced concentration and eliminated distraction. You’d scan each arm, each finger, each small section of skin, observing every little pain and sensation. But as you do so, you never react to the feelings, you observe and move on. Naturally thoughts will arise too, good and bad, and you approach these with the same philosophy. One of the truths you learn is that all attachment or resentment leads to suffering. Because while some attachments are good, there is another truth that exists in tandem, known as anicca, or change. Sensations, good and bad, rise and fall. Fortune comes and goes like the rolling tides, Winter comes, wanes, and is replaced by Spring and Summer, only to give rise to Fall and Winter again. And so craving and aversion, they say, is a losing game. Because attachment to that which you desire will only lead to suffering when that thing disappears. Likewise, a strong aversion will inherently lead to suffering when that thing returns. Annica, or change, is a fundamental rule of the universe then, and it can be realized wholly through interface of the body and mind.

I promise that we’re almost done with new terms, there’s just one more. When you experience a sensation, such as when someone delivers you a kiss, or a slap, your reaction to that forms what Goenka refers to as a Sankhara, roughly defined as a mark. Now when you do this for the first time, the mark is like a splash in water. It makes a ripple but it hardly lasts for more than a second before the surface of the water settles. But with reinforcement, it becomes more like a mark in sand or clay. The mark can be removed with time, but it is less prone to mutability. With ever repeated reaction to these sensations, the sankhara can eventually become reinforced as if etched in stone. At this point, the behavior or association is firmly implanted within the mind.

Interestingly, this metaphor correlates pretty well our understanding of how the Human Brain solidifies patterns and habits. When you react to something negatively, you reinforce the association between that negative stimulus and that sensation. Over time, that connection can become, to an extent, hardcoded. In neuropsychology, this relates to such ideas as Hebbian Theory, often summarized as “neurons that fire together, wire together”, or neuroplasticity, which allows the brain to reorganize and grow its networks in response to learning new skills or adapting to new situations. This is not meant to be a scientifically exhaustive paper, but Vipassana and similar meditative techniques do relate strongly to real neurological concepts.

Such behaviors are not necessarily negative mind you. In some cases we do want to solidify sensation into reaction. If you eat a piece of rotten food, it might be nice to instinctively respond negatively to a similar piece of food in the future. The brain’s formation of “Sankharas” is what helped our ancestors find food, or to know to run when they spotted a lion. This also is the defining principle of learning any task, which requires consistent and focused exposure to specific stimulus. If it weren’t for Sankhara’s, we probably wouldn’t be where we are now.

But what do we do for the negative Sankharas? The ones we do want removed? In such a case, Goenka compares Sankharas to a fire, or a plant that has taken root in the “garden” of your mind. They are undeniably there, but by starving them of their fuel, which is done through non-reaction, the fire will slowly die, and the plant wilts and eventually starve. Vipassana and greater Buddhist teachings relate this to a more wholistic cycle of phenomena, sensation, reaction, and suffering, and argue that any break in the chain breaks the cycle. And while we cannot end all phenomena or sensation, we can end our reaction to sensation.

At its core, this is all Vipassana is: A specific technique for observing the natural cycle of sensation, feeling, and habitual reaction. Stripped of its spiritual and historical context, it is a practice of mindful objectivity—of training the mind to notice experiences without clinging or aversion. It is an advocation of mindfulness and peace in a way that directly relates to the way the human brain processes suffering.

This simplicity to Vipassana is one of the core reasons why it is attractive to me. It is utterly secular and pragmatic. Goenka says that, One should understand this law of nature not merely at the intellectual level. We cannot understand the law of nature merely by listening to discourses, by listening to Dharma talks, by reading scriptures, by discussions, by intellectualization or by emotionalization. These may make us more and more confused. The only way to understand Dharma, to understand the law of nature, is to experience it. We should have direct experience of the truth, of the law of nature. It is not enough to simply read literature, discuss with teachers, or write essays. Instead, the truth must be experienced. In that regard, he makes a bold claim. He states that this realization of a great enlightening truth is not something that can be taught. It can’t be passed down by a teacher or a book. If we could pass along Nirvana in bite sized pieces, they’d sell it in packs like gum at the 7-11—three dollars a hit to see God! No, Instead, information can only show you the path. Each step must be walked individually, and so the burden of proof is placed directly on the practice itself to prove its benefits.

