Recollections from and Advice for Vipassana Retreats
The Ashram Deep in the Heart of Texas:
As a gorgeous winter afternoon unfurled, I savored the last cup of coffee I would have for a while. In an hour, I would commence the long drive from Houston to the Texan hinterland to check off a long-held item on my bucket list: a 10-day meditation retreat in silence and seclusion with Vipassana International.
An old friend, who himself had completed two such retreats and was writing a Ph.D. dissertation on Tantric practices, briefed me on what was to come as we enjoyed our final cup together: “Ten days is a long time out of your life, bro. In silence, it will feel like a year. You’re about to undertake some serious spiritual athletics–are you ready?”
I was not ready; this would become clear in the following week and a half. In fact, I was about to attempt a marathon without training. The upcoming 12 days (it turned out that the totality of the course was longer than just 10 days, but more on that later ) alone with my mind would be one of the greatest tests of fortitude I have ever faced, a solitude that surfaced both the blessed and dark parts of my psyche.
Founded in the 1970s by the late S.N. Goenka, a Burmese magnate turned guru, Vipassana International offers hundreds of courses each year in their ashrams around the world. While they strongly encourage donations at the course’s conclusion (even expounding on the accompanying karmic and metaphysical boons starting on Day Eight or Day Nine), the organization provides free room, board and meditation training to thousands each year. The 10-day course is their flagship offering, but Vipassana International also holds courses as long as 30 and even 60 days, all completely free. (I heard that Noah Yuval Herari, the author of Sapiens, even did a 90-day course.) The only required cost is the gas money or airfare to arrive at the ashram. How do they afford to do this? Vipassana alumni feel that the courses open their minds and hearts so effectively that they reciprocally open their wallets to allow those in the future to experience the same. Jack Dorsey recently donated millions, as have several other Silicon Valley moguls of his ilk.
I arrived at the ashram in rural Kaufman, TX to a blazing winter sunset behind bales of hay and grazing cattle, joined by about 200 soon-to-be chelas, seekers of wisdom under the tutelage of an enlightened guru–in this case, Mr. Goenka and his successors. This first day at the ashram was to be Day 0, the pre-course orientation. The course was so popular that I was initially number 55 on the waitlist; I had all but given up hope of enrolling when I received an e-mailed a week prior to the start of the course informing me that I had a spot. Many who had not cleared the waitlist still drove out to the isolated ashram before orientation, hoping for no-shows and open spots.
After registering in the ashram’s mess hall, I was given a small black bag and told to place my car keys, cell phone, and wallet inside; they would be returned only at the course’s conclusion. The cooks, all from India, had prepared dinner–an odd yet delicious South Asian and Tex-Mex vegetarian medley: refried beans topped with paneer and served with tortillas and achar, Indian fermented mango. I overheard two guys having a conversation about ayahuasca and DMT at one of the dinner tables; I sat down to join them and introduce myself. My tablemates were a hipster-looking Indian who was an Austin-based tech entrepreneur and a well-dressed Latino who worked in real estate in New York and had flown into Dallas the same morning for the course. Both were about my age, early thirties. Immediately after the course, the tech guy was flying to Peru for a 40-day shamanic retreat in the Amazon.
Halfway through dinner, a bald Indian with Sanskrit tattoos around his wrists and rudraksha beads around his neck summoned our attention over the mic. He welcomed us to the ashram and invited us to select from among ourselves one man and one woman to walk through the dormitories with a gong each morning slightly before 4 am to wake up the rest of the chelas for the morning meditation. If nobody volunteered, two participants at random would be “voluntold” instead.
Next, he explained what the course would not be: “These ten days are not a holiday. The course is not designed as a time to relax, rest, or detox the system. This is not an opportunity for socializing or networking. Those of you who came here with any of these false expectations, we kindly invite you to leave at this moment, before we begin. Leaving the course early is akin to leaving surgery before the doctor has fully sewn you up.” Some people fidgeted nervously, but nobody got up to leave. “The purpose of this course is to better understand the Dhamma, the eternal truths of impermanence, grasping, and aversion. This course is designed to help you understand suffering and how to eradicate it. Nothing more.”
