sitting
Tonight was my first trip to the Portland Shambhala Center. (www.portlandshambhala.org) Funny, though, that the first time I set out to go to the Center was about four years ago when first got back to town after my brother died. I was crashing with friends then too and in a terrible emotional space. I'd looked the Shambhala Center up online and planned it all out. I was on my way out the door, in fact, when the women I was staying with engaged me in conversation and I lingered, and lingered longer and soon I decided it was too late to go. So I didn't. I think I was afraid to go and happy for the excuse to remain in relative safety.
And now, four years later, I finally made it. It was great. I mean, it's a strange thing to decide to go sit silently for an hour in a room of unfamiliar people. As light as Buddhist practice encourages us to be, the atmosphere in the few western Buddhist gatherings I've attended has been quite heavy and completely self-conscious. This experience was no different, the only difference was that I stuck around long enough to feel the lightness underneath and to feel a softness for the people who were there seeming to be self-conscious.
When I arrived, I stood next to a table full of informational literature waiting to be noticed as a new face by whomever was in charge. No one seemed to be in charge. People moved in and out of that anteroom, some glancing at me and nodding, others ignoring me completely. I stood there, stiff, with my coat still zipped, my bag slung over one shoulder. I waited. Finally a nice guy, white, mid-40's with thinning hair and a little goatee, decided he would be in charge. He introduced himself, asked if I was new, asked if I was interested in meditation instruction, etc. Then another newbie showed up. He gave us a tour, told us the meditation instructor would be around soon, showed us where to put our shoes (among the other shoes which were all conspicuously lined against the wall under the coat hooks, it looked like kindergarten somehow). We took off our shoes, padded around, tried to seem occupied and comfortable without actually engaging anyone or each other.
Soon the man who would give us meditation instruction arrived. His face was heavilly lined and his hair was gray, but his eyes were bright and his energy was youthful. He spoke softly, deliberately, and he seemed more sincere than anyone I've spoken to in a long time. He led us into a smally, secondary shrine room which, we'd been told, was where meditation instruction was given. We sat on our cushions and he began by asking us each what brought us to the Center and what we were hoping to experience. I deferred to the other newbie who explained that she'd been doing yoga for a long time and had recently felt compelled to start meditating. "But," she said, "I can't do it at home because... I don't know how to set it up." I was, of course, judging myself against her and her against me. Yoga for years? I felt a little inferior as I have never done yoga. But what's this "I don't know how to set it up"? What's to set up? You sit on a cushion and breathe. I've been doing *that* for years. So I felt a little superior. It wasn't an overwhelming judgment, just passing. But I was aware of it.
When it was my turn I was surprised that my answer was sincere and not forced, uncomfortable, awkward or just plain weird. I explained that I was familiar with Shambhala because I'd been reading Shambhala books for years and that I had an on again, off again meditation practice of my own, but had never had any formal instruction. Then I told the story about the time in Chapel Hill when I tried to go to a sitting at the Zen center but fled the scene like a criminal because the woman in charge, who was supposed to meet with me a few minutes before the sitting began to give me a quick instruction, forgot me and left me in the anteroom while everyone else disappeared into the shrine room. I waited and waited and finally became so uncomfortable, I grabbed my stuff and left. I drove to a bookstore and bought "Zen Flesh, Zen Bones" and decided to call it good. Now I don't even like Zen.
I told that story and they laughed and it was pleasant. Then he gave the instruction, which was simple and practically ver batem from a chapter I just read in my Pema Chodron book. The other woman asked what I considered to be dumb questions and I had to remind myself not to be an asshole. Then we got up and joined the others who were already in the middle of their sitting in the main shrine room. When we arrived they were just finishing up the portion of walking meditation. We fell in and as they returned to stand in front of cushions, we found empty spots and followed suit. The woman at the front of the room waited till we'd all stood in front of a cushion for a moment, then she sat. And so we sat. Then she waited till we all seemed comfortable, when most of the shifting and rustling had ended, and she struck a large bell. And then we all just breathed.
I was comfortable. I felt good. I noticed the other newbie sitting next to me. I noticed her movements, her frequent adjustments. I felt smug as I sat so still, having been sitting on my own for so long. I had to remind myself, again, not to be an asshole. This is a theme for me. Very soon it was over. The woman in front struck the bell again and then everyone repeated a little statement, perhaps you could call it a prayer. Right before they did it, the man who'd given our instruction handed us each a little card with the statement printed on it so we could say it too. It felt strange at first to speak along with this crowd words that I had never read before. What was I avowing? What was I agreeing to? Of course, once I'd read it I realized it was a nice sentiment and one I did not disagree with, but that strange feeling remained.
After the sitting there was a talk and I enjoyed it. And after the talk we all got up and I left. I felt like I should say thank you or good bye to the man who'd given us instruction, or to the man who'd first introduced himself and given a tour, but they became quickly engaged with other people and, preferring always to slink out unnoticed, I did just that. As I left, I realized how good I felt. How peaceful, happy and light. Just from sitting for awhile in a room of strangers. It's pretty wonderful. I definitely plan to go back.
And now, four years later, I finally made it. It was great. I mean, it's a strange thing to decide to go sit silently for an hour in a room of unfamiliar people. As light as Buddhist practice encourages us to be, the atmosphere in the few western Buddhist gatherings I've attended has been quite heavy and completely self-conscious. This experience was no different, the only difference was that I stuck around long enough to feel the lightness underneath and to feel a softness for the people who were there seeming to be self-conscious.
When I arrived, I stood next to a table full of informational literature waiting to be noticed as a new face by whomever was in charge. No one seemed to be in charge. People moved in and out of that anteroom, some glancing at me and nodding, others ignoring me completely. I stood there, stiff, with my coat still zipped, my bag slung over one shoulder. I waited. Finally a nice guy, white, mid-40's with thinning hair and a little goatee, decided he would be in charge. He introduced himself, asked if I was new, asked if I was interested in meditation instruction, etc. Then another newbie showed up. He gave us a tour, told us the meditation instructor would be around soon, showed us where to put our shoes (among the other shoes which were all conspicuously lined against the wall under the coat hooks, it looked like kindergarten somehow). We took off our shoes, padded around, tried to seem occupied and comfortable without actually engaging anyone or each other.
Soon the man who would give us meditation instruction arrived. His face was heavilly lined and his hair was gray, but his eyes were bright and his energy was youthful. He spoke softly, deliberately, and he seemed more sincere than anyone I've spoken to in a long time. He led us into a smally, secondary shrine room which, we'd been told, was where meditation instruction was given. We sat on our cushions and he began by asking us each what brought us to the Center and what we were hoping to experience. I deferred to the other newbie who explained that she'd been doing yoga for a long time and had recently felt compelled to start meditating. "But," she said, "I can't do it at home because... I don't know how to set it up." I was, of course, judging myself against her and her against me. Yoga for years? I felt a little inferior as I have never done yoga. But what's this "I don't know how to set it up"? What's to set up? You sit on a cushion and breathe. I've been doing *that* for years. So I felt a little superior. It wasn't an overwhelming judgment, just passing. But I was aware of it.
When it was my turn I was surprised that my answer was sincere and not forced, uncomfortable, awkward or just plain weird. I explained that I was familiar with Shambhala because I'd been reading Shambhala books for years and that I had an on again, off again meditation practice of my own, but had never had any formal instruction. Then I told the story about the time in Chapel Hill when I tried to go to a sitting at the Zen center but fled the scene like a criminal because the woman in charge, who was supposed to meet with me a few minutes before the sitting began to give me a quick instruction, forgot me and left me in the anteroom while everyone else disappeared into the shrine room. I waited and waited and finally became so uncomfortable, I grabbed my stuff and left. I drove to a bookstore and bought "Zen Flesh, Zen Bones" and decided to call it good. Now I don't even like Zen.
I told that story and they laughed and it was pleasant. Then he gave the instruction, which was simple and practically ver batem from a chapter I just read in my Pema Chodron book. The other woman asked what I considered to be dumb questions and I had to remind myself not to be an asshole. Then we got up and joined the others who were already in the middle of their sitting in the main shrine room. When we arrived they were just finishing up the portion of walking meditation. We fell in and as they returned to stand in front of cushions, we found empty spots and followed suit. The woman at the front of the room waited till we'd all stood in front of a cushion for a moment, then she sat. And so we sat. Then she waited till we all seemed comfortable, when most of the shifting and rustling had ended, and she struck a large bell. And then we all just breathed.
I was comfortable. I felt good. I noticed the other newbie sitting next to me. I noticed her movements, her frequent adjustments. I felt smug as I sat so still, having been sitting on my own for so long. I had to remind myself, again, not to be an asshole. This is a theme for me. Very soon it was over. The woman in front struck the bell again and then everyone repeated a little statement, perhaps you could call it a prayer. Right before they did it, the man who'd given our instruction handed us each a little card with the statement printed on it so we could say it too. It felt strange at first to speak along with this crowd words that I had never read before. What was I avowing? What was I agreeing to? Of course, once I'd read it I realized it was a nice sentiment and one I did not disagree with, but that strange feeling remained.
After the sitting there was a talk and I enjoyed it. And after the talk we all got up and I left. I felt like I should say thank you or good bye to the man who'd given us instruction, or to the man who'd first introduced himself and given a tour, but they became quickly engaged with other people and, preferring always to slink out unnoticed, I did just that. As I left, I realized how good I felt. How peaceful, happy and light. Just from sitting for awhile in a room of strangers. It's pretty wonderful. I definitely plan to go back.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 9:38 PM
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