Volume 17

What is Enough?

I sat peacefully in the shade; appreciating the flowers and watching the clouds migrate across the sky. My mind and body were at ease, as I tasted my first bite of lunch. It was somewhere beyond delicious, approaching tali nirvana. I did not reflect in amazement that this meal (8 huge caldrons of hot food and 300 hot chapati/breads) had come from two burners on a small wood-burning stove. My only thoughts of the other 140 “yogis” (meditators) sharing the meal was how to get back for seconds ahead of them. Then I looked down at my plate and saw the simple and comical truth. The huge mound of food looked more like something to serve from than eat off of. I had only eaten one bite and all I could think about was getting more.

What is enough? I pondered this question throughout the January retreat in Bodh Gaya and pose it to you now. If we always want more, how can we be happy with what we have? If we stop striving for more or better how do we improve? Learn? Grow? Ah, but maybe you have already read “enough” about my meditation pontifications in prior Chronicles. I did consider that, but decided to send it anyway because it has been in draft form for so long, it seemed cruel and unusual to just kill it. So, I leave it up to you whether or not to exercise the power vested in you by the Delete button. Though I certainly do not suggest that by reading further, you will in any way improve or grow, you will learn not only about the past, but my immediately present situation as well.

Why did I go to the retreat in the first place? For those of you not keeping score at home, Christopher Titmus’ Bodh Gaya (India) retreat was my sixth retreat since Carrie and I began traveling. Many might ask, “wasn’t five enough?” Arguably, but as I reflect back on my travels, retreats have been the times when I learned the most, felt the healthiest and most alive. And, this was not just another retreat, this was the equivalent of the Dharma Olympics. I felt as though the previous retreats were just training for this event. Yet, I was still not prepared for the harsh circumstances. For starters, we were back in India. India is like a cold shower. Even when I know it is going to be severe, it often still jolts me. Other times, it just feels cleansing and I forget it could be more comforting.

I didn’t have to prove myself to India this time. Having already passed that test, I was more able to appreciate the beauty of the land and its people. It was comforting to return to a familiar place, but it felt odd to be repeatedly recognized and greeted by the locals of India’s poorest (and most violent) state. We had two different monk friends cooking meals for us (“always accept something offered by a monk” has proved to be a good rule-of-thumb). The family we lived with during our last stay had representatives strategically scattered about town so we could almost always count on meeting at least one wherever we wandered. We even ran into a friend from Sri Lanka. And of course, every meeting was accompanied by obligatory cups of chai (milk tea). By the time we joined the retreat, it was almost a relief to escape the multiple social obligations that accompanied something as mundane as a trip to the post office. Almost.

Relief was not the first emotion I recognized when I entered the grand temple building that was to be my home for the next 17 days. I suspect that most visitors to the Thai Buddhist Temple at Bodh Gaya experience appreciation, awe or other favorable emotions that come later in the alphabet. But, most visitors enter through the front doors. As I stooped to squeeze through the dwarfed rear door that led down to the basement, claustrophobic anxiety was first and foremost in my consciousness. There were so many cots, mats and bunks squeezed into the cramped quarters that the normally ample population of mosquitoes had to call for reinforcements to make sure we were all sufficiently tested in our accepted precept (rule of retreat) not to kill any living being.

We had joined the retreat during an intermission that marked the end of the first 10-day session. Most of the yogic olympians were staying on for the next 10-day session. A dedicated few “marathoners” would stay for the third and last session, then move with the sangha (supportive group or community) on to Sarnath were practice would continue in a slightly less rigid format through the entire month of February. Carrie and I were not able to continue on with the group to Sarnath, but we were able to join them for a few days in the middle of the month.

I tried to settle in, but found it difficult to get over the cramped conditions. The meditation hall was even tighter than the sleeping quarters (though we were not allowed to speak to each other, rubbing knees and bumping elbows was standard operating procedure). I was both exhausted and possessed with nervous energy. Despite the retreat’s efficient organization to minimize our distractions, I found my non-meditation time consumed with hurrying (anything beyond a snail’s pace) and competing to complete compulsory events such as laundry, bathing, getting food and cleaning my dishes. Soon, I realized that I was clearly the busiest person on retreat and that no one was challenging me for the title (which tends to deflate the thrill of victory). From there it was a short step to see the correlation to my outside life where I often use a frenzy of mundane details and activities to escape the bigger issues (or was I just drinking too much chai?).

