May all beings embrace divine time.
May all beings awaken fully to each moment of life.
May all beings be free from rushing.
May all beings retain a beginner’s mind.
May all beings remember this, especially when they drive.
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Zipping along the highway in my little silver Honda Civic, through Oakland, past Berkeley, past El Cerrito, toward Marin, I noticed my focus on getting to my destination and my lack of attention to driving in the moment. A car wreck at this speed would probably mangle me and another driver for life. But more than that, I didn’t want a speeding ticket, so I took a deep breath and slowed down. Besides, I was late enough that no amount of speeding would get me to my daylong meditation retreat before the first gong. Still, I wanted to hurry up and get there so I could slow down my life.
Despite my best efforts, I left my house when I wanted to arrive that Saturday morning. I had a taxing week at work, so I slept little. I attended a holiday party for my sweetie’s job, and we kept the partying going when we got home. And when I woke up I felt the icy grip of cold on my throat and chest, so I felt heavy and sluggish that morning. I got up three hours before the retreat began, but used all that time scrambling to get together breakfast, lunch, snacks, and tea. I dashed to the car and tossed my stuff in the trunk—but ever so mindfully placed my new zafu and zabuton in the back seat. By the time I crossed the San Rafael Bridge, I had calmed my fears about the karmic consequences of taking a life because I rushed to a Buddhist meditation retreat.
I had never traveled along this road, and so looked at the landscape intently. Slowly, the trappings of the city faded away. Squared buildings melted into rolling hills, flat pavement gave way to wild grass, strolling people morphed into stalwart trees.
When I finally arrived and drove the narrow winding path to the parking lot, I realized this certainly wasn’t my neighborhood. A whispering brook crept between a dense clump of trees, which was folded between rolling hills. In five minutes I saw three horses, seven buzzards, two deer and five wild turkeys—along with the normal assortment of squirrels, small birds and large bugs that live among trees.
I stood still for a moment at the door of the meditation hall and felt my heart thumping quickly, trying to settle my thoughts. I was an hour late, and felt my thoughts still rushing. I drew in a deep, slow breath then walked in slowly, trying not to pant.
The square room had a small stage in one corner where the teacher sat among some candles, books and papers. Various Buddhist artwork and statues adorned the room. Most of the room was given to sitting space, and people were packed in knee to knee. The edges of the room were cool, but as I walked to a chair I felt the heat of dozens of human bodies.
As I took my seat, the teacher asked everyone the question: “Are you a beginner?”
A simple enough question, but it caught me off guard. Am I a beginner? I am a beginner here. I am new to this method of meditation and this center, but I am not new to meditation. Then it struck me as a trick question. Aren’t we all supposed to retain a beginner’s mind? Isn’t that the point, to keep looking at life fresh and new? I waited for the punch line.
My existential angst was unnecessary—the teacher was simply separating out those who needed basic instruction on how to meditate while walking and those who didn’t. I stayed put to hear the instructions, and let my pulse slow down.
The teacher said that when I practiced walking meditation I should have no destination. Then, I went outside and walked ever so slowly in the direction of my car.
Along the way, I noticed that I had some balance issues. I kept tipping to the left, as if I might fall over. A recent injury made my right leg stiff and heavy when I walked slowly. When the session ended, I moved my car closer to the gathering hall.
I plopped down on my purple cushions to sit, and I felt relief at being able to rest my leg. But the sitting made my lower back stiff, and all I could meditate on was my discomfort. After sitting quietly for a bit, the teacher said: “Let pain, anger, joy pass.” Hmmm. Yeah, right.
During the second walking meditation, I had the urge to retreat to my car again and I wondered why. I was in a new environment, I knew no one here, and I didn’t know the social rules. I realized I saw my car as a safety net, sort of home base. So instead, I walked in the opposite direction of my car up a slight hill.
The teacher had given directions to not pay attention to other people, but I looked around. I saw empty faces, bereft of recognizable thoughts and emotions, attached to bodies walking through molasses. I felt like a lone living soul walking through a forest of aimlessly wandering ghosts. I had the urge to run hard and fast. I pointed my eyes at my feet and walked slower and heard my heart beat faster.
During the next sit, I leaned over and put my chest in my lap. I realized I fell asleep when I snorted so loud I startled myself awake. My leg and back felt OK, but now my neck hurt from lying in that position. I felt frustrated that each position I tried to sit with caused me a lot of pain. For a few moments, I felt less of a person because I was nowhere near as flexible as I had been before my injury.
