My Weekend in the Zendō

The table in the center of the Sangha house was piled high with white sheets.

"Please take off your shoes and have a seat," the check-in girl said. "Take a set of sheets. You will need them for your bunk."

Marc and I slipped off our shoes, walked across the concrete floors and set our bags down by some potted plants before sitting down on the couch. There was an old woman with wiry, grey curly hair, a fleece pullover, Teva sandals and glasses staring off into nothingness. Standing near her was a trans-person looking around with wide eyes taking in the large potted plants and floor to ceiling windows. They wore a jumper, glasses, had a goatee, a small bun and holes in each ear big enough to fit a little caricature fox through it. Then a woman with thick, wavy red hair and pale skin arrived. She followed suit. She looked down at her phone a lot. We were the only couple.

"It feels like we are in an episode of The White Lotus," Marc whispered to me.

Except we weren't at some 5-star resort in a tropical location. We were in the Catskills attending a Zen Buddhist Meditation Retreat. A month ago on my birthday, Marc surprised me with this experience as a gift. At the retreat we would be served vegetarian food, engage in community work practice and sleep in gendered bunks— like camp— so fun. I didn't do any deep research to find what else the experience might entail. It was happening and that was enough for me. The only time I checked the website was the night before we left to read the suggested attire and list of which items to pack.

• Loose fitting dark clothes for meditation

• Work clothes

• Toiletries / Towel

• A Flashlight

"Alright," a young Asian man said in a whisper. "You guys are the first group to arrive. My name is Finn. I am going to take you on a tour of the monastery and show you to your rooms so you can drop off your bags."

We grabbed a set of sheets, our bags and put our shoes back on before we walked outside to follow Finn. He led us along the slate walkway toward the main building. Finn spouted out facts that none of us could hear because he faced forward and spoke too softly. It was a bright, sunny spring day. The only sounds came from the birds. Along the way we passed nicely kept flower beds, park benches, and a green patina gazebo until we walked alongside of the stone-faced building and entered through a large wooden door.

We walked up the ramp we landed on the brick floor of the dining hall. It was big with a two-story tall ceiling. Wood tables and benches covered the floor. Along the side was a tea and coffee station with shelves full of communal plates, cups, coffee mugs and bins for cutlery.

"This is where we eat all of our meals," Finn said, still speaking softly. "As you know you will be assigned clean up duty for one meal for either breakfast or dinner. Over there on the bulletin board will show your assignments. During the last thirty minutes of the meal you are assigned, you will head into the kitchen and be given a task."

Marc and I took a look at the bulletin. I had the dinner shift. He had breakfast.

"Now I'm going to take you upstairs," he pointed past a small Buddha alter to the stone spiral staircase. "This will lead to the Zendō. We must be really quiet when we reach the top. People are meditating for midday prayer."

The stone staircase was cold. Our small group of five followed closely behind Finn, mindfully carrying our bags, until we reached the carpeted hallway outside of the Zendō. The room was large beneath a vaulted A-frame ceiling. On black cushions arranged in rows there was a smattering of monastics in black robes, and students in grey robes sitting in complete stillness before us. We could peer at them from the open-wall made up of strong wooden beams. There was a drum hung from one of the arches. A bell hung from another. On the far wall was an altar with fresh flowers and lit candles.

"Whoa," Marc reacted.

In that moment we knew we were in for it. This was serious and there was no backing out. We would be sitting on those cushions later on in meditation for over two hours, twice a day for the next 48 hours.

My bunk was right off the Zendō in a small corridor that had a private bathroom and two other rooms where residents stayed. There were 3 sets of bunk beds. I took the bottom bunk near a latticed window. It glowed in the sunlight. The woman with red, thick hair was one of my bunkmates.

Marc's room was in the main corridor, on the other side of the Zendō. After we dropped our bags we were able to explore the grounds as the rest of the retreaters arrived. It rained lightly as we hiked up into the woods. I pulled up my hood. Our retreat didn't feel real yet. I felt relaxed, present and happy to be back in the mountains.

Pre-retreat walk on the monastery grounds. Photo Cred: Marc Charbonneau

During the communal dinner we sat across from two of the grey-cloaked residents who introduced themselves as 'Foosey' and 'Fuisey.' We tried desperately to keep their names and pronunciations straight.

"How long have you been practicing meditation?" Foosey asked.

"A few years," Marc said.

"We recently started attending the Rubin Museum's weekly group meditation series. Last week Kalu Rinpoche led the meditation," I added.

"Oh I've heard of him," Foosey said. "Have you ever explored Zen meditation?"

"Not yet," we said.

I had to leave during the conversation early to report for dinner duty. I was assigned dish washing. I put my hands on every single dish, glass, mug and utensil that was used. By the time I had finished the drum began to sound. People looked around the room. I walked up to Marc who was still at the same table.

"It's time for you to go to the Zendō," Fuisey said to us.

