"The Moon Appears When The Water Is Still"
ServiceSpace
--Xiaojuan Shu
11 minute read
Jul 27, 2015

 

Four days ago, I came back from a 10-day silent Vipassana course as taught by S.N. Goenka, feeling refreshed and empowered. But as “normal” sleeping schedule resumes, my old behavior pattern lurks near the surface, waiting to have a comeback any time. “Don’t go back to sleep.” It’s time to sit down and reflect with a quiet mind.

Rocks Are Not Role Models for Enlightenment
“Our job is not to eradicate thoughts
But to desist from reacting to them.
If the non-arising of thoughts is our goal
Then rocks are enlightened.”

I sat on my assigned cushion along with over 100 other old and new students, male and female separate, in the dim meditation hall. I closed my eyes as Goenkaji’s chanting entered my ears. But once my eyes were shut, my mind transported me to a different world, longings and unsatisfied desires enticing me to get on a wild ride. The imaginary scenes played like a movie, on and on. Once in a while, if I was not wandering in my Lalaland, I caught myself dozing off.

I also set my mind on cleaning out my stuff. Still too much stuff in my life after so many times of cleaning. What do I really need? Something to sleep on close to the floor (so that I feel more grounded), books, a desk and a chair, a lamp, clothes… So many clothes that I don’t wear but still keep, for what? A memory? An emotional attachment? A rare occasion? But the first thing I’ll do when I go back is to get rid of that queen size memory foam mattress. I began to re-arrange my room in my head, over and over. It became exhausting. Very exhausting. Out of a need to alleviate my mental exhaustion, I began to observe my breath, for real.

We practiced Anapana in the first three days, observing natural breath coming in and going out. It took me three days just to quiet my mind enough to observe the sensations in the area below the nostrils and above the upper lip. Am I still in Vipassana Pre-K? Was the first 10-day course I took two years ago mostly wasted on me? 

Work diligently and ardently. Patiently and persistently. You are bound to be successful. You are bound to be successful.Goenkaji repeated in the audio.

My Body Knows
”Sitting still gives us the opportunity
To witness the revealing of the truth.
The moon appears only when the water is still."

We practiced Vipassana meditation from the fourth day on. As I followed Goenkaji’s instruction to scan my entire body to observe sensations, I experienced how much truth my body holds! It is me who is oblivious to the truth, which is always there. Why can’t I feel any sensations on the back of my head? The blind areas on my body told me how ignorant I am in those areas and how dull my mind is. The severe unpleasant sensations revealed to me how much aversion I harbor towards my own life. How agitated I am sometimes, definitely more than what I am willing to admit.

“Just observe. Do not react to any sensations, no matter it’s pleasant or unpleasant. They all share the same characteristics, arising and passing away, arising and passing away. Don’t crave for any particular sensations. Just observe, with a quiet and equanimous mind.”

Finally, I sat still.
“Itching is not eternal.” I no longer bothered scratching any itch on my body while walking, eating, or lying down, if I caught myself before my hands reacted. Sensations on my body arose and passed away like everything else in the universe.
“Anicca. Anicca. Anicca.”

My body knows it, but my mind lags behind, unwilling or unable to accept it.

The Seventh Day
Do not throw away your suffering;
It is the fertile soil which grows the flowers of truth.
Pain is the teaching,
release is the graduation.”

It was the seventh day again, my emotional melt-down day during my first 10-day course two years ago. The tragic death of my Auntie Two, which had haunted me for more than 15 years, hit me the hardest than ever on the seventh day two years ago. This time, would it hit me again? In the early morning, as I walked towards the meditation hall under the stars, my heart felt a little heavy.

