sitting in silence, days 6 and 7: painful realizations

So, in the last post I talked about these strong determination sittings, in which for an hour, you’re supposed to do your very very best not to move. The purpose is to train your mind to be equanimous toward pleasant and unpleasant sensations — to treat them as sensations only, without feeling craving or aversion toward them.

In the last post I noted:

When we first started these “strong determination” sittings, I was all like, I got this! Sitting for an hour in one place. that’s cake. And then around minute 35, I got a twinge of pain in my hip, and I was like, psh, i can handle pain! and then by minute 45, I was in the throes of what felt like the most immense pain of my life. I was dizzy and sweaty with pain. It burned and shot up and down my legs and bag, creating what felt like electrical hot wires all around my hips. so I moved because SCREW EQUANIMITY. that shit hurt.

One thing I didn’t mention that comes into play here is that on my first day at the meditation retreat, Judith, the teacher, requested an interview with me via a little note taped on my and April’s door. In this interview, Judith reiterated what I’d now been told what felt like 1000 million times (but was really twice): people with anxiety often have a tough time with vipassana. Judith said that a lot of people with anxiety have really intense experiences during meditation, that if i was to have these kind of experiences, not to worry, that if I started to feel anxious, to feel free to come talk to her. I nodded politely, disliking that my anxiety was being brought to the forefront by someone who was basically a stranger. I didn’t like being told I was going to *freak out*, especially when I felt rather calm.

Day 6 – Night

Five days later, though, Judith’s prediction came true. I was over being angry about the whole robot thing, and was probably 20 or 30 minutes into the 6 p.m. group meditation in the meditation hall when the pain in my hips started. This time I was doing a better job managing that pain, not giving it the power it demanded previously, viewing and searching the sensation, finding its edges, its intensities.

Now, for those of you who have done yoga, you may remember that a lot of teachers say emotion is stored in the hips. Goenka and vipassana takes it a little further — they believe that the pain (and pleasure) people feel during meditation are really manifestations of what they call “defilements” — anger, sadness, anxiety, old wounds deep within you. One of the reasons you start on the surface of the skin with your body scan — besides being a way to train your mind to feel sensations — is because the sensations you get on the surface of your skin are often less intense than the ones you get inside. Compare an itch on your nose to a muscle cramp, for example.

So anyway, i thought that was all pretty ridiculous (even though there’s research that’s changing our perception of the interplay between pain and emotion). But on the sixth night, half way into the hour-long meditation, humming along as I searched the intense sensation in my hips (forgetting to stick to the skin), it all changed.

It’s difficult to describe what happened, partly because it was a very intense experience which defies some explanation in words, and partly because its hard to write at all about the realizations that I had during the meditation course: they’re personal, they’re deep, and they, for most of my life, made up the foundation I stood on. But, just like I think it was important to share my experience with anxiety — because anxiety should be something we can talk about as a culture without fear or concern — I think it’s important to share what I think a lot of boys and girls grow up believing, subconsciously or not, about themselves.

Anyway. I’m not sure which came first that night as I scanned deep in my hips — the tears, or the reason for them. But all the sudden, a thought barreled into my mind, smashing across my consciousness: “You’ve never liked yourself.” And once this thought hit me, unbidden, from nowhere, I knew it was the absolute truth. And the tears began, tears that wouldn’t stop, tears that brought with them memories of the past, flash after flash of how my self-hate had manifested. I watched myself in fifth grade, as I started to realize that other people didn’t seem to be paying me much attention. I watched myself at summer camp, trying to make friends with the older kids, looking to them for acceptance. I watched myself as I hit high school, how my hate reached a new low, how I hurt myself for not being good enough. I watched myself in college, trying to be someone I wasn’t. I watched myself internalizing, over and over, all my life: i was no good. It came to me that so much of my social anxiety in the past had hinged on the fact that I knew I wasn’t good enough. I knew when people didn’t like me, it was because I was unlikable. And when people acted like they did like me, I knew it was because they felt bad for me, or they liked me in a tenuous way – one weird remark, one misstep and I’d be out.