Eventually, I settled down to the task at hand which one teacher summer up as "sitting down and letting go." I felt it was important to include a direct quote because everyone who is anyone quotes someone else when talking about Buddhist philosophy; but wait, how can I be someone, anyone or everyone if there is not “I”? But I digress…

As usual, the silence provided a chance to ponder numerous issues in a calmer, clearer light. While exploring unanswered questions of self (who?), work (what?), potential children (when?), home (where?), and money (why? & how?), I had a insightful (though not wholly original) revelation: The future will come. Neither anticipating nor dreading that day will make it any better or worse, but only limit the ability to appreciate the present (This is not to say that planning is not important, but the retreat was not the place for it). Redundant repetition of this insight was only mildly successful in curbing my wandering (forward) mind, but every little bit helps.

One consequence of attending a series of retreats which effectively continue at another location is that there is no single communal conclusion. Instead, there are multiple conclusions each deserves its own recognition. For me these endings will eternally be linked to music. This is where I start to sound like a hippie throwback, but the music that was both appreciated by the majority and clearly relevant was not what MTV is currently pushing. It started with Christopher's playing of the Beatles's Magical Mystery Tour album at one of the last late-evening meditations. He specifically noted the song "Fool on The Hill" as a personal refuge he recalled during trying times in his years as a monk. Next came the celebration gathering after the second retreat where locals stared in amazement (not unusual in India) as we created a streetside amphitheater and shamelessly attacked a variety of tunes. An inspired and capable few brought guitars, drums, a banjo and even talented voices, but the make-shift amplification system and the remainder of us singing/mumbling along left an unquestionable impression of happy chaos. It is hard to find a suitable conclusion to happy chaos, but this came with John Lennon's "Imagine" when the crowd (locals included) joined hands and sang together in a magical circle turned conga line that was one of the most touching moments of my life (granted my emotions were pretty far out in the open after 10 days of retreat).

The last song in my Sangha's greatest hits threesome happened a couple of weeks later in Sarnath. One of the local Chai vendors (who captured a disproportionate share of our business with his excellent chai, curd and hospitality) opened up his home/yard and served an amazing dinner to our entire group. While waiting for the meal, we again turned to song (with guitar accompaniment), but soon ran out of songs we knew the words to. Rather than concede to this challenge we just kept repeating the chorus of "Don't worry about a thing. Every little thing is gonna be alright." I have no idea how long this went on, but it changed with every new round (the reggae and gospel combos being my personal favorite). Somewhere in this seemingly endless loop I felt myself start to believe the words I was singing and became completely unafraid. This was not the macho No Fear thing that has been well marketed, but a calmer more satisfying feeling that I attribute to both the meditation and the amazing support the sangha offers.

As I left Sarnath, I wondered which had been the bigger challenge: learning how to live in harmony with all the other yogis in the beginning or parting ways with them in the end?

Enough retreats?

Doubtful, but I did choose not to attend Wat Suan Mokh's retreat (again) with Carrie and her father in March. This may come as a relief to those who worry I have become a retreat junkie. I knew that controlled retreat conditions are not what I will be returning to in America. So, I decided to test my mindfulness in the far more distracted environment of Koh Pahngan. Granted a week at the beach has far fewer distractions than say working, but it was an important step. Here I proved to myself that I could follow an intensive meditation and yoga schedule outside a group setting.

Enough traveling?

Here is where I must face to the questions I posed at the beginning of this volume. If we always want more, how can we be happy with what we have? I would be fooling myself (though maybe no one else) if I denied being sad to see the most amazing period of my life (so far) come to an end. Yet, at the same time, I am ready to move on to whatever next is. I feel incredibly lucky that Carrie and I had the opportunity to experience and appreciate this wonderful journey. During the 13 years that I worked full time (so far), I never had a vacation as long as three weeks. Having just completed more than 25 years worth of consecutive vacations, how can I not feel lucky? If we stop striving for more or better how do we improve? Learn? Grow? Part of me doubts that I will ever stop long enough to find out. Part of my knows that I already have. My journey through life goes on. With it comes the learning and growing as long as I am not too busy striving to miss it.