Before I turned six, Auntie Two, Mother’s younger sister, babysat me at my grandparents’. She didn’t learn to walk until she was twelve. Everyone called her “retarded Boyu (Boyu was her name). My earliest memory of her was her squatting down to feed me, with a bowl of short noodles in one hand, a spoon in the other. I ran around the table, ignoring her. “If you don’t eat it, toads will come to eat it.” When I finally opened my mouth, she put the noodles in my mouth and smiled with her big yellow teeth. I had been her confidante since age four, maybe even before I could remember. “Your uncle hit me again with the cooking spade.” She showed me the bruises on her forearm. That uncle was her stuttered younger brother.

When I turned six, my parents took me home and sent me to the best elementary school in town, and Auntie Two married a hunchbacked waste-picker, who was much older than her and scrambled for a living by scavenging through waste piles for things to sell. They lived in the single mud house on high ground half mile away from the other villagers, who all lived in similar farmhouses next to each other lining a small river.

Whenever I visited my grandparents, my favorite thing to do was to go see Auntie Two. I would run on the narrow footpaths between green rice paddy fields all the way to her house, my heart filled with joy. In her small thatched home, she pressed her lower left belly. “He beats me every day. It hurts here,” she said. My mind froze. Then I thought to myself, when I grew up, I would protect Auntie Two. I would take her out of that place. I would wash her, clothe her, and make her delicious fried rice. I even thought about possible transportation. Would she be afraid to sit on the back of my bike? For many years, I was so obsessed with that thought that I couldn’t stop imagining the day when I took her away with me, until when I got the news.

Auntie Two died of eating poisonous wild mushrooms, which she thought were delicacies for her malnourished body. The hunchback said he didn’t feel well that day, so he didn’t eat much. When Auntie Two died, I was in the last week of preparing for the National College Entrance Exam in the best boarding high school in town. When I heard the news, she had already been buried under the dirt, a no-name earth lump. I went to her house. The blood she threw up was still there, on her bed and on the floor. She cried “pain” for three days before she died, the hunchback said, wiping off his tears.

“From darkness to darkness.” That was Auntie Two’s life. Was her suffering really caused by what she did in her past life? How could I accept that such a gentle soul could have intentionally harmed anyone?

On the seventh day two years ago, with my closed eyes, I saw myself sitting on Auntie Two’s bed, legs crossed, holding her right hand with my left hand, breathing in, breathing out. From the top of my head to the tip of her toes; from the tip of her toes to the top of my head. Auntie Two, please let me feel your pain! Please let me share your pain! Unbearable sadness gripped me. I mourned with silent tears for three days on the cushion. On the tenth day, after the silence was lifted, I didn't want to talk. I walked to my regular walking path in the woods, standing on a rock, facing the sun with eyes closed. I didn't want to lose my deep connection with Auntie Two and that purity in my heart.

"I walked back to my grandparents' between the rice fields. As I was walking, I wondered if Auntie Two was still there watching me. I looked back. There she was, standing in front of her thatched home! I walked again and then turned again. She was still there, but looked smaller. I kept on walking and turning until she looked so tiny. I must look tiny to her too. I stopped. Auntie Two and I were standing there, tiny face to tiny face, as if we were the only two people living on that land, bathed in soft spring breeze and warm sunlight."

This time, it surprised me that sadness didn’t come. Instead I saw the hunchback and the big wrinkles on his forehead. How much suffering had he borne in this life? It was the first time I thought of him without anger. “More compassion for the aggressor. So ignorant, harming oneself and harming others,” Goenkaji said in one of the taped evening discourses.

Keep opening my heart. It’s the only way out.

Three -Hour Sit Challenge
“By meditating
We are like the candle
Which says to the darkness
‘I beg to differ’

To honor Auntie Two, I decided to sit three hours straight twice a day on the eighth and ninth day. Auntie Two endured three days of unbearable pain after having lived such a harsh life; she showed me the suffering of life in such a visceral way. Compared to what Auntie Two had gone through, sitting for three hours without moving should be much easier.

