In 1988, I attended my second 10-day silent Vipassana (Insight) Meditation retreat. The retreat began on December 26, 1988 and ended on January 6, 1989. One of my clearest memories of that retreat was a revelation that took place on New Year’s Eve. In my days as a party girl at Indiana University and in the ensuing years, like most people I considered New Year’s Eve to be a great excuse to find a party or go to a bar and get smashed. That’s just what my friends and I, along with most people my age, did every single year.
When New Year’s Eve rolled around in 1988, I remember being amused that I was sitting in silence atop a snow-covered mountain. There was no alcohol, no silver ball, no “Auld Lang Syne,” no potential hangover—not the slightest mention of the usually momentous day. I mused about how most of the world was going about their New Year’s rituals without me. I thought about how most of the world would rather do just about anything than sit atop a mountain in silence any day of the year, but especially on the traditional blowout party day.
And with good reason. Meditation is damn hard. Prior to my first retreat the year before, I’d never experienced anything in my 32 years on the planet that challenged me as much as sitting silently—or trying to—did. First, there was unexpected physical pain pretty much everywhere in my body. Then there was the insane prattle in my mind, a jumble of sad stories from the past, nervous worries or grand plans for the future, near-continuous earworms and an ever-present desire to be anywhere but where I was—in that aching, burning body on that hard bench with nothing to distract me from my raving mind.
Until I experienced my first moment of pure mindfulness, the exquisite experience of being fully present with the process of reaching for and turning a doorknob, I had no plans to subject myself to that kind of torture again. But my doorknob experience changed everything. In one simple, pedestrian act, my life changed and has never been the same.
This doesn’t mean that meditation suddenly became easy. It didn’t. It’s still a challenge, even after 25 years. But in those 25 years, I’ve learned that the only way to transcend the neuroses, habit patterns and limiting beliefs that make our minds a living hell and keep us imprisoned in our lives is to shine the light of awareness on them, accept them as something that we’ve chosen to define ourselves with and begin the painstaking, long-term process of rewiring ourselves. The difference between then and now is that back then, my unpleasant patterns seemed like a monstrous behemoth I had to slay. These days I see them and greet them as Thich Nhat Hanh suggests: “Hello, old friend.” It was a long, hard, humbling slog to get to this place.
Swimming Up a Waterfall
All this is to explain why the practice of yoga has traditionally been one of swimming against the current of the mainstream. One of the teachers on a recent 10-day retreat at Spirit Rock Meditation Center said, “Practicing meditation isn’t just like swimming upstream; it’s like swimming up a waterfall.”
Because of this I understand why popular yoga looks a whole lot more like mainstream culture than it does traditional yoga. Traditional yoga demands that we slow down and look inside, and no matter who we are, there’s going to be something in there that’s not so palatable to accept. So we’ve sped yoga up, added music or nonstop verbal instruction and shifted the focus to accomplishing poses rather than letting the poses dismantle our brittle shells and uncover what’s inside yearning to be set free.
I like to think that this is all part of our evolutionary opportunity to move inward. Yoga may have had to meet us where we are before we can go where it wants to take us. Blogs like this one from J. Brown make me wonder: Is all the frenetic, competitive energy around popular yoga still leading us to the heart of silence? Has the stream begun to turn, with more people recognizing the value of a gentler, quieter practice?
I harbor no illusions that even if yoga returns to its quiet roots that it will suddenly become an easy path. Our culture still likes its ever-escalating sensation in the form of high-intensity music, television and film, as well as constant connectedness through our smartphones and tablets. Those seeking quiet will still be swimming upstream.
For the record, there’s a lovely New Year’s party I’ve attended every year for the past eight to ten years. I love music. While I rarely listen to music at home, and never listen to it when I practice yoga or meditation—unless of course there’s an earworm—I love sitting in the middle of an orchestra being carried away by the music or the camaraderie of playing with my sextet Red Rock Rondo. But my greatest pleasure is in silence, in those rare moments when the stream of my mind comes to rest in a clear, forest pool, when I’m no longer swimming, but inhabiting my heart’s true home.