The Japanese call an awakening Satori, which seems fitting to what happened to me on April 22, 2012. Ironically, this moment of Satori coincided with my return to meditation.
My introduction to meditation began when I was 21. I was a 4th year student at Evergreen, and I'd been studying with an amazing professor, Paul Przybylowicz, since the start of the year. Evergreen operates on a quarter system, and I'd been Paul's student since the Fall Quarter, when I took Mushrooms of the Pacific Northwest, a thoroughly remarkable course that had only been offered by Evergreen one previous time, in the '70s, when Paul Stamets of Fungi Perfecti fame took the class.
After relishing in the delight of the mushroom class, and then enduring Paul's Biogeochemistry class, (the highlight of which was my dear friend, Josie's presentation on Astrophysics), Paul told me that he was going to be leading a lichen biology class for the Spring Quarter. He said that he planned to incorporate lichen biology, rock climbing, and meditation into a class that would be open only to upper level students at Evergreen.
When Scott heard that I'd be traveling to Onalaska for a meditation retreat, and that I'd be learning how to rock climb, he asked if there was any possibility he could be involved. He didn't realize that I'd said Onalaska, and not Alaska, but he was interested in the climbing nonetheless. I told Paul that I knew a really good photographer, if he was interested in documenting the course. Right before spring break, Paul released the questionnaire for those interested in taking the course, which would be limited to 20 or so students. Scott and I filled out the appropriate paperwork and then attended the mandatory informational session. That night I had the only migraine I've ever had in my life, which was weird, but I was psyched on the class. I was highly surprised by the number of students who attended the info session, there had to have been several hundred people there. A short time later, Paul released the accepted students list, and Scott and I were both on it. Immediately after that, we left for spring break.
During spring break, Josie, Scott, and myself drove the 24-hours to New Mexico via rental car, and spent our time enjoying some of the best late-season snow Los Alamos has ever seen with our dear NM friends. I distinctly remember the extreme run-off flows in Pagosa as we made our way to Los Alamos. Something I've not seen since. The piles of snow in our families' yards was insane! Despite the early-April time-frame, there were piles about 6-ft tall on the north-sides of the houses.
At the end of the trip, Scott and I drove back to Olympia; Josie had gone on to her family in Austin, and flew home from there. Both of us had made the cut, and were registered as students in the very hot Ecology, Awareness, and Exposure. If my house hadn't burned down in the Cerro Grande Fire, I would have scanned my class synopsis to share.
We arrived back at Evergreen and went to the first lecture regarding our new course. Paul told us that he would require that every student participating sign a vow to refrain from alcohol, drugs, and caffeine. I wasn't so worried about the alcohol and drugs as I was the caffeine. Mochas and Lattes were pretty much my raison d'etre during the rainy Olympia days. Beer would be hard too. But we both signed our signatures and then prepared for what was to come.
Paul explained that we would be doing a meditation retreat. It would be a Vipassana-based meditation retreat, and we would all be required to be silent for 10 days. At the time, I was so gung-ho on learning to rock climb and learn about lichen biology, that I really didn't give much thought to what a silent 10 days might mean for me, individually.
We made sure our dog had a caretaker, (thanks, Josie!) and off we went. (Chillum thanks you, too.)
When we arrived at the meditation center, we were told that the men and the women would be segregated. That seemed reasonable, but since there was no curtain in place during meditation, it did seem surprising that a curtain was placed between the sexes in the dining hall.
Meditation began at 4 am. A bell-ringer went around the outside of the building, waking everyone before the 4am start time. I woke up every day about 1 minute before the bell rang. A clue to me that I have an innate, internal alarm clock. I watched the bell ringer every morning, who just happened to be Paul. I'm sure he felt some sort of responsibility to wake all his creeds for this adventure he signed us up for.
We would pile into the meditation hall to sit from 4 to 6 am. And two other time slots during the day. (My memory is failing me on the exact times...) I never knew how uncomfortable sitting could be until I sat in one place from 4 to 6 am. I then realized I had to do that again and again each day. Sitting is hard work.
