During Buddhist residential retreats, participants generally have time at the beginning and end to socialize with each other but observe the “noble silence” most of the time. That’s the phrase we use for time to remain quiet and removed from social interactions except for listening to dharma talks and instructions from teachers and—at designated times—asking them questions.
Many of us grow to appreciate the space for reflection and growth we find in periods like that. That’s the mood I was settling into at breakfast on the first full day of a retreat a decade ago. The noble silence had begun that morning, and 30 or 40 of us—people I had never been with before—sat eating in the dining hall, doing our best to avoid even eye contact with each other.
Then, a woman strode in, wearing colorful and disarrayed clothing and seeming to hum out loud or at least make muttering vocalizations. She made no visible effort to proceed slowly and mindfully or to refrain from making noise but quickly grabbed some food, dropped it into a pouch she had made in her skirt, and exited through the kitchen. She wore no coat this cold winter morning, so I wondered if she was eating alone in the woods.
I felt affronted by this intruder and concerned about her, but I couldn’t turn to another retreat participant and say something like:
Did you see that woman? Was she a troubled homeless person sneaking in and stealing food? Do you think