“Try not to let your mind wander. Try to concentrate on the physical act of eating your food,” the teacher said before lunch. To make sure we got the point, everyone chewed a single raisin for three minutes. “Notice when your body is full. Notice if you still desire to eat more.”
As I ate lunch, I thought about how infants have to eat slowly because getting the spoon into the mouth with the food still on it is a feat in itself. My oldest son started eating faster when he turned three, probably mimicking the adults in his life—stuffing his mouth full of food to get to dessert, a Thomas the Tank Engine video or Legos. I sat blending each bit of my lunch into a liquid paste before swallowing it, and remembered that chewing is a noisy affair. I made a mental note to put my son’s ear to my cheek the next time I ate something crunchy.
I looked around at the wind blowing the leaves, listened to the brook flow over rocks and enjoyed my food. My muscles relaxed. I forgot about the pain in my leg and the safety I felt in my car. I stopped thinking about my past meditation experiences and how different this place was from my neighborhood. I no longer saw the people around me. My heartbeat slowed in unison with my thoughts.
After lunch, the teacher gave another talk, and we did another round of the Zombie Shuffle. During the meditation walk, I felt the urge to go to my car again, but it quickly passed.
When we sat again, I felt strange being quiet for so long in the presence of more than 100 people. My meditation experiences have been with small groups or solo. The last time I felt this large sense of communal quietude was on a road trip from Chicago to Austin. Unknowingly, I visited the bombed Oklahoma City federal building the day before it was demolished. In the hour I was there, hundreds of people walked past me or stood at the perimeter of the building. American flags and flowers lined the fence, there were no signs to hush the crowd. But, no one said a word.
My thoughts faded away, and my consciousness floated in a boat without engine or oars, in a timeless sea covered by a limitless gray sky.
“If you came here to get something, that was really the wrong strategy,” the teacher said in his last talk. “This is really the dump. You should come here to get rid of anything that keeps you from living a free life.”
I came looking for some time and space, quietness and peace. I felt I was always rushing to finish work, tend to my home, take care of my child’s needs. I even rushed to go out to dinner or a movie. I felt my injury was healing too slowly, which led to a lot of anger. I was mad at myself for not avoiding the accident. I was mad at my former coworkers for how they treated afterward. I was mad at my sweetheart for not being more nurturing. And I was mad at myself because I didn’t think I should complain when there were so many people in the world with tougher physical challenges than mine. Most of all I was angry because I felt like I had to begin again. I was fit and flexible before the injury, but now I was stiff and constantly in pain.
I took the teacher’s advice and put those expectations down. For a few moments, I settled comfortably into who I was at the moment.
After the retreat ended, I stood in line to talk with the teacher and noticed he kept looking at his watch. Then, he started packing up his books and papers while still holding conversations. When a woman told him a long story about the death of a loved one, the teacher stopped packing or looking at his watch and sat still. When the woman finished her story, the teacher stood up and announced to the several people still in line that he only had time to see a few more because he had a dinner date with his daughter. The teacher said he would take quick comments, sat down, and continued to fidget with a light, some papers, and a book bag. He seemed to notice he was rushing, and sat back down. He began looking intently at the people who wanted a personal word of wisdom. When he had greeted every person in line, the teacher walked briskly through the meditation hall and away to his car.
It can difficult for us to resist the flow of society. The pressure to rush from one experience to another sweeps us along like flood waters, while we flail about helplessly grabbing at fleeting moments we would rather savor. Even the teacher, a master of the slow dance with life, seemed to struggle a bit with the urge to rush.
Originally, I had wanted to get back home in time to complete several tasks on my to-do list. Instead, I helped put away chairs, lingered in the bookstore, and sipped water from the fountain. I strolled to my car slow enough to watch the coming rain hit the leaves and feel it fall on my head. I stood on a small bridge and listened to the laughing brook as it skipped over the rocks. I felt chilly breeze brushed my face.
Inside my car, I took a deep breath. I wondered if the meditation teacher was struggling not to rush while he was driving. I wondered if he was driving sensibly, enjoying the scenery that he has seen so many times, or speeding toward his dinner date, counting the minutes.
May all beings be free from rushing.
May all beings embrace divine time.
May all beings awaken fully to each moment of life.
May all beings be free from rushing.
May all beings retain a beginner’s mind.
May all beings remember this, especially when they drive.
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