I cried that night for the pain self hate had caused me, for the choices it caused me to make, for the fact that for so much of my life, i hadn’t realized that this dislike of myself shadowed every interaction, every choice. I cried for the time I’d lost not believing in myself, not knowing myself. I cried as I realized I’d been wrong all along: I was good enough.

Writing about this now brings tears. It’s…painful. Had you asked me before the vipassana course, do you like yourself? I would have said yes. of course. but during that silence, deep inside myself, I found a different answer, and it was shocking, jarring, devastating.

but, as I cried, it was also good. I could let go of the shadow that had dogged me my entire life. I could recognize it for what it was: a falsehood, an untruth. I could leave it behind. i could be free.

day 7 – Night

Day 7 had gone well. new parts of my body were blank that hadn’t been blank the day before — like the tears had somehow wiped some of my sensations away. But I felt more equanimous. I felt more ME than I ever had. And, strangely, the pain in my hips was less. Still there, but less. Each sitting felt easier, like I could sit for hours.

The night of Day 7, I had another realization during the 6 p.m. meditation session, one that built on the realization that I hadn’t liked myself: my whole life, I had been looking to others to like me instead, to fill that hole inside of me. maybe this was obvious, but it still surprised me, it still brought tears. it answered the question of why i acted like i had in high school and college, why i had and still did crave so much attention — mostly from guys, why it was so hard for me to handle it when people didn’t like me, why so many interactions with friends felt so wrought.

This night, I cried tears for myself, for how much i had grasped toward others for love instead of finding it inside myself. I cried tears for the person who had believed that she wasn’t worth it unless others said she was.

And then, finally, my tears stopped. and again, i felt free.

Now, I don’t know why, but after these two sessions of realizing these deep, difficult things about myself, my hips no longer hurt. the pain that shot up and down them on hot wires, radiating heat and electricity — it was gone. completely and utterly gone.

it hasn’t come back.

days 8-10 later…

Sitting in silence, day 4 to 6: sankharas, pathways and robots

Sankharas: the source of misery

I believe it was on day 4 that we were introduced to the idea of sankharas.

Sankharas: feelings of craving or aversion deep within you; the source of misery.

This is an important concept to understand in the practice of vipassana, so I’m going to delve in a little to what a sankhara was described to be from a vipassana perspective and what I came to think of it as.

So, imagine you find out that instead of spending the weekend relaxing with friends you have to work. This sucks, and you aren’t happy. You’re averse to working all weekend. This aversion, from a vipassana point of view, is kind of stamped inside you in the form of a “sankhara”. Stamp! Next week, you find out you are up for a promotion — one that would come with a hefty pay raise. You want it, you crave it! This craving, from a vipassana point of view, is stored in a sankhara somewhere inside you as well. STAMP!

The next time you have aversion or craving to the same or different things, you generate more sankharas, all of them stamping on top of the ones before it, all adding up, all weighing each other down and you down, all prepping you to react the same way you did in the past.

Mental Pathways

Now, the idea of a sankhara is kind of a nice way to think about how craving and aversion works, but it was a bit too mystical for me to this of sankharas all piled physically on top of each other inside of me.

So the way I came to think of sankharas instead were as mental pathways. You react a certain way, and you create a pathway: something happens —> you feel averse to it.. Then the next time that situation occurs, you find the aversion pathway. Then the next time, you find it again. Soon, it’s automatic. You forget you’re even choosing to feel this way. You are immediately averse. Every time you follow the same pathway, its groove in your mind becomes deeper and deeper, more ingrained.

Throughout my life, when something unpleasant happened, I would feel upset or sad or angry. It didn’t feel like those feelings were choices. Working on the weekends is annoying. Being lied is hurtful. Getting sick is painful. Being broken up with is sad. But the idea behind vipassana (and a lot of other meditation and therapy practices) is that these reactions are actually choices. (Another way some therapists phrase it is: “you can only control how YOU react” or “you are in charge of your own happiness”) They may be deeply ingrained, seemingly automatic choices, but they are choices nonetheless. Being lied to can be unfortunate, and may cause you to reevaluate relationships, but it’s a choice to wallow in hurt versus accept that it happened and determine the new way forward. The choice to wallow, to be averse to these things, it creates misery.

In the moment, I am miserable. When I think about it later, it makes me miserable. When I think about it happening in the future, I feel miserable.

Vipassana is kind of tagged by Goenka and its practitioners as a method to break the cycle of misery. (they’d say it’s THE method, but let’s get to that later…)

But, it’s not just getting rid of our reactions to the bad things that breaks the cycle of misery (that’d be too easy, right?). According to Goenka and vipassana (and, again, other meditation and therapy practices), aversion isn’t the only thing that creates misery. So does craving.

Imagine it. I move away from Colorado to Boston. I really miss Colorado. I want the mountains. I want the sunshine. I want the snow that melts. I want it so bad, I loved it there. But maybe I have to be in Boston for work or family or school or something. And there’s nothing really wrong with Boston except that it’s not Colorado. There might even be stuff Boston has that Colorado doesn’t. But it doesn’t matter. I crave Colorado but I cannot have it. This makes me miserable. Or maybe I have homework that is going to take me the whole weekend to do, but I really wanted to go hiking and now I have to go for a quick run instead. But i really really wanted to hike. I crave hiking. So, I am miserable that I cannot hike.

Or maybe the craving is on a more general scale: I want to purchase a writing notebook so I have something nice to write in. I look at all the options and I pick one. It’s okay and it works, but then I wonder if maybe there is a better one, and there is! I want it! So i get it. And then I wonder if maybe a better pen would make it easier to write, make the ideas flow so much better, and there is! I want it! So i get it. And then i figure there’s probably a better desk out there to write at, one that helps me focus and that I look at and just FEEL the words float out of me. And there is! I want it! So I get it! The cycle is endless. And this seems ok — you’re just getting things that make you happy, right? But really, you’re just always wanting, craving more, better things. And while you don’t have those things you aren’t enjoying what you do have because a part of you seems to know there is something better out there. So, you are miserable.

Craving becomes a mental pathway just like aversion. Your mind gets used to craving, the pathway gets deeper, and so your mind is constantly, automatically, making the choice to crave more, maybe without you even noticing.

In that way, in the perspective of vipassana, craving and aversion are the building blocks of misery.

Vipassana: Measuring by equanimity, not sensation

On Day 4 and 5 and 6, as Goenka starts talking about all this stuff –craving and aversion — all of us meditators start learning Vipassana in earnest.

The practice of vipassana is about sensations. You close your eyes, and you let your breath do whatever it wants to, and you basically scan the body from head to toe, toe to head, first just on the surface of the skin. You do this slowly at first, mostly because it’s hard to feel sensations on your body. You find that some areas have blank spots where you can’t feel anything at all (for me it was my chest and stomach, for some it was their whole left side, or their back).

Also around now, we began to have “strong determination” sittings. This meant that during those three hour-long group meditations in the hall, you were supposed to do your very very best to not move for the entire hour. Now, of course, you can move. But you’re strongly encouraged not to.

The point of not moving has to do with equanimity. “What’s equanimity?” you ask…

Equanimity = not having craving or aversion to any sensation. 

So, if you’re sitting in your meditation seat trying to be equanimous, and you get this tingling sensation all over your body, which maybe is a pleasant sensation, you’d equanimously say, huh, my body is tingling. and if you had an itch or a painful sensation, you’d equanimously say, huh, my body itches or is in pain. The point is that pain isn’t bad and tingling isn’t good. They both just ARE. Now, if your body itched or tingled or was in pain and you moved, you’re reacting to those sensations. If the body is in pain and you move, you probably moved because you were averse to the pain, right? Right. And in doing so you dug the aversion sankhara/mental pathway a little deeper.

When we first started these “strong determination” sittings, I was all like, I got this! Sitting for an hour in one place. that’s cake. And then around minute 35, I got a twinge of pain in my hip, and I was like, psh, i can handle pain! and then by minute 45, I was in the throes of what felt like the most immense pain of my life. I was dizzy and sweaty with pain. It burned and shot up and down my legs and bag, creating what felt like electrical hot wires all around my hips. so I moved because SCREW EQUANIMITY. that shit hurt.

