Agreeing to be Transformed. Yet again.

The world of sesshin is as different from this one as Childhood is from Today.

When I return to the monastery, my body will fall into its old habits and associations, some of which actually promote harmony and stability of mind. The place is familiar, but there is always some new novelty. In the past, novelty was most unwelcome: why, oh, why, must we now use this mallet to strike the densho bell? How in hell did they come up with the idea of removing all the towels from the guest area?

With time and distance—and the illusion of safety in my life—there has developed some measure of curiosity and generosity in the face of change. Last time, for example, I paid special attention to my least-favorite activity, meal washup. Normally, the glut of clueless anxious neophytes being inefficient in the kitchen would get me going, and the worst aspects of mind wold flare up in those precious minutes before the post meal break—a break that wasn’t happening, because here we would be, dealing with somebody trying to mop the floor before having swept it, or some such.

But last time, as a person with a home of her own and a decent paycheck to go home to, I considered the fact that meal washup is an event of finite length. The fact that, regardless of how painful it may seem, meal washup will eventually be over. The fact that, no matter how irritating others’ behavior is, it must be far more painful to be them than to merely witness their befuddlement. The fact that, if I am not the one in charge, it is none of my business! how--or if--the person who is in charge, decides to be in charge. I can go, and try to do some good for twenty minutes, and be done when we’re done.

Having a home of one’s own, and a decent paycheck to go home to, seems to promote this sense of perspective. When I lived at the monastery, and had nothing, and no sense of a safety net, every little stressor felt like a survival issue. I was not as well-liked as others, I thought. I had no family to retreat to if things did go sour. There was no backup plan. And yet, stressed as I was my time there could only be temporary. I was flinching before the stick came down. I was flinching, even though there was no stick.

That flinching was itself the problem: the way to stay at a place is simply not to leave. But it was right that I did go. Or maybe leaving was just what I did next. You have to leave before you can come back. And coming back is quite OK.

Although the world of sesshin is distinct from the world of bathroom tile choices, and miles away from the realm friends who drink wine and tell stories until late, there is a certain smearing that happens, consciousness-wise. Sesshin does not take place within normal time and space. (This is just as well, since in the conventional world I seem to be sleeping ten hours a night--not exactly monastic.) The retreat is out there, like a sound on the horizon. As early as last week, I felt it: a thinning of this life, a sense of that-which-shines-behind-everything.

Last night, we went for a walk as night was falling, and I just couldn’t. Couldn’t go uphill, couldn’t go in a particular direction. I told B how a friend of mine literally runs a fever on the way to sesshin. He knows to keep going, in spite of the urge turn around and drive home. I’ll be alright, I said. I just need to be distracted. So we found a coffee shop and worked on my favorite procrastinated task, overdue taxes, instead.

But B was a little worried. I used to do this every month, I told him. It came to be like a break from the regular schedule, since we had to work less, and nobody could bother me. I could just sit, and not have to be anyone, for a week.

Sesshin seems crazy if you haven’t done it. Especially sesshin with no eating after noon. Some of us look forward to that as a macho challenge. Some of us, meaning this person who has, at various times, thought it normal to throw bales of hay around, kill animales, walk barefoot on gravel and dung, ride her bike in ridiculous danger, discuss science with Nobel laureates, and live without electricity. There were winters when I had no proper coat, and long stretches of time, past and recent, when I owned one pair of disintegrating shoes. I have found myself far afield from consensus notions of reality and selfhood more than once. None of that was a problem at the time—and it makes for some good stories—but none of those adventures would come easily now.

So I’ll go off and sit for a week. If you go into it thinking you own it, you’re going to get smashed by it. But: curious, generous, knowing it will end? You’ll come out OK, even if you’re not the same person who went in.