He ran us through the daily schedule. We were to wake up at 4 am each morning and meditate in our quarters until 6 am, when breakfast–a spread of fresh fruit, bread, yogurt, tea, cereals, and, occasionally, Indian porridge–was served. Subsequent meditations were to take place in hour and hour-and-a-half long intervals as a group in the Dhamma Hall, a cavernous structure containing nothing more than floor space for sitting, a projector, and a platform for the teachers to observe us. During the breaks in the schedule, we were permitted to nap or walk through the trails in the woods around the ashram. Apart from breakfast, the only other meal of the day was a 1 pm lunch, always “pure-veg” (almost vegan but allowing for ghee and cheese) and always scrumptious South Asian fare. First-timers were allowed an optional snack of fruit, milk, and tea at 6 pm. Goenka, in his nightly posthumous talks projected in the Dhamma Hall, claimed that eating only twice per day–a slight fast–facilitated meditation.
There was a long list of thou-shalt-not’s: no killing of any kind (insects were to be gently released back outside); no rituals, prayers, or yogic practice apart from the techniques taught during the course; no drugs or intoxicants (medications were only accepted if accompanied by a doctor’s note); no jewelry or other adornments (we were to live like monks while on the ashram); no sex or masturbation; no reading, writing, or drawing; no music; no speaking or nonverbal communication; and–most emphatically–no leaving early. Genders were to be separated at all times. Men and women would eat in separate mess halls, sleep on opposite sides of the ashram, and meditate in segregated sections of the Dhamma Hall. We even had separate nature trails for taking walks. The vows became effective immediately following the orientation.
The dormitories of the ashram were surprisingly comfortable. All participants were provided with a small private room with unadorned white walls, a cot, nightstand, small closet, and an alarm clock—simple, austere quarters that reminded me of a vacant college dorm room. My mattress sagged, but after telling one of the volunteers before taking the vow of silence, it was replaced with a sturdier one the next day. The wash area contained a communal sink and individual showers and toilet stalls–also reminiscent of college. Not bad accommodations, considering I was not paying a dime.
Following the orientation, we were taken to the Dhamma Hall for our first meditation instructions. A 20-year-old I had met at dinner who was an undergrad at UT Austin nearly shook with anticipation as we entered the hall. “It’s really starting,” he whispered to himself. His assigned seat was directly in front of mine, and I would study the back of his neck in between meditations. On Day Three or Four, he was conspicuously absent. Like some others, he couldn’t take it and left early.
Sharpening the Mind and Scanning the Body:
Days One, Two, and Three were spent honing a meditation technique known as anapana, a preparation for the main event of vipassana. Anapana meditation entailed focusing on the sensation of the breath passing over the tiniest imaginable point directly between the nose and the upper lip. The first third of the entire course was dedicated to anapana; hours and hours each day focused on the upper lip. It was mind-numbingly boring; but eventually, I understood why we were doing it. By Day Four, my concentration had become razor sharp; I could focus my mind on that tiny point like a laser beam. This newfound concentration, a state Goenka referred to as samadhi, would facilitate the body-scanning of vipassana.
During breakfast each day a schedule was posted at the buffet line. On Day Four it read, “Today is Vipassana Day.” The pre-lunch meditation session in the Dhamma Hall was two hours instead of the usual one hour; the instructors stated that we must stay in the Dhamma Hall for the entire two hours, no matter what.
The vipassana technique–which Goenka claimed Siddartha Gautama, the Buddha, had employed to achieve Enlightenment–turned out to be deceptively simple, just mentally scanning the body from head to toe and then back again, over and over. Sensations on the body, pleasant or unpleasant, were to be acknowledged but not fixated upon. The important part was to keep the awareness moving: up and down, down and up, taking stock of each centimeter of the body. As taught in Transcendental Meditation, thoughts and emotions were to be noticed but gently jettisoned.
This simple practice of observing sensations on the body without reacting to them was, according to Goenka, the first-step towards accepting and internalizing the truth of the impermanence of all existence, a crucial step in the journey towards Enlightenment. As we practiced vipassana, the instinct to grasp at or repel stimuli, one of the deepest layers of the mind, would be slowly “reprogrammed.” We would come to understand, on a subconscious and conscious level, that we did not have to allow our minds to become entangled with sensations, whether they be emotions, physical feelings, or thoughts. Why dwell on any sensations if they were just arising and passing?
As the course progressed, we were told to increase the speed with which we scanned our bodies, eventually gaining the prowess to sweep the whole body within just seconds. We met with a teacher once every other day or so in private, and this meeting was the only time speaking, albeit in an extremely limited manner, was permitted. The senior practitioner would inquire about how the practice was progressing and if such sensation or frustration was being experienced. The chela was permitted to voice any questions or concerns he might have. My meetings invariably ended with the teacher, a strapping Indian man with flowing hair who looked like he had just teleported from the Himalayas, saying, “Good, good. Now, keep practicing.”