Why is equanimity important? 

But, equanimity is an important part of vipassana. In fact, equanimity really is vipassana — it’s the whole shebang, the final goal, the source of the end of misery. Why? Well…to answer that question, let’s talk about sugar.

I love sugar. Desserts really. cookies, cupcakes, cake, chocolate, marshmallows, graham crackers. NOMNOMNOM. Why do I love sugar? It tastes good, right? But the idea in vipassana is, when I eat sugar, and my body goes NOMNOMNOM and craves more of it, it not only generates a sankhara/strengthens the craving pathway, but it also generates a pleasant sensation in me. You know when you get that warm happy feeling in your stomach when something wonderful happens? I imagine the sensation I get from eating sugar being a little like that, but much less intense. Maybe like the same kind of pleasant sensation would occur if you, say, won a buck on a scratch off ticket. Or got a free coffee at your favorite coffee shop. You’d probably only notice these sensations when they’re big — like you win the lottery, or get a new, awesome raise, or something of the sort. And, you’d get the same but opposite kind of sensation when something unpleasant happened. You’d generate a sankhara/strengthen the pathway, and an unpleasant sensation would bloom (like when you get anxious, or hear someone talking about you when they think you can’t hear them, or realize that you just made a mistake that will cost your company money/time).

So vipassana teaching assumes your body is experiencing sensations all the time, and these sensations are tied to the mental pathways of craving and aversion.

Interrupting misery

Now, if you practice vipassana meditation, and you experience pleasant and unpleasant sensations, and you react to them, you’re building more sankharas/strengthening the pathways of craving and aversion, which, as noted earlier = misery.

BUT, if as you experience these sensations, you react with equanimity (or, a neutral reaction), you interrupt these mental pathways. I began to like to think of it like overriding your brain and the pathways that you’ve spent a lifetime building. And once you start overriding your brain, it slowly stops automatically reacting. And the less you start automatically reacting, the more you start creating a new mental pathway — one of equanimity, one of control.

I’m not a robot

I cry, a lot. It’s something that I’ve done all my life. If I am sad, happy, angry, embarrassed, worried, excited — doesn’t matter. There are tears. I’ve never seen it as a choice. I’ve always seen it as me, the sensitive part of me that responds to the world with compassion and love and wants to help make it a better place.

It sounded a little bit to me like the goal of Vipassana was to strip me of all those things, all my feelings, and leave me a simple robot, nonreactive to everything.

So, for most of day 5, I was furious. Screw Goenka! Screw vipassana! I’m not a robot and I don’t want to be! what a waste of these ten days! By day 6, I’d chilled out a bit, but decided to go air my grievances with the teacher, who after all was there to answer questions after all.

I told the teacher, Judith, that I wasn’t on board with the idea of getting rid of craving and aversion. If someone dies, should I just shrug my shoulders instead of feel pain and sadness, instead of crying? And should I never feel happiness again? Should I just feel nothing at all? If enlightenment, if vipassana’s end goal, meant that was what I was aiming for, I told her, I wasn’t interested. Judith’s response interested me.

ME: So if someone dies, vipassana says I’m just supposed to react with no sadness, no tears, no nothing, just blankness.

JUDITH: But what if it wasn’t? What if it wasn’t blankness? What if what you felt was compassion and love, but not the intense aversion. not the wallowing in sadness.

Hmm…that kind of emotion sounded reasonable to me. not robotic. someone i love dies and i would feel love and compassion. That’s pretty much what I’d feel now, except coupled with an intense feeling of loss. Maybe with the vipassana kind of outlook, you just don’t feel the intensity of the loss-type feeling. maybe that was a kind of emotion i had just never experienced before. and maybe it wasn’t a bad thing? I wasn’t sure. I’m still not. But I felt satisfied that I wasn’t being asked to be a robot, and that was enough at that point.

That night, I had my most intense meditation experience, which deserves its own blog post….which I’ll write tomorrow. It’s kinda a doozy.