This to me is not only incredibly transparent, but a large cognitive shift from other religious practices, which place importance on (sometimes eternal) faith. Instead, the practice should actively prove itself to you and you should begin to see its benefits for itself. You must, of course, reasonably engage with the practice in good faith (no pun intended), but it is not forever contingent on an undeliverable truth or even significant religious belief. Because of this expectation of results, the practice could be considered totally secular and pragmatic. Indeed, this was one of the primary arguments of Vipassana meditation, which helped it gain footage in both the US and India where people were wary of anything that might impede on their preexisting religious practices. If there is a part of the course you disagree with, you can ignore it (such as their argument that meditation can reveal truths about science. I’m looking at you, kalapas) The Buddha was a great man, but there’s a reason Scientists work at CERN don’t spend their time meditating under Bodhi trees. The only thing that needs to remain immutable is the practice itself.

There is a tension to these course because of this. I can only speak for my experience, but I approached the course with a sort of hesitancy. Anything too spiritual, too fantastical, or ritualistic made me skeptical. I wasn’t here to join a cult or a religion. And yet at times, especially as the course developed, the practice was sometimes so detached from any sort of spectacular display that I wished there was more. At the very least, they could’ve lit some incense, put down a geometric rug, even just a sound bowl would’ve been nice. Our teacher for example wasn’t a Yogi in big flowing robes, no. Instead, he was a clean shaven guy in a polo shirt, the kind of person you’d expect to say “Will you be making a deposit or withdrawal?” at the bank. I’d argue this stems from our brain’s innate marriage of presentation alongside substance. A Michelin star experience is centered around the food, but surely there would be riots if your Tournedos Rossini came out in a Styrofoam box.

The program continued for the remaining few days until that final night. It went by without much further significance, and became an exercise in endurance. And yet after all the hardship, all the quiet and persistent suffering, it had somehow come to an end. I still remember leaving the meditation hall the night of our final meditation and walking into the night, feeling an immense relief and satisfaction. Looking up at the moon that night, I noticed it had been filled completely with light. I remember the last session of meditation we did, which was a special type of meditation called metta, where you attempt to spread and receive compassion among all beings everywhere. They would play audio of Goenka, leading the Metta chanting, talking in Pali, in a sing-song type voice. His voice was smooth, practiced, from years and years of recitation. The words and syllables flowed from him like water, taking on a new meaning with each chant. Each time the pronunciation, the stressing and elongation of words changed. At the end of that final session, he got up and walked offscreen, his voice trailing out Sabbe sattā bhavantu sukhitattā (Sah-bay sat-tah bhah-van-too su-khi-tah-ttah), or roughly translated as “May all beings be happy”. A melancholic haze persisted. I couldn’t help but picture old Goenka, my friend and mentor over those ten days, plump and wrinkled with grey hair, who was now over ten years dead. Now he existed only in these videos and recordings, and while he had long since left this plane, he would soon leave my brain as well as I left and returned to regular life.

Afterwards I did talk to some of the people after the course. I had been observing them without feedback on their character for ten days, and was interested to see how they compared to my mental models. None of them were who I thought they were. One was a scientist, studying the brain. He found the experience highly intriguing, though not entirely applicable to his scientific research. Another, the fellow with the moustache, ended up being a motorcycle mechanic and Baja racer, who had sustained injuries of a higher amount and intensity than I thought possible for someone outside of a wheelchair or a grave. He had many interesting stories and I’m sure if I knew him longer there would be many, many more. I exchanged a few numbers before leaving and stayed in contact with a few people, but it saddens me to know I won’t know the story of everyone I met. I suppose its just like life that the ghosts of others often become more intimate to us than the people they represent.

After

From there I embarked on more adventures, some of which might make it into another story, but eventually school came around. I moved for the first time away from my family, friends—my life—to a new area. I’d stopped meditating months before I’d settled into my apartment, my classes, and my new life. I made a small attempt to restart my practice but the chaos of college life snuffed it out before it had a genuine chance to flourish. For better or worse, meditation simply didn’t fit in with my lifestyle at the time. There are certain things in life that demand of you space to exist. And if you can’t offer that, then it doesn’t exist, simple as that. In such situations its better to engage with something wholeheartedly than do it under compromise. But the seed was there. It existed somewhere in the soil, dormant and waiting, expressing itself occasionally in my values or in a moment of quiet observation, waiting to germinate and grow again.

