sprezzatura
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
2016
I was terrifically sick on the second day of Vipassana. I overate at breakfast and spent the entire day with a stomach ache. My body was not used to so much sitting. Movement is a source of catharsis and the long periods of sitting broke my equilibrium.
The food at the Dhamma Kunja was delicious. Meals were prepared by voluntary practitioners, returning students, who offered Seva (service) in exchange to live on the land and join the meditation sessions. They offered themselves in exchange for the lessons they received while on site.
It must have been vegan or vegetarian, as the precept maintains non-harming to living beings. I don’t recall there being dairy or meat. I do remember the flavours: brightly coloured vegetables and spices. Lentils, baked tofu, curries, stews, and toasted bread. Hot and cold salads.
Breakfast was always the same—oatmeal with fruits and varied toppings. I like to layer oats with a bit of cream (in this case, almond milk) and berries with a scoop of peanut butter and granola—my favourite.
Having skipped dinner the evening previous, I woke up ravenous. The gong chimed at 4 AM, and the first sit, I felt manic. When the bell sounded to release us for breakfast, I ran to the dining hall. I was the first to fill my bowl. Twice. I ate more than necessary, especially for one sitting all day, and my focus shifted from hunger pains to a belly ache until I could lay down in bed that evening.
Food was the one sensory experience we could indulge in at the Vipassana. Mealtimes were ninety minutes. The focus was entirely on the meal in the absence of speech and eye contact. The window that faced the meadow was the coveted space to eat. Six people could sit at the aperture and watch the sunrise during breakfast, and the deer and rabbits prance at noon.
A window seat presented an opportunity to look outwards and muse. Every other chair in the dining hall faced a wall or another person. Our collective understood the preciousness of a seat facing outwards, and all but two moved through rotation—observing an unspoken agreement to take turns at the window—all but two.
Two women that carried scarves with them took the middle window seats each week, using their accessories to save each other a spot while the other gathered food. They moved around the group in tandem: tending to their couple and neglecting the rhythms of the collective.
By day five, I loathed the sight of them. My body ached from the flat wooden bed. My stomach growled incessantly—I was fearful of overeating again and took much smaller portions. My spine burned from tail to crown, a terrific sensation that ricocheted through my bones whenever I moved. My hips ached, my scalp itched; I was full of fury between the sounds of each gong.
For four days, I seethed. On day five, I acted. I projected my anger onto the two women who saved and stole the window seats every mealtime.
When the lunch bell chimed at noon, I carefully rose (my body was so sore, leaping was not possible) and paced the gravel path to the dining hall. I was not the first to vacate the meditation room; however, I knew the two women were behind me. Shadows.
I arrived at the dining hall, and the savoury aroma of curry filled my body, relieving it through sensation. A large tray of brownies was perched on the table where tea was served. Saliva sprang to my mouth.
Before I could satiate my appetite, I needed to resolve my need for liberation. I needed to free myself from one of the rules. I strode straight to the seat in the middle of the long table. The two women used small blue and purple scarves to reserve spots for each other. The decorations like little flags: this belongs to me.
I arrived at the seat and pulled out the chair. What did I have to place on the chair? I searched my body: shoes, baggy pants, oversized tee, sweater. I wasn’t even wearing a headband. Rings and hair elastics were too small. Women were arriving in the room, and I could feel their eyes on me, the rebel, breaking tread with what we were used to.
I agreed to all of the rules when I arrived, but not this one.
A sock! I pulled off a shoe and slid my knee-high purple stocking down my shin. Pulling it off my heel, I hung it neatly on the back of the chair. Smiling, I looked up into the eyes of a blond-haired woman beside me. She was laughing silently, her body rocking with glee.
Mouth agape, I watched as she did the same thing. Shoe off, sock off, stocking on a chair. As she completed the task, the window grabbers entered the room. Eyes cast down; I could feel their vexation as they marched toward us. Eyes cast down, we four stood at the window. The resentment rippling from the two women was palpable.
The blond woman shrugged, breaking the tension, and turned to take the lunch line. I followed, and we stood side-by-side, waiting our turn to be served.
I noticed two bare legs and two knee-high socks: purple and neon orange—the mark of our unplanned revolt.
The next day, things return to the usual hop. The window seat snatchers sprint toward the dining hall. Four seats are back in the rotation. I help myself to a moderate serving and take place facing a beige wall. Both socks on, I relish each mouthful with my eyes closed. Victory is never permanent.
I will succeed, and I will suffer.
Inwards, always looking inwards on these long days, I’ve yet to locate the source of my angst. My anger temporarily abated, I felt a shift:
I am full.
Photo, source.