We headed up the stone staircase with the other 20 people for our introductory session. In the carpeted hallway we took off our shoes and set them on the shelves. We searched for our names on the chart to find our assigned cushion. Marc and I were far from each other. He was in the back left corner on the left side. I was on the front right corner of the right side. Before we set foot on the polished wood floor we had to bow to the Buddha. We weren't told to do it, but everyone was doing it. I found my cushion and sat down. The woman with wiry grey hair was three cushions to the left.

Once we were settled on our mats a woman with a shaved head approached the front. She wore black monastic robes, her dark roots were visible. She bowed reverently to the Buddha. In a graceful motion she made her way to the mat positioned in the center of the Zendō. She draped her black robes over her criss-crossed legs. Then she looked around gently nodding at us.

"Welcome," she projected. "My name is Shoan." She put hand over her heart and continued to nod her head slowly. "We are so happy to have you this weekend for an introductory retreat into Zen Buddhism here at the Zen Mountain Monastery." She explained that Zen Buddhism is based on ancient teachings passed down from the Buddah that were adopted by Chinese, and then by the Japanese.

"Now, a key component of Zen Buddhism is Zazen, which translates to meditation. Zazen is done in the lotus posture. This is a Zafu," she said holding the small circular cushion. She then demonstrated the ways we could sit on the zafu with our legs crossed, or with the zafu supporting us as we kneeled, but if neither of those felt comfortable there was an option to use the zafu on top of a small stool. "Please choose whichever position is most comfortable. The posture should help us feel stable with our backs straight to usher in ultimate stillness."

I tried each position. Ultimately, I felt best sitting atop it, cross-legged, as close to lotus as I could muster.

"More than ever we are ruled by our impulses. If we have an itch we rush to scratch it. If our foot falls asleep we shake it, right? Any sense of discomfort illicits an immediate response," she snapped. "But with those responses we are sacrificing our presence. We are submitting to a sensation before even realizing it. Through Zazen we are practicing to control our bodymind. Our presence is more powerful than any knee-jerk reaction. So, that is why during meditation ultimate stillness is of the utmost importance. You must not move. Not only is it distracting to the others around you. If you feel any pain remind yourself it is simply a sensation."

Already I started to feel the discomfort of the posture. There was pain radiating in my lower back, a signal that my period was coming. How was I going to remain still with this... sensation?

"This upright posture invites us to engage in formlessness. The seat props our hips up so our spine can be straight and strong." She held up her right hand to imitate the line. "Our hands will rest in a mudra on our sacral chakra, which is our center of connection where we experience our senses and emotions. Place your right hand on top of your left and bring your thumbs to touch, but not press. Your gaze should be lowered to avoid blinking, but to also keep you grounded in the present moment."

I rested my hands in the mudra below my lower belly. My thumbs were eager to press... I resisted the pressure.

"These are the foundations of Zen," Shoan concluded. "Now, I'd like to introduce you to the Abbot of Zen Mountain Monastery, the Head of the Mountains and Rivers Order, Shugen Roshi."

Shoan stood up, turned to the Buddha and bowed. She glided across the polished floor with careful yet confident footsteps until she exited the Zendō. Then a tall man with brown robes and a perfectly shaved head appeared. His skin reflected the light around him. He sat on an elevated platform in the lotus position. His posture was immaculate, his movements were minimal as he engaged us in our first Buddhist teaching.

"You have all come here for a reason. Whatever that reason is after this experience you will have a story to tell and new tools to sharpen. So, why do we do this? What is the purpose of Zazen." His crystal blue eyes were ever-present, his aura was centered and soothing. "The purpose is to turn inward, to listen to ourselves, to be one with ourselves, to observe our thoughts and to let them pass. We meditate so we can see ourselves without distraction from the outside world." His smooth southern drawl spread over the room like butter. "As human beings we all suffer. We have a habit of clinging onto things, but everything is impermanent. Life is constantly changing whether we like it or not. The Buddha said, life is full of Dukkha. Dukkha means suffering. In Zazen we aim to minimize that suffering."

"There is a term we refer to as the Monkey Mind where your mind goes from thought to thought without being able to stop it. It's almost obsessive and consuming not to mention very unproductive. This type of thinking might arise during your sit and when it does you need to release the vine, bring yourself back to the body and count your breaths. One in, two out, three in, four out until you reach ten. Then start again," he advised.

"So when you sit and thoughts arise— don't judge them. For some reason we believe we have to label everything. Is this thought good or is this thought bad? Do not judge them. Let the thought rise and then let it go. This is a basic instruction of Zazen. This is the practice of listening to the Buddha's teaching. It's not trying to avoid what is unpleasant, but it's not grasping or clinging to what we want. It's just allowing things to rise and pass in their own way in each moment. And trusting that we can, that it's okay for us to do that. When we look at our thoughts we can ask ourselves, is this helping? That can help us to release. So, how do we hold our desires without clinging to them? How can we believe while simultaneously refusing doubt. That is where Zazen comes in." His voice still so soothing and measured.