I was not a very good meditation student. I thought I was being brain-washed for the first several days, and then, when I finally started grasping the meditation part of the retreat, I started yearning to write, which was supposedly forbidden. As was exercise. I solved these two dilemmas by doing push-ups by the dozen as much as I possibly could, and by digging out some large paper grocery sacks and a half-used pen I found in the utility closet. I wrote and wrote and wrote, when I had the opportunity, and then hid my writing from my classmates, lest they feel compelled to write as well, and I be the source of their forbidden inspiration. In the end, I made a conscious choice to return my writ-upon bags to the utility closet in case someone else might be so in need, and perhaps my writing might be a source of solace for them. (I do wish I had that writing now, as I lost so much of my past writing in the afore-mentioned fire.)
But as the retreat went on, I discovered several things. My dreams became more vivid than any I've ever had in my entire life. Being a dreamer, that says A LOT. I have movie-epic dreams that are worthy of any Spielberg screen. I remember those meditation retreat dreams to this moment. Graphic, vivid, gory, scary beyond belief...they seemed to convey the state of the world at that time. I was so removed from the rawness of war and brutality, yet my dreams ensured I was still an actor in the drama.
Secondly, I discovered that men and women are very different. And in ways that seemed surprising. We were segregated by sight for eating, but during the breaks, only a low wire fence separated the men's area from the women's.
I noticed upon arrival that the women's area had a well marked square-box trail with an "X" of a trail crossing the middle. The yard was just that, a yard. A fenced-in area marking the property. On the very first day, at the first break, I discovered that women walk. We don't just walk, we WALK. With gusto, vigor, purpose, intention. We walk in one direction, and then we walk in the other. We will criss-cross the field after we've completed both directions. This way, that way, and then this way and that way. Our walking would have been running had running been condoned. For nearly the entire break you could see the women walking. It was rare to see them sitting for any period of time.
The men, on the other hand, strolled. They didn't just stroll, it was more like lolly-gagging around. Looking at this, looking at that, stopping here, stopping there, just meandering. It was remarkable the difference between the sexes! Men, who have always been purported to be these action-driven creatures were actually not action-oriented at all. Mostly, they just wandered about aimlessly and stared at things.I didn't get a chance to see their trail structure, but I imagine it to be very random and all over the place.
One day, late into the retreat, I decided to sit down and just observe my surroundings. I'd already walked the women's course a number of times. Scott and I had concocted our own little way of communicating, which involved clearing our throats. We did a little of that, which no one observed other than us, and then I proceeded to just sit. Instantly I noticed that a bee was making its way around the grounds and I latched on to observing the bee. It went up and down, around, all over. I watched it fly upwards and downwards to the flowers and other plants. It meandered this way and that. I surmised it must be a male.
As I observed the bee I noticed the sound of trickling water. As I paid more attention to the sound, it became louder and more concentrated. I paid closer attention to try to find the source. It was Washington, and thus, wet. In fact, the weather during this particular retreat had been clearly awful. It would deluge for hours, which was great for meditation, but horrible for walking the women's course. We women would be battened down in our Gore-Tex jackets, hoods drawn tight, rain pelting over our bodies, the mist of the clouds hovering close to the ground. Sometimes the rain stopped for a a few minutes, the sun would push through, and I would feel hopeful that the sun might stick around for a while. Quickly the clouds would blanket back up, and the rain would deluge again.
During the moment I heard the water trickling, it was sunny. The clouds were light and fluffy, and did not hold the deep, menacing gray of the past week. I listened as tightly as I could, practically willing my ears to tune in as if to a line on the radio. And then I had a moment of surprise. An awakening of sorts! This sound didn't have a source, really, it was the actual sound of water percolating through the soil, and I could hear it so clearly, distinctly! When I looked at the ground, I saw only the grass blades and the dirt beneath. But as I looked with keen ear, I noticed that the earth had pores, and that the blades of grass were nothing but conduits deeper into the earth. The sound became almost overwhelming. It flooded my ears and I was fascinated by the lack of visual effects.
