#writing
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.
- Abstain from Killing
- Abstain from stealing
- Abstain from all sexual activity
- Abstain from telling lies (Which the Noble Silence supports intentionally)
- Abstain from Intoxicants
The additional precepts are:
- Abstain from eating after midday
- Abstain from sensual entertainment and bodily decoration (An interesting problem for people with tattoos)
- 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.