After Day Three or Four, as Goenka predicted in his videos, I began to question my reasons for taking the course. I lamented that I could have chosen to spend my winter break on a beach in Central America, having the time of my life, but instead opted to self-flagellate in an ashram. I asked myself several times a day if I should cut my losses and leave early. Even though several veterans of the course with whom I had spoken had advised me to fight through this stage and stay until the end, I fantasized constantly about upping and leaving. My parked car was visible from the front of the ashram–it would be so easy to grab my stuff and bounce; I could spend the rest of my break goofing off in Austin. Days Five and Six were the peak of the frustration and second-guessing.
Starting around Day Three, Goenka announced that we were to embrace adhitthana, the Buddhist virtue of strong determination, during our hour-long sits. Adhitthana entailed refraining from any movement whatsoever while sitting; we were to remain still as statues on our hard meditation cushions. If your lower back started to burn from exertion or you wanted to rip into your own flesh to scratch an itch, well, too bad–suck it up and sit still until the gong rings.
The first few days of applying adhitthana were akin to torture. After 30 minutes of meditation, about halfway through a standard sit, the muscles in my back screamed at me to shift positions and release tension. My feet were so numb and restricted from blood flow that I thought I was inducing edema. Goenka’s advice: just observe and accept the pain without trying to change it; understand that painful sensations, like all sensations, are merely fleeting. He emphasized that we were to use the pain as a teaching tool: to drive home the Buddhist foundational teaching that all is impermanent and that grasping and aversion are misguided. The pain was to be observed and acknowledged with the same dispassion as pleasurable sensations and thoughts. The stimuli we encountered, while meditating or during any other facet of existence, could not be controlled, but we could completely control our reaction to them. To my amazement, this approach really worked. When my muscles started to scream in agony, I reminded myself that I did not have to react. The pain could only bother me if I allowed it to, when I permitted myself to crave relief and repel the unpleasant feelings. I thought of self-immolating Tibetan monks; tragic and horrific figures though they are, they indeed remain still and calm as they burn to death. Armed with this new approach of accepting pain, the hour-long sessions became easy, even enjoyable.
Advanced vipassana meditators experience the sensation of bodily dissolution, what in Pali, the Sanskrit-derived language of Buddhism, is called bhanga. As the meditator’s awareness becomes more and more sensitive, he realizes that the sensations on his body, down to the tiniest level, are in a constant state of flux. In other words, there is no solid matter, only changing sensations. Goenka, in his nightly fireside video chats, described this advanced state of meditation during the tail-end of the course, reminding us not to dwell on it if we were fortunate enough to experience it and not to grasp for it if we didn’t. Bhanga, Goenka made clear, was indeed a blissful, deeply peaceful state of consciousness, but, as with other sensations, it was to be simply acknowledged and gently put aside. It was by no means the goal of the meditation. He reminded us that the important part was to keep the attention moving up and down and to dispassionately observe. I myself did not experience dissolution, but I was told by some vipassana repeaters that it usually takes a couple of 10-day spins to achieve it.
During the first days of the retreat, the din in my head had intensified as if placed inside a pressure cooker. The drunken, wasp-stung, monkey of my mind howled and flailed in absolute rebellion as I tried to subdue it. Uneasiness and anxiety gave way to chiaroscuro by Day Three or Four; anger, regret, and nostalgia bubbled up, as well as the rays of light of gratitude, a keener awareness of beauty, and deep love for certain people. As I walked through the wooded trails in silence, I planned exactly how I would handle life’s problems post-retreat; I played out conversations I would have in the coming weeks. But, by Day Eight, I was no longer spinning my mind’s tires in the mud. I was fully present: savoring my food and daily shower, marveling at the sunset and the beauty of the woods, and finding joy and fulfillment in the hour-long sits.
Halfway through Day Four, I cried. A painful memory I had not fully processed come to the fore, and the emotions were released. It was the catharsis I had needed for several weeks, and I felt lighter afterwards. By the penultimate day of the course, the rollercoaster had run its course; now, I was gently sailing on a surreally beautiful and placid sea, with the sun and breeze at my back.
By Day Nine, there was a collective sense of elation flowing through the Dhamma Hall that the long contest of spiritual endurance was drawing to a close. Whereas I had been unable to let go of my worries and concerns during the first half of the course, the battles, victories, and defeats of my life back in Houston now seemed far away, almost irrelevant. My mind, weaned off its craving for dopamine-soaked stimulation, was as calm as I could remember it ever being. I made mental lists of the activities I looked forward to doing post-retreat: brewing coffee in the morning, sipping a beer in the evening, cooking, hitting the gym, maybe traveling in the near future. These pleasures, which I had consumed thoughtlessly and taken for granted, now seemed akin to the delights of heaven.