I sat through the group sitting, the break, and then another sitting. In the beginning, I sat with ease. But then severe pain arose and persisted in my hips, thighs, knees, and lower back. This pain is unbearable! Why is it not going away! Does it forget to follow law of nature? Waves of agitation heated my body, making me more agitated. I felt the urge to move, but changing posture could only cause more mental pain—disappointment. I wanted to cry, but no tears came out to indulge me. How much pain did Auntie Two have to endure in her last three days? I would sit, no matter what. Pain, over which I have no control; my reaction, over which I do have control. Then slowly, peace came to my aid.

I admit that I did change my posture a couple of times during those four long sits. I didn't experience a full-body freeflow, and didn't crave for it either.

On the tenth day after the noble silence was lifted, to my surprise, a fellow meditator said to me, “You were totally in a different land in the last two days. You sat like a Buddha!”

The Ant Tribes
Many ant tribes reside in the Vipassana center. I often saw ants carry things twice or more of their sizes and march along or across the road as I walked to the dining-hall, to my room, to the meditation hall, or to my walking path. Their aliveness attracted me, or, maybe I should say, distracted me (during my 10-day course).

One day, the crowded entrance to one of their communal homes caught my attention. Ants hurried in and out as if they were organizing an important community event. The route that the ant hunter-gatherers set out stretched long and far. I was curious to know how far they went, so I followed their path and walked off the dirt road a little and still couldn’t see where it ended. The route went under the dry leaves and twigs. Then one ant came on the scene, carrying a large white shell of some grain, crawling up and down over twigs and leaves. I looked up. Not only the destination was far from where I stood, given the size of an ant, but also it was a bumpy journey home without a flat and solid ground. Under the hot sun, that ant just kept on going without resting for a second. Up and down. Up and down. I was so rooting for that ant! I followed along and finally home was close! But there were no ants waiting by both sides of the entrance applauding for such admirable endeavor. It was just a common task carried out by an ordinary ant on a normal day. As that ant entered, I looked back. Other ants were carrying large shells or grains, approaching home one after another.

Just like that. They do their best to contribute to the good of the whole without expecting congratulatory applause. They need nobody to cheer them on.

I stood there for a long time. Slowly, I came to terms with this statement: I am worthy; yet, I am not special.

How Ungrateful
In the morning of the last day, after the mettā meditation, the 10-day course was coming to an end. As the chanting of Goenkaji and Mataji was gradually diminishing, my tears finally came. But this time, it wasn’t sadness. It was the realization of how ungrateful I have been in my life.

Born a peasant’s daughter in China, I grew up ashamed of my mother, who raised me and supported my education with every penny hard-earned. How ungrateful!

With everything I am gifted, I need nothing else to be happy. But I don’t respect my own gift, merits and power, feeling ashamed and inadequate. How ungrateful!

Each and every day, I am provided with a roof over my head, clothes on my body, meals nurturing my body, books broadening my mind, friendships nourishing my soul, and more. But I still want more. How ungrateful!

All fellow beings, I have been so disconnected, my heart not yet open wide to you. How ungrateful!

The Earth. The wind. The rivers. The mountains... I take you all for granted. How ungrateful!

Tears continued to roll down my cheeks as others were putting away cushions.

Out of the meditation hall, I felt humbled in the early morning of a new day.

Going Forward
“Mindfulness is easy on the cushion, difficult on the street.”

I don’t want to go back to sleep again. Areas I want to explore deeper are:
Self-compassion without attachment to I, me, and mine;
Compassion for other beings without guilt, shame, or stress;
Facing today's wounded world without anger, frustration, and self-righteousness, but with gratitude, good intention and right effort.

From the top of my head to the tip of my toes; from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. From the top of your head to the tip of my toes; from the tip of my toes to the top of your head. From the top of Mount Everest to the tip of my toes; from the tip of my toes to the top of Mount Everest…
“Remain perfect equanimity. Perfect equanimity.”


(All the dhamma poem quotes are from The Moon Appears When the Water is Still by Ian McCrorie, purchased at the Vipassana book store in North Fork CA) 

 

Posted by Xiaojuan Shu on Jul 27, 2015


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