The real work is inside us. If we truly want to find out what the Buddha meant, that’s where we need to focus.” – Marshall Glickman
Beneath a clear, diamond-studded celestial canopy, three score noble silence practitioners are assembled within the sanctuary of an oceanfront shala, for our pre-dawn vipassana meditation. Before closing my eyes, I observe how completely enveloping the darkness is that surrounds us – there is absolutely nothing visibly distinguishable beyond the perimeter of our huge tent. The only discernible sound is the ocean’s waves breaking on the nearby rocky shore. The early morning chill is the primary exterior sensation my body feels as I proceed inward, to center.
I breathe deeply into my center point, my dan t’ien, my lower belly. [In Reginald A. Ray’s The Awakening Body (2016), we learn that Taoists consider this special somatic space as “the inner expression of the fundamental space of the cosmos, the original womb out of which all energy and life arise. . . . By tapping into the lower dan t’ien, we are able to tap into the primal, unformed energy of the universe itself.”] Since thoughts tend to draw our attention away from what we’re actually feeling, I try not to think during vipassana meditation. Because sensations are where the mind and body meet, rather than focusing on (i.e. thinking about) the flow of my breath, I simply try to feel the sensation of my nostrils expanding and contracting with each breath, and the soft movement of my nostril hairs while breathing.
The primary goal of vipassana is cultivating awareness and equanimity. It is believed by many that vipassana is the method of meditation the Buddha himself practiced, and taught to others. It centers around having a detached mind, to completely accept what is, and to just be. According to the Buddha, “Everything that arises in the mind flows together with sensations.” True peace of mind befalls he who simply focuses on impermanent sensations – they are the link between the physical and the mental. The mind and body are inseparable and, therefore, nondualistic in nature.
Having my eyes closed during meditation only enhances my other senses of hearing, touch, and smell. The soft sound of the waves on the beach is soothing to my ears, and the gentle ocean breeze blows cool upon my face and hair. Suddenly, the stillness of the morning is broken by the sounds of the first awakening mynas, welcoming the new day from the large banyan tree behind our shala. Within seconds, there is a cacophony of other mynas responding to nature’s morning reveille call. I welcome these new sounds and try to convey them into my memory bank.
Moments later, I begin to breathe in the first heavenly aromas coming from MaryAnn’s kitchen, a prelude to the sumptuous vegan feast which we all will be enjoying within the hour – our healthy “morning fuel” as she likes to call breakfast. Simply inhaling the savory smells, carried by the early morning breeze, through my nostrils, and deeply into my body, fills me with a delightful anticipation. In fact, I can almost taste the food behind the smell – such is its appetizing appeal. As much as I try to only feel the sensation of smell, without thinking about the food responsible for the smell, I find myself conceptualizing the preparation of this food, cooked with loving kindness by MaryAnn.
I cannot resist the temptation to slowly open my eyes, just enough to see the first vestige of daylight revealing the silhouettes of the surrounding trees and nearby island. I glance about me, to see the other 60 spiritual pilgrims inside the shala, sitting crosslegged and completely motionless. I can’t help but feel like the lone space traveler on an intergalactic starship, who’s hibernation pod has prematurely opened, and now finds himself surrounded by his fellow cosmic voyagers, all sleeping within the innermost depths of their beings. As both of my feet are noticeably asleep, I very slowly begin to extend my legs, while keeping an eye on our leader as if he were a prison guard, and I an escaping inmate. Seeing everyone else in perfect meditation poses, so still, and assumedly centered, I suddenly feel like the only student in gym class who can’t do a proper chin-up.
But what I suddenly realize is that I have now, literally, become The (External) Observer – that person everyone else is attempting to become, internally, within their meditation practice. Very quietly, and ever so slowly, I lengthen my legs and lean back upon my elbows (while still keeping our leader in view out of the corner of my eye). No longer am I focused on breathing deeply into my dan t’ien, that special spot believed to be three finger lengths below, and two finger widths behind, the navel. Personally, it is enough for me to know that my center point, my conscious center, is somewhere inside of me. (“Close enough for government work,” as we used to say in the Army). I mean, after all, when Jesus said that The Kingdom of God is within us, He didn’t feel a need to specify that it was located exactly so many inches from our liver or spleen.
Ever so slowly, the dark silhouetted trees begin to display their true colors of greens and browns, the distant island rises above a deep blue ocean, and the morning sky displays the light pink and purple hues of dawn. I am one with everything I see before me, and I breathe all of it into my inner being, my center. All that I am resides there. Every single sight, sound, and smell that I am experiencing during this lovely early morning meditation is being deposited into the treasure trove of my conscious center.
After an entire lifetime of looking “out there” for God, Truth, Love, Happiness and Knowledge, I now know that all of the most elusive, sought-after answers to life already lie within me – and they always have. This morning’s awakening has become my awakening. By being acutely conscious of the genesis of this new day, I allow all of my sensations to synthesize within me, so as to become one with my being, my center, my soul. For it is within this eternal depository that this dawn will live forever – long after I have taken my last mortal breath.