Day Eight or Nine was also when Goenka introduced metta meditation, the practice of extending loving-kindness, another chief Buddhsit virtue along with addhitanna, to the entirety of creation. Likening the course again to psychic surgery, Goenka compared metta meditation to the balm that the nurse puts on the incision after it has been sewn up. The metta meditation would prepare us for the shock of reentry into the world. Metta meditation really did amplify the deep sentiments of gratitude, peace, and joy that seemed to arise naturally after ten days of meditation, fasting, and deprivation.
Waking up on Day 10 felt like waking up on Christmas morning as a kid. For better or worse, I was electrified with anticipation to break the silence, to return to the world. After the typical hour-long sit before lunch, we were told that the silence would be broken at lunch. I expected some kind of ceremony, but there was none. After the meditation, I went for my usual walk through the nature trails and encountered some other participants. It was not lunch yet, but we spoke anyway, congratulating each other on completing the course. Whoa….it was bizarre to hear my voice again, to feel my vocal cords move. As I spoke more, I pondered the weird fact that what I said often came from somewhere unconscious; how my mind usually didn’t really know exactly what would come out of my mouth before I actually spoke. I have no idea why, but I cracked up laughing for the first few minutes of renewed speech.
There was one more surprise at the end of course: it was not really the end of the course; we were required to stay another full day to help with clean-up. Just as the day we arrived at the ashram was not really Day 1, Day 10 was not really the departure day. Counting the bookends, the full vipassana course is a 12-day affair. Not being able to leave at the hour I hoped for was a mild blueball, but the buffer time of being at the ashram easing back into speaking was helpful. The teachers and veteran participants, one who had completed seven 10-day courses, advised us to reacclimate slowly, to ease back into the chaos that awaited us outside.
When I did resume normal life, things were different, at least for a while. The mindfulness and appreciation of the present moment lingered like an afterglow. I felt as if somebody had taken a wipe to my mind and my five senses. I marveled anew at the beauty of the world: the deliciousness of good food, the intoxication of love and human touch, the sublime mysteries glimpsed while looking at a sunset or starry sky. The ruckus and stress of normal life took some getting used to as well. For a few days, I wanted to avoid excess conversation, crowds, and over-stimulating situations. I knew I shouldn’t go back to drinking for a few days, but I ended road tripping through the Southwest right after the retreat and could not resist the good beer along the way. We were advised to continue practicing vipassana for two-hours each day upon returning home, a commitment I failed to uphold. While I did go back to regular meditation each day, I stuck with Transcendental Meditation, the practice I had already been doing for years.
Advice for first-timer vipassana students:
So, what’s my advice for those going into a course? Prepare yourself in advance for the hard and steep path ahead. As much as possible, reduce life’s volume in the days and weeks prior. The calmer you are at the outset, the fewer days it will take to facilitate a placid mind and deep meditations. I was putting out fires before going into the course–crises in my personal and professional lives–and these stressors continued to hector me for the first half of the course. It was only in the last few days that I was able to quiet these bogies and let go. I had been advised to abstain from general debauchery for a week or two leading up to the course. I ignored these suggestions, to my detriment. (The day I was to leave for the ashram, I woke up in a strange bed with a horrific hangover.) This lack of discipline and self-restraint in the days leading up to the course detracted from my overall experience. You don’t need to go full-blown renunciate (there will be plenty of time for that at the ashram), but it’s wise to resist the siren calls of Tinder, the bar, and so forth. I know for a fact I would have gone deeper if I had had more discipline going into the course.
At the time of writing these recollections, five or six months have passed since the retreat. It’s hard to say if the course wrought lasting changes in my life. I would not go so far as to say it was transformative. However, the course did offer me well-needed time to reflect, to process the highs and lows of the past year—even the past decades. During the days of silence, I connected dots and gained insights about my life and relationships. Although explicitly admonished not to expect rejuvenation, the course was tonifying: the endless chatter in my mind stopped; I rooted out unproductive cycles of thought; I even felt physically more robust from the prolonged fasting and ayurvedic diet. Perhaps most importantly, I proved to myself that I have the mettle to endure deprivation and austerity. I know I can survive without stimulation; that I can sit utterly still for an hour or more, ignoring the pain; that I can find fulfillment in the simplest pleasure and beauties. All in all, I am glad I did the course, and one day–probably in a few years–I intend to complete another one.