Within a while, we all returned back to the meditation hall and I realized that my meditation skills were indeed becoming more refined, despite my complete ignorance of the art when the whole retreat had begun. The bee and the water had cemented my realization.
When we returned back to school, life, home, I think we all required a bit of transition. Within a matter of days, I was back to my dilemma of deciding whether or not to buy a mocha on campus, or whether it would be okay if we had just one beer in the evening. We learned the basics of climbing safety, and ended up at world class climbing areas to put our skills to the test. We were, in fact, with world class people.
Years have passed since I was a student in Ecology, Awareness, and Exposure. Nineteen years, in fact. Prior to this year, I've probably put my meditation skills to use only a handful of times. Martial arts were my focus, and mountain biking, or snowboarding. To a lesser degree, rock climbing, and some ice. Later, trail running and road cycling became my moving meditations.
But on that day, this past April, I realized that I needed to begin meditating again.
Not being one for convention, I chose my place on the edge of a cliff. I sat down, settled in, and breathed. I breathed in. I breathed out. I breathed in. I breathed out. A thought interrupted me. The wind blew over my face. A bird warbled nearby. The heat wafted over my skin. A fly landed on my hand. My foot hurt from the rock beneath me. I shifted. I told myself, "breathe." So I counted. Breathe in, one. Breathe out, two. Breathe in, one, Breathe out, two.
It was a start. I began meditating again.
I've been doing it now for several months. For short periods. On the edge of cliffs. I'm constantly interrupted by nature and by my thoughts. But I keep trying. And magical things have begun to happen.
The hummingbird that sat next me and took a break. The deer that was bedded down just feet away, yet neither one of us noticed each other until I got up to walk back to my office. She did not spook when I did so. The rock I found, abandoned most likely, from when Pueblo was a school and not an office space, sitting on another rock I had passed multiple times. Yet the day I noticed it, I discovered it was a special piece, full of a variety of different crystals and geologic importance.
Every time I've sat down to meditate, I've also written in my journal. And every time that I've sat on the edge of the cliff and written in my journal, I've cried. Sometimes for no reason at all, at least that I can discern. But I attribute it to the world. To life in this day and age. To my own awareness to this change that I'm experiencing. To being.
It is a heavy time to be alive.
My introduction to meditation began when I was 21. I was a 4th year student at Evergreen, and I'd been studying with an amazing professor, Paul Przybylowicz, since the start of the year. Evergreen operates on a quarter system, and I'd been Paul's student since the Fall Quarter, when I took Mushrooms of the Pacific Northwest, a thoroughly remarkable course that had only been offered by Evergreen one previous time, in the '70s, when Paul Stamets of Fungi Perfecti fame took the class.
After relishing in the delight of the mushroom class, and then enduring Paul's Biogeochemistry class, (the highlight of which was my dear friend, Josie's presentation on Astrophysics), Paul told me that he was going to be leading a lichen biology class for the Spring Quarter. He said that he planned to incorporate lichen biology, rock climbing, and meditation into a class that would be open only to upper level students at Evergreen.
When Scott heard that I'd be traveling to Onalaska for a meditation retreat, and that I'd be learning how to rock climb, he asked if there was any possibility he could be involved. He didn't realize that I'd said Onalaska, and not Alaska, but he was interested in the climbing nonetheless. I told Paul that I knew a really good photographer, if he was interested in documenting the course. Right before spring break, Paul released the questionnaire for those interested in taking the course, which would be limited to 20 or so students. Scott and I filled out the appropriate paperwork and then attended the mandatory informational session. That night I had the only migraine I've ever had in my life, which was weird, but I was psyched on the class. I was highly surprised by the number of students who attended the info session, there had to have been several hundred people there. A short time later, Paul released the accepted students list, and Scott and I were both on it. Immediately after that, we left for spring break.
During spring break, Josie, Scott, and myself drove the 24-hours to New Mexico via rental car, and spent our time enjoying some of the best late-season snow Los Alamos has ever seen with our dear NM friends. I distinctly remember the extreme run-off flows in Pagosa as we made our way to Los Alamos. Something I've not seen since. The piles of snow in our families' yards was insane! Despite the early-April time-frame, there were piles about 6-ft tall on the north-sides of the houses.