Since writing this, I have begun meditating again, as well as embodying the values of observation and equanimity that come with it. I make no claim that I will keep with it for the rest of my life, or that even now I meditate for the recommended amount of time, which is two hours a day, one hour in the morning and one hour before bed. On a good day I meditate for maybe thirty minutes split across multiple sessions. Nevertheless I see the benefits. I am aware of how my thoughts relate to my emotions, how a memory or an encounter can shift your mood for better or worse. Through dedicated focus I think I have done a good job in quieting my mind, in pruning my attention of things that are distractive or potentially volatile.

Additionally, I can’t help but use this new mindful and neurological lens to analyze the people around me. The people I live with, work with, hang out with, are likewise “in development”. They’re young individuals similarly exposed to a world they are just starting to understand. They react loudly or emotionally to things I wouldn’t consider worthwhile, and then the next second engage with situations I would consider insurmountable mountains. The people around me are both incredibly flawed, and yet also capable of doing things with relative ease, capable of actualizing things I could only dream of.

And so I find myself playing a game I like to call “Seek and Stand”. Sometimes you are standing. The primordial environment of college life is filled with people who have it half figured out. When someone pursues something that stands in opposition to what you value, it is easy to dismiss. Furthermore, it feels rewarding to maintain principles and values in an environment that so often dismisses them, in the hopes that such principles will pay off in the long run and in the greater context of situations that life offers. And yet sometimes people seem to actualize things you deem valuable, which makes the other part of the game, “Seeking”, appear more optimal. In this stage, you search for values and principles to make your own. Morale strength, or unwaverability in the face of chaos and noise, can seem attractive. It signals coherence, confidence. The trick is in knowing when the adopting of a new value means potentially replacing a better one. The game is played with ever changing perceptions of outcomes, timespans, and the Whorfian-like effects of entertaining certain beliefs. It is not an easy game to play, and yet it is central to this period of my life and of those around me, whether they know they’re playing or not.

Lastly, I want to take a moment to talk about wisdom, because this is a deeply important concept to me, and I think it is where Vipassana and meditation as a whole shines. Wisdom might be best defined as a “learned knowledge”. To elaborate, someone who reads through a philosophy textbook and proceeds to harangue their hapless victim with knowledge of philosophical movements could be said to hold knowledge, but of an intellectual, not intuitive nature. The most well versed individual in the intellectual tents of a life well lived surely doesn’t hold the practical answers to life. Yet by contrast, the advice of a grandparent or teacher might be considered wise as it relates directly to lived experience.

Personally I can say that a prioritization of wisdom over knowledge was a large awakening for me, and a novel concept when it was presented through panna. To me, knowledge was power, and the pursuit and attainment of it was a virtuous goal that I thought would ultimately pay off. It was a safe bet, something you could always put your head down and pursue. I could be happy, I thought, if I just understood the things affecting me. For a lot of my life I tried to solve every problem with knowledge. Any issue, no matter the colour, I would approach with long stretches of thinking, as if my thoughts could erode issues like water carving a path through a sandstone canyon.

The problem with knowledge is that while it is useful, it is at the end of the day a tool, and tools work best for their specific purposes. Knowledge can build nations, train an engineer or a doctor, or describe the process of synaptic plasticity. But it can’t tell you how to answer those real-time, human questions of “How should I feel about this?”, “What should I do?”, or “How should I respond?”. The world of human experience is far too personal, far too nuanced, for any application of knowledge to reasonably apply. Instead, you need wisdom, and wisdom can only come from experience. It is for this reason that I refer to wisdom as a kind of “learned knowledge”, and since this reframing took place in my mind I have placed a special importance on wisdom over strict intellectual knowledge, and I would argue I am the better for it. I don’t know the answer the questions of life. I don’t know what values are important to pursue or retain. But I do know that you can learn from your mistakes, which you are likely to make no matter the course, and that you can give yourself the best chance possible in finding your answers by first allowing yourself to stand on stable ground. What I am advocating isn’t a mindset or a principle, its coherence, and coherence helps no matter the path. And I think an exercise in mindfulness and wisdom is a good first step.

Sources, Further Reading

On Vipassana:

On TM:

On Zen and non dualism:

  • Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid
  • Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

On the Brain: