Long ago, before I became a mother, I used to sit zen. A dear friend in college introduced me to Pema Chodron and Charlotte Joko-Beck. I'd sit on my round purple zafu cushion, and try to follow my breath, and experience each moment. I'd sit on the city bus on my way to or from a temp job and practice tonglen, breathing light into the back of strangers' heads. I sat with the local branch of the Kwan Um School of Zen (Korean).
This one time, curious and wanting to deepen my practice, I went on a 3-day sesshin (meditation retreat) on a nearby island. I sat there, hour after hour, alone with all these other people dressed in our grey robes. Sure, my back hurt, my hips hurt, I stood up periodically and did what I needed to do, but the thing that really stopped me was the Noise.
I'm hearing-impaired, but that wasn't an issue. It was a silent retreat, anyway. It was the tinnitus. Normally all the sounds around me give me something to tune it out with, the deafening ringing and buzzing cacophony in my head. Sitting in the beautiful meditation room, I had to listen. The way a person generally copes with tinnitus is by learning not to pay attention to it. What happens when your only intent is to, in fact, Pay Attention?
I notice the loud, sharp, high pitch on top, like I'm plunked down in the center of million of spring peepers. Underneath that there's a loud middle tone, rougher, like the background noise on a plane. Below that is an incessant low hum, like I'm walking around with a loud refrigerator beside me.
So I sat, all through the day, on my plane, next to my refrigerator, surrounded by a million peepers. Then an enormous wave of grief moved through my body, grief and longing for Silence. Even as I sit here and type, I'm filled with grief for Silence. I remember what it was like, when I was little, to stand in a field in the dark, in June, watching fireflies, with it almost silent. Just a little wind, the rustling of the tall grass. I stood up and left the retreat, on the morning of the second day.
That sesshin was the last time I sat down and meditated. In the last ten years, I haven't even been able to breathe tonglen for myself. That is a long time to grieve. My kids have been a very handy distraction, with all their ruckus and endless demands for Attention. Recently, my son has been complaining about his ears ringing.
Eventually, somehow, everybody has to deal with the Noise in their head.
This one time, curious and wanting to deepen my practice, I went on a 3-day sesshin (meditation retreat) on a nearby island. I sat there, hour after hour, alone with all these other people dressed in our grey robes. Sure, my back hurt, my hips hurt, I stood up periodically and did what I needed to do, but the thing that really stopped me was the Noise.
I'm hearing-impaired, but that wasn't an issue. It was a silent retreat, anyway. It was the tinnitus. Normally all the sounds around me give me something to tune it out with, the deafening ringing and buzzing cacophony in my head. Sitting in the beautiful meditation room, I had to listen. The way a person generally copes with tinnitus is by learning not to pay attention to it. What happens when your only intent is to, in fact, Pay Attention?
I notice the loud, sharp, high pitch on top, like I'm plunked down in the center of million of spring peepers. Underneath that there's a loud middle tone, rougher, like the background noise on a plane. Below that is an incessant low hum, like I'm walking around with a loud refrigerator beside me.
So I sat, all through the day, on my plane, next to my refrigerator, surrounded by a million peepers. Then an enormous wave of grief moved through my body, grief and longing for Silence. Even as I sit here and type, I'm filled with grief for Silence. I remember what it was like, when I was little, to stand in a field in the dark, in June, watching fireflies, with it almost silent. Just a little wind, the rustling of the tall grass. I stood up and left the retreat, on the morning of the second day.
 |
| I grew up walking in these woods, in silence. |
That sesshin was the last time I sat down and meditated. In the last ten years, I haven't even been able to breathe tonglen for myself. That is a long time to grieve. My kids have been a very handy distraction, with all their ruckus and endless demands for Attention. Recently, my son has been complaining about his ears ringing.
Eventually, somehow, everybody has to deal with the Noise in their head.
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