At the end of the trip, Scott and I drove back to Olympia; Josie had gone on to her family in Austin, and flew home from there. Both of us had made the cut, and were registered as students in the very hot Ecology, Awareness, and Exposure. If my house hadn't burned down in the Cerro Grande Fire, I would have scanned my class synopsis to share.
We arrived back at Evergreen and went to the first lecture regarding our new course. Paul told us that he would require that every student participating sign a vow to refrain from alcohol, drugs, and caffeine. I wasn't so worried about the alcohol and drugs as I was the caffeine. Mochas and Lattes were pretty much my raison d'etre during the rainy Olympia days. Beer would be hard too. But we both signed our signatures and then prepared for what was to come.
Paul explained that we would be doing a meditation retreat. It would be a Vipassana-based meditation retreat, and we would all be required to be silent for 10 days. At the time, I was so gung-ho on learning to rock climb and learn about lichen biology, that I really didn't give much thought to what a silent 10 days might mean for me, individually.
We made sure our dog had a caretaker, (thanks, Josie!) and off we went. (Chillum thanks you, too.)
Meditation began at 4 am. A bell-ringer went around the outside of the building, waking everyone before the 4am start time. I woke up every day about 1 minute before the bell rang. A clue to me that I have an innate, internal alarm clock. I watched the bell ringer every morning, who just happened to be Paul. I'm sure he felt some sort of responsibility to wake all his creeds for this adventure he signed us up for.
We would pile into the meditation hall to sit from 4 to 6 am. And two other time slots during the day. (My memory is failing me on the exact times...) I never knew how uncomfortable sitting could be until I sat in one place from 4 to 6 am. I then realized I had to do that again and again each day. Sitting is hard work.
I was not a very good meditation student. I thought I was being brain-washed for the first several days, and then, when I finally started grasping the meditation part of the retreat, I started yearning to write, which was supposedly forbidden. As was exercise. I solved these two dilemmas by doing push-ups by the dozen as much as I possibly could, and by digging out some large paper grocery sacks and a half-used pen I found in the utility closet. I wrote and wrote and wrote, when I had the opportunity, and then hid my writing from my classmates, lest they feel compelled to write as well, and I be the source of their forbidden inspiration. In the end, I made a conscious choice to return my writ-upon bags to the utility closet in case someone else might be so in need, and perhaps my writing might be a source of solace for them. (I do wish I had that writing now, as I lost so much of my past writing in the afore-mentioned fire.)
But as the retreat went on, I discovered several things. My dreams became more vivid than any I've ever had in my entire life. Being a dreamer, that says A LOT. I have movie-epic dreams that are worthy of any Spielberg screen. I remember those meditation retreat dreams to this moment. Graphic, vivid, gory, scary beyond belief...they seemed to convey the state of the world at that time. I was so removed from the rawness of war and brutality, yet my dreams ensured I was still an actor in the drama.
Secondly, I discovered that men and women are very different. And in ways that seemed surprising. We were segregated by sight for eating, but during the breaks, only a low wire fence separated the men's area from the women's.
I noticed upon arrival that the women's area had a well marked square-box trail with an "X" of a trail crossing the middle. The yard was just that, a yard. A fenced-in area marking the property. On the very first day, at the first break, I discovered that women walk. We don't just walk, we WALK. With gusto, vigor, purpose, intention. We walk in one direction, and then we walk in the other. We will criss-cross the field after we've completed both directions. This way, that way, and then this way and that way. Our walking would have been running had running been condoned. For nearly the entire break you could see the women walking. It was rare to see them sitting for any period of time.
The men, on the other hand, strolled. They didn't just stroll, it was more like lolly-gagging around. Looking at this, looking at that, stopping here, stopping there, just meandering. It was remarkable the difference between the sexes! Men, who have always been purported to be these action-driven creatures were actually not action-oriented at all. Mostly, they just wandered about aimlessly and stared at things.I didn't get a chance to see their trail structure, but I imagine it to be very random and all over the place.
