Ever Elusive Enlightment

A couple of weeks ago, a friend invited me to meditate at the Zen Center in Berkeley.  I’ve never meditated, but I’ve always been curious.  I couldn’t make it that day, but this past Saturday, my yoga class was cancelled, and I thought, Be brave, Judy.  Meditate.

The Berkeley Zen Center has a wonderful program.  On Saturday mornings they offer instruction for newcomers, then a 30-minute seated meditation, a 10-minute walking meditation, breakfast and a lecture.  I have family visiting, so I couldn’t stay for the whole thing, but I went for the instruction and the 30-minute session afterward.

I was a few minutes late, couldn’t find the building until a friendly Buddhist monk, sweeping in front of the Buddhist center a few doors down, came and helped me. I have to admit that I was encouraged by that.  I don’t know how you can better be ushered into your first Zen experience than to be shown the way by a monk.  I walked into the instructional session already in progress, and the teacher asked me to sit directly in front of her, instead of off to the side as I’d intended. In fact, I had already taken a cushion on the outskirts when she asked me to relocate. Almost as soon as I sat down, however, she said, “Oh, I’m sorry. You will have to sit over there after all. I have chemical sensitivities.” She said it nicely.  Serenely. But still… I resisted an urge to profess my innocence, to turn and tell the class how few chemicals I actually had on – deodorant and lotion were all I could think of. “I’m not toxic,” I wanted to assure them.

The instruction went well enough. In Zazen, you sit on a cushion with both knees touching the floor. You don’t close your eyes. You hold your hands, one palm in the other, thumbs touching, forming an oval. It’s actually very comfortable. The teacher talked a little about how to bring your drifting mind back should that be necessary, and then she had us do a 10-minute meditation. After that, we all went outside while they prepared the room for their regular 30-minute meditation. A lot of people were already outside, waiting to come in. Regulars. Pros.

For the 30-minute meditation, we sat in rows facing bare wood walls.  It felt odd to me, but also sort of comforting. A man sat down next to me, and I felt guilty that I hadn’t warned him about my chemicals. I was nervous he would discover my transgression and get up and move, but he stayed with me for the whole 30 minutes. (Which was good. I couldn’t have taken two rejections on my maiden meditation voyage.)

The gong-like bell was struck and the meditation began, and there were things I did very well and things I didn’t. I was very good at sitting, for instance. Being a natural fidget, I took stillness as a challenge. There were people shifting, and sighing, and coughing, and clearing their throats, but I was not one of them. I was still – and surprisingly comfortable. And there was something in the act of resisting movement that appealed to me.

My mind was another matter entirely. I drifted all the time. I would find myself wondering what if I smelled smoke. What if everyone smelled smoke, just faintly. How long before someone felt a need to react. Break Zen. High-tail it outta there. Then, realizing my mind was adrift, I would reel it back in, stare hard at the wood grain of the wall, listen to the irregular click-clack of a radiator, the quiet creak of the floor and roof. I heard a raven crow three times. Then three times again. And again. I realized that the raven must have been crowing all along though I’d been unaware of it.  I found that interesting. Relevant. Until I remembered that I was supposed to hear the sounds but not attach labels (like raven and crow) so I focused on my body, my posture, my breathing.

In the distance I heard a siren and though I did not label the siren, I wondered if it belonged to a cop on his way to a murder scene around the corner. What if the murderer strangled his victim, then walked around the corner, joined the crowd of people waiting to meditate, took a spot next to someone who didn’t see him (and wouldn’t be able to identify him on account of how we were all serenely facing the wall). I hoped the murderer wasn’t my chemically insensitive neighbor. I’d grown fond of him, grateful for his tolerance. But then I realized how full my mind was with all sorts of plot and emotion and labels and imagination. I reeled it back in.

And so it was for me – a continuous cycle, like fly fishing for enlightenment in the rushing flotsam of my brain.

There were brief instances (I’m talking split seconds here) where I think I did achieve something. Where I felt very centered in the moment, quiet. But then I would start to think about how centered and quiet I was, how proud I was of myself.  I imagined the people around me were impressed by my stillness, my Zen-like appearance.  And just like that, I was drifting again.

My friend assures me that this is normal, that meditation takes practice, that’s why it’s called the practice of Zazen. I guess so, but driving home afterward, I wondered if maybe I’m not really cut out for meditation, if maybe I’m just a little too in love with humanity and all its emotional upheaval, and craziness, and willful inappropriateness; a little too fond of the messes we create, and my own flights of fancy. Or maybe that’s how everyone does it. Maybe the Zen masters have to reel in their imaginations on a regular basis, examine their thoughts and then let them go, sink themselves back into the now again and again and again, just like me.  Probably they’re not imagining murders, but then… who knows.  Maybe.