I am because we are

I had been repeatedly listening to a song that goes "if you don't like your job, quit; if you don't have enough time, stop watching TV; life is simple." The day before the Aug 28-31 retreat in Bali, I was on the prowl for a small journal to scribble on throughout my silent stay. A particular store called me in, and there it was, on the table full of journals and notebooks, a bamboo green leather-bound journal with the words "BALI / Life is simple" printed on it. Call it kismet, call it fate, but do not call it coincidence. My connection with that word is on thin ice. There is value and meaning in things when we give them it, and we would be silly not to fill this silly life with as much play and purpose as possible.

The eight of us filled the meditation room with anticipation and curiosity for the next few days to come. We introduced ourselves and how we got to this very spot. I was seated next to a 55-year-old woman who I would meditate next to for about 12 hours over the next four days. She said she had come here to do something for herself, to put herself first for once. "With kids and grandkids, it seems that I am never in peace. Maybe I never was." I felt the unrecognized sacrifices that dressed her, drained her. I wanted to hold out a hand but kept it at my lap. This retreat is an independent journey, I validated my distance. Respect others' space. But I still wanted to connect with her in a more profound way than as neighbors. She is the same age as when my dad passed. Caring for her would be like caring for him. In October, I will have lived half of his life, a fact that has been consuming my conscious thoughts. It is not a coincidence that we have sat beside each other, I thought.

Waking up to the vibrations of the sound bowl at 6am was surprisingly effortless. I smiled at the thought and sight of a few things throughout the first morning zazen session. First, when the streak of sunlight first stretched across my view of the wooden floor. (I love the sun's company.) Second, when I realized that the books I had "happened" to pick up and read in the weeks of travel preceding this retreat had prominent characters that chose silence. In "Verity," she chose eternal silence until she was duressed to speak. In "The Silent Patient," she felt that there was nothing to say. One book was given to me by a friend and the other I had exchanged in a hostel's library, intrigued by its red hard cover. I struggled to clear my mind for longer than a few minutes at a time. I was warmly entertained by the intermingled, tangled web of destinies of us all.

When I managed to sit in physical and mental stillness, I could tap into the secret language between my body and mind. Our yin yoga instructor taught us that breathwork is the bridge between our physical and mental bodies (the other three of the five bodies being energetic, spiritual, and emotional). I realized that I clench my mouth quite a bit. That is why the inside of my mouth got sore, forming a new ridge, like a mountain range connecting my upper and lower gums. I realized how much I enjoy the sound of tea being poured into a cup. I felt the warmth this creates in my stomach before even drinking any. I tried to distinguish between my thoughts and my feelings. I tried to distinguish between discomfort and pain as we spend more time in the seated position. I rocked side to side to release my spine without poking into my neighbor's peripheral view. (This is an individual experience and I should respect others' space.) I felt warmth when we were encouraged to play across two yoga mats in yin instead of one, to feel out and decide for ourselves which side of the mat we want to play on. I listened to the instructor say that labeling things as "right" and "wrong" are individual choices and decided that I want to adopt that line of thought. I was acting for myself, in alignment with myself, in connection with all of my bodies.

After lunch, I sat by the coy pond and watched the fish swim up to me then head back then swim again towards me in circular repetition. It reminded me of the talk where Hamid told us about the trap cycle between desire and avoidance. Every time they came up to the ledge, they opened their mouths and gaped for food. I expected them to stop after realizing that I wasn't holding any food, but they continued in their mindless movements. So stupid, I thought. Then I thought about whatever is watching us humans, chasing money and material things in an unawakened loop, and thinking how stupid."

During the second full day's talk, I was filled with ideas about egocentricity, vanity, and interdependence. "Self-gratification will not lead to a life of contentment." So the individual life becomes gratifying when centered to the interconnected life, I wrote in my kismet notebook. The talk ended and I remained in the room still trying to digest the points. I was not ready for dinner. I laid flat on my back and studied the white roof. I kept thinking about how the seven other people who were here with me was not out of coincidence. Out of the billions of adults with internet who could have found this retreat and signed up, it had been us seven. Each of them were here to remind me that they are each me. They each reflect my patient side, my curious side, my playful side, my formal side, my quiet side, my irritable side, my expressive self. We are the eight legs of an octopus, I wrote. I grasped onto my pen a little tighter. I felt like I was at the end of my life and needed to write letters to everyone I loved. I felt like a hospice patient, having lost my ability to speak, having only my hands and my words to say all of the things I wish I had spoken before. Letter-writing changes the world, I wrote. Letter-writing will save our humanity, I wrote under that. I sat there and I wrote a letter. I went to dinner and I wrote another. I went to my room after the last evening zazen, sat on the round wooden desk under the warm glow, and wrote another, another, another.

My last journal entry: At first I was averting eye contact with people. Giving them / respecting their "space." Honestly, what's the point? If their gaze meets mine, I will stretch a smile. Just because we are at a silent retreat does not mean that we came here to feel alone. We are all the universe experiencing itself from another point of view. I am because we are.