One day, late into the retreat, I decided to sit down and just observe my surroundings. I'd already walked the women's course a number of times. Scott and I had concocted our own little way of communicating, which involved clearing our throats. We did a little of that, which no one observed other than us, and then I proceeded to just sit. Instantly I noticed that a bee was making its way around the grounds and I latched on to observing the bee. It went up and down, around, all over. I watched it fly upwards and downwards to the flowers and other plants. It meandered this way and that. I surmised it must be a male.
As I observed the bee I noticed the sound of trickling water. As I paid more attention to the sound, it became louder and more concentrated. I paid closer attention to try to find the source. It was Washington, and thus, wet. In fact, the weather during this particular retreat had been clearly awful. It would deluge for hours, which was great for meditation, but horrible for walking the women's course. We women would be battened down in our Gore-Tex jackets, hoods drawn tight, rain pelting over our bodies, the mist of the clouds hovering close to the ground. Sometimes the rain stopped for a a few minutes, the sun would push through, and I would feel hopeful that the sun might stick around for a while. Quickly the clouds would blanket back up, and the rain would deluge again.
During the moment I heard the water trickling, it was sunny. The clouds were light and fluffy, and did not hold the deep, menacing gray of the past week. I listened as tightly as I could, practically willing my ears to tune in as if to a line on the radio. And then I had a moment of surprise. An awakening of sorts! This sound didn't have a source, really, it was the actual sound of water percolating through the soil, and I could hear it so clearly, distinctly! When I looked at the ground, I saw only the grass blades and the dirt beneath. But as I looked with keen ear, I noticed that the earth had pores, and that the blades of grass were nothing but conduits deeper into the earth. The sound became almost overwhelming. It flooded my ears and I was fascinated by the lack of visual effects.
Within a while, we all returned back to the meditation hall and I realized that my meditation skills were indeed becoming more refined, despite my complete ignorance of the art when the whole retreat had begun. The bee and the water had cemented my realization.
When we returned back to school, life, home, I think we all required a bit of transition. Within a matter of days, I was back to my dilemma of deciding whether or not to buy a mocha on campus, or whether it would be okay if we had just one beer in the evening. We learned the basics of climbing safety, and ended up at world class climbing areas to put our skills to the test. We were, in fact, with world class people.
Years have passed since I was a student in Ecology, Awareness, and Exposure. Nineteen years, in fact. Prior to this year, I've probably put my meditation skills to use only a handful of times. Martial arts were my focus, and mountain biking, or snowboarding. To a lesser degree, rock climbing, and some ice. Later, trail running and road cycling became my moving meditations.
But on that day, this past April, I realized that I needed to begin meditating again.
Not being one for convention, I chose my place on the edge of a cliff. I sat down, settled in, and breathed. I breathed in. I breathed out. I breathed in. I breathed out. A thought interrupted me. The wind blew over my face. A bird warbled nearby. The heat wafted over my skin. A fly landed on my hand. My foot hurt from the rock beneath me. I shifted. I told myself, "breathe." So I counted. Breathe in, one. Breathe out, two. Breathe in, one, Breathe out, two.
It was a start. I began meditating again.
I've been doing it now for several months. For short periods. On the edge of cliffs. I'm constantly interrupted by nature and by my thoughts. But I keep trying. And magical things have begun to happen.
The hummingbird that sat next me and took a break. The deer that was bedded down just feet away, yet neither one of us noticed each other until I got up to walk back to my office. She did not spook when I did so. The rock I found, abandoned most likely, from when Pueblo was a school and not an office space, sitting on another rock I had passed multiple times. Yet the day I noticed it, I discovered it was a special piece, full of a variety of different crystals and geologic importance.
Every time I've sat down to meditate, I've also written in my journal. And every time that I've sat on the edge of the cliff and written in my journal, I've cried. Sometimes for no reason at all, at least that I can discern. But I attribute it to the world. To life in this day and age. To my own awareness to this change that I'm experiencing. To being.
It is a heavy time to be alive.
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