"Zazen is the time when the revolution begins. When we be9in this revolutionary way of being with ourselves. To interrupt those cycles that the Buddha said would continue forever until something interrupts them because that is their energy, that is their habit. Now, you might cry during this process and that's okay. Strong emotions will come through. You are here to be with yourself and your bodymind. That is what you are here to practice," he concluded. "Now, we will sit for thirty minutes. And after the meditation finishes the bell will sound and we will observe silence until tomorrow morning mid-way through breakfast. Sometimes words can be distracting. We can still be together and have a community in silence."

The bells sounded after thirty minutes. The first sit felt easy. I held the posture. I let go of those possessive thoughts. I wasn't afraid to look inward. To be surrounded by others in silence. If anything it felt like a concentrated bolt of lightening. All of us united in a collective yet individual quest.

We rose from the cushions, bowed to our cushions, bowed to the Buddha and waited to exit the Zendõ in unspoken, but organized unity. I walked over to Marc. We silently kissed goodnight and went to our separate bunks.

The Zen Mountain Monastery. Photo by Marc Charbonneau

In my bunk, I sat in the darkness with a flashlight aimed at my book. I read until the bells sounded, signifying 'lights out.' I tried my best to sleep, but the mattress was stiff. The sheets were starched and the plastic covering over the mattress made sounds with every movement. I fell in and out of sleep. I was restless, wakeful in the anticipation of what time the bells might ring, of what time I would need to officially wake up. The bells were supposed to ring at 4:50a.

But there wasn't a copy of the retreat schedule in my room and it was too dark to read the clock on the wall. Plus, my phone has been off and in the car since we arrived . In the bottom bunk, all I could hear was the movements from my bunk mates trying to settle in. All I could think was how I didn't want to be late for meditation.

Without turning on the light or using my flashlight, I dressed into my meditation clothes and slipped out of the doorway. I brushed my teeth in the private, but communal bathroom, before going down the stone spiral staircase to the dining hall. It was 4:47a. There was a smattering of people already sitting at the tables. Marc was one of them. Some people's eyes were half-open. A few people were reading the Zen Buddhist book we received upon arrival. Others picked out tea bags or poured cups of coffee. We were still observing silence, so the only noise came from the moving objects and the occasional cough/sneeze. We used hand gestures or eye signals to maneuver around the community station.

I sat drinking camomile tea next to Marc— whom again I couldn't speak to. We looked at each other when the drum sounded. We were being called, again, to the Zendō. This time for a two and a half hour meditation.

The wood floor shined even in the dim light of morning. The black zabuton and zafu pillows were arranged into six neat rows with a large space between them in the middle. Before I entered the Zendō I bowed to the Buddha alter at the far side of the room. Before I sat on my cushions, I bowed to them. Then I turned around and bowed to whomever I turned my back to. After I repeated this ritual of respect, I settled myself onto the small round cushion into the Lotus position. The room was airy, the windows were open and let in the misty blue light of morning.

Ultimate stillness is as hard as you think it would be. The urge to itch or move was excruciating at some points. When pain... I mean a sensation would arise it was easy to begin negotiations with myself. Maybe if my movement is so small, no one will notice and it won't even count. Then I remembered the monastics around me in their robes with shaved heads. Their serious dedication. Their statuesque posture. OK. Don't move. Don't itch. Your foot will be fine. Submit to zazen. Embrace the practice. It's just a sensation. It is just a sensation.

Part of this session included Kinhin, the walking meditation. Two times within the session the wooden bell 'clock' 'clocked' inviting us to release the posture, mindfully reset our cushions and engage in a walking meditation. Slow at first. Literally peeling our foot up before placing it down. When the wooden sound 'clock-clocked' again we moved at a true walking pace. Buddhism really respects the richness in these small moments that we usually do automatically.

We sat again in Zazen. I felt eager dive back into the meditation. I held the posture with a greater ease. I let the thoughts flow in and flow out. I understood how the monkey mind commandeers our chance at inner peace. I breathed in. I breathed out. I felt the cool mountain air carry across the room through the windows. I felt capable. Truly.

Then the gongs vibrated. The bells chimed. The drum boomed. The monastics began to chant in a language I didn't understand. Once the chanting, bells, drums and gongs ceased the session had ended. We reset our cushions, bowed thrice and were led down to the dining hall to eat. We stood in lines before the serving tables, quietly taking spoonfuls of oatmeal, mixed nuts, cottage cheese and fruit. Marc and I sat next to each other. We ate mindfully, in silence, until the bells rang once more.

Immediately, Marc turned to me and said, "Happy Birthday! Next year I'll take you to a spa, I promise."

We both laughed hysterically. What a gift this was. The best part was we still had a whole day/night left with silent caretaking practices plus two more meditation sessions (roughly 6 hours worth). I felt great after the first session, but how would I feel in the next two? Would those strong emotions bubble up? Would I eventually have tears streaming down my face as I struggled to hold the posture? Would my journey inward feel exhausting?

Time would tell.

Eating lunch outside the Zen Mountain Monastery. Photo by Marc Charbonneau