After having returned home from an overnight stay at a Buddhist monastery my wife asked me what I did there. Using the same refrain my teenage son offers me after I ask him what he did in school, I replied, "Nothing." Well, my reply wasn't entirely accurate because I didn't exactly do "nothing." However, what I did do wouldn't exactly be characterized as something; at least not in the conventional sense.
Aware of my interest in meditation, a colleague at work, a practicing Buddhist, recommended that I attend an all-day silent retreat at the Dharma Drum Retreat Center in Pine Bush, New York. I was a little hesitant, as the thought of sitting in silence for an entire day seemed a little daunting. Yet at the same time, I was curious to see how my regular practice would translate when extended to an entire 24-hour period. I have been practicing meditation for several years now. Generally, I meditate no more than 20 to 30 minutes at a time and only a few times a week. A practice that can run the gamut of experiences ranging from calming and relaxing to frustrating and difficult. However, even on days when the silence is deafening and the practice is torturous, the knowledge that relief is several minutes away often helps get me through the more challenging stretches. Faced with the notion that I could experience moments like that for hours not minutes, I signed up for the event quickly, perhaps fittingly, without thinking about it.
Genuinely curious as to what one does at a silent retreat for a full day, my wife listened intently as I described in full detail all that I had done -- rather, all that I had not done. I enumerated my busy itinerary since we last made contact, just before I shut off my Smartphone, which severed me from Facebook posts and Twitter tweets. I was surprised at how easily I was able to recall, in vivid detail, all the events and particulars of the previous 24 hours. These events were neither astonishing nor awe-inspiring. I described with enthusiasm rather prosaic tasks, which we normally carry out unconsciously amid our usually hurried lives. I told her how I entered the first floor of the dark dormitory where I was assigned a simple room not unlike the one I lived in during my freshman year of college. The sound of the wheels of my luggage rolling on the linoleum floor echoed in the silence as I walked down the long corridor. I could see into the mostly empty dark rooms. There were a few closed doors where the light from beneath the doors illuminated the corridor.
I recalled the smell of the oatmeal I ate for breakfast that looked like something out of Oliver's workhouse but tasted surprisingly sweet and delicious. I remembered feeling the warmth of the oatmeal as it made its way down my throat and to my belly as I sat alongside strangers in silence. There was no friendly conversation to distract us from the act of nourishing our bodies. I recalled being completely engaged in tying my sneakers as I prepared for the walk from the cafeteria to the main meditation hall. A task I probably hadn't focused on since my 5-year-old self was preparing for recess in kindergarten. The walk to the meditation hall provided an ordinary yet scenic view of a meadow and trees. I could hear the whisper of the wind and see the waving of the large beautiful trees as they swayed from what remained that weekend of Hurricane Joaquin.
I could see my wife waiting patiently for me to describe something of consequence; something that she could grab onto and describe as extraordinary. No different from the 25 men and women who sat cross-legged on the floor of the large wooden meditation room earlier that day. We all sat, waiting for instructions from the head monk who sat before us in silence before we began our official practice. When he finally spoke, he told us that our goal here was not to reach some sort of ephemeral and moving enlightened experience. He actually told us that we did not have a goal. We were not waiting for something to happen or looking to feel some kind sensation. This practice was simply for us to spend a day sitting in silence and being utterly in the present moment regardless of what that moment brought.
We were provided some instructions on how to mediate but there was no guaranteed 10-step process to help us reach blissful enlightenment. We took the practice of non-judgmentally paying attention to the present moment into everything we did. We practiced while we sat with our eyes closed. We practiced while we all walked around in circles for an undetermined amount of time. We practiced while we ate, breathed, and napped. We even practiced when we performed clean up duty after lunch. I can still remember the hot water and the smell of the soap as I cleaned the industrial-sized metal pots that were my chore for the day.
Each moment provided me with an opportunity to bring calmness and equanimity into my actions. I wish I could say that my attention was always fully in the present moment. I wish that I could say that I didn't think about sleeping in my own bed that night or that I didn't wonder what time it was, and when would I begin my long trek home. Those thoughts and so many more seeped into my present moment conscious the entire day constantly interrupting my practice. I knew though ironically, that these relapses were the sure sign of the success of my practice. For it is only in the present moment that one can truly notice their mind adrift.
We are all constantly looking for excitement in our lives. We keep ourselves busy and distracted from the present moment because it seems like nothing of importance is ever happening now. We ruminate over our past actions and fret over what may happen in the future while all the time missing the only moment where anything is ever really happening -- the present moment. As I write this piece and recall doing nothing during my day of silence at the Buddhist monastery, I am reminded to focus my attention back to this moment where I am sitting in my office chair and typing these words.