On the way to sesshin, I noticed that there seemed to be two different parts of me travelling together.
One was looking forward to it.
The other was already wondering why on earth I had decided to spend several days getting up early, sitting for hours, working, running, eating in silence, and generally abandoning most of the comforts of ordinary life.
Both arrived at the retreat.
The weather did not make things easier.
It was cold.
It rained.
And then it rained some more.
But once the rhythm of sesshin began, something settled.
Sit.
Walk.
Eat.
Work.
Run.
Sit again.
There is something about that rhythm that gradually removes the need to decide what comes next.
You simply do the next thing.
One phrase that stayed with me during the retreat was Keizan’s:
“Slough off body and mind.”
I kept returning to it.
Not trying to achieve a particular state.
Not trying to become a better meditator.
Just sitting.
And perhaps allowing some of the unnecessary weight to fall away by itself.
We also did Zen running.
Running in the cold and rain might not sound particularly appealing, but there is something wonderfully direct about it.
The body runs.
The breath comes and goes.
The feet hit the ground.
There is not much room for philosophy.
At some point during the sesshin, I also discovered that walking alone in the woods was considerably more attractive than samu.
So I occasionally disappeared.
Perhaps this was not the most exemplary interpretation of retreat discipline.
But the woods were quiet.
Wet leaves covered the ground.
The paths disappeared between the trees.
For a while there was nowhere particularly important to go.
I gave a talk on the Five Ranks during the retreat.
As always, preparing and giving a Dharma talk is an interesting experience. There is the temptation to understand everything before speaking, to arrange everything neatly and present something coherent.
But the Dharma rarely behaves quite so politely.
You prepare.
You speak.
And somewhere between what you intended to say and what actually comes out, something else sometimes appears.
Sanzen also felt different during this sesshin.
I found myself feeling that perhaps less needed to be done than I sometimes imagine.
Someone enters.
We sit together.
Something is said.
Something is not said.
Then they leave.
Sometimes presence itself seems to do much of the work.
Another theme that kept appearing was something I have noticed outside retreat as well: the feeling of being watched.
Not necessarily by an actual person.
More like an invisible observer.
The imagined eye that notices what I am doing and quietly asks how I am appearing.
Am I behaving correctly?
Do I look foolish?
What will someone think?
It is remarkable how easily this imaginary observer can accompany us even when nobody is there.
During the sesshin I found myself wondering what it would be like simply to forget the observer.
To walk without acting.
To speak without rehearsing.
To live without shrinking.
Not as another task to accomplish.
Just to see what happens when the audience disappears.
On the final morning, I went walking again.
I decided to take a path I had not taken before.
After a while I was no longer entirely sure where I was.
For a moment there was that familiar tightening.
Am I lost?
Should I turn back?
Then something very simple appeared.
I am here.
I am breathing.
I am safe.
The path continued.
So did I.
Eventually I recognised where I was and made my way back.
Nothing dramatic had happened.
No revelation.
No great insight.
Just a few days of sitting, walking, running, working, talking, disappearing into the woods, and occasionally wondering where I was.
But perhaps that was enough.
What is lost?
What is not lost?
Just being here.
Just being this.
