Back From Retreat

Zen meditation retreats are an acquired taste.

In the early days of my Zen career I heard Thich Nhat Hanh talk about how meditation retreats are really ‘treats’ to be savored. I had no clue what he was talking about. I knew that ‘real’ Zen retreats were arduous affairs requiring intense effort and were only for truly devoted spiritual seekers. Calling them ‘treats’ was like saying that running a marathon is a stroll in the park or a three-week Outward Bound course is a pleasant afternoon in the forest. But now, almost forty years later, I’m beginning to understand what he meant.

The long hours of sitting in stillness and silence, the sense of camaraderie (even over Zoom) allow me to touch something of incomparable value. Studying and practicing the teachings of life in the company of friends and colleagues is one of the great pleasures of my life. A real treat each time. But like learning to appreciate a fine wine, I have had to learn how to savor the many flavors—the bitterness that balances the sweetness—the darkness that allows the light.

Zen meditation retreats are indeed a treat, but are not recommended for the faint of heart.

I suppose it’s like learning to appreciate life. While it’s easy to enjoy the ‘good stuff’ like success, connection and energetic activity, how do we find a way to meet the inevitable arising of failure, loneliness and illness as well? The Buddha suggested that one way to encounter these mostly unwanted experiences of being human was to begin by remembering that they are unavoidable.

Usually, when something ‘bad’ happens, not only do I feel bad, but I think there must be something wrong with me for feeling bad. One of the Buddha’s first teachings was the prosaic observation that, in human life, suffering and discomfort are unavoidable. While this may seem obvious, in practice it is very difficult to remember.

One of the gifts of retreat is that in the simplicity of stillness and silence, we can see how difficulty and ease arise and pass away continuously. With very little going on in the environment around us, the activity of the mind becomes a little more transparent. We can begin to see that the difficulties and the accomplishments we take so seriously do not have the substance that we usually accord them.

When difficulty arises, perhaps discomfort in the body, I can see how naturally and immediately I add to the discomfort with my internal complaining. ‘It shouldn’t be this way.’ ‘Oh no, not this again.’ I can try to stop my complaining, but this rarely works. Or I can accept my internal complaining as a naturally arising phenomena and see that, if I just let it be, the complaint, like the experience of discomfort simply arises and passes away. When I don’t add more suffering on top of my suffering, then I can find the ease that is possible even when I am ill at ease.

This might be what Jesus was referring to when he spoke of ‘the peace that passes understanding’—a peace or ease that is not conditional on good circumstances but peace is broad enough to include all circumstances.

When we don’t have to judge ourselves or our experiences, then we can begin to appreciate our lives in their fullness. We don’t have to expend so much energy trying to avoid the unavoidable. We can be at peace in the midst of turmoil. We can rest right where we are. Of course we still prefer some experiences to other experiences, but we don’t have to get so worked up about the continual changes in circumstance and mood that are a natural part of being human.

So, this morning, after our three-day Rohatsu Boundless Way Zen Distant Temple Bell retreat, I am grateful for this ancient practice, for my colleagues and students who are willing to journey with me, and for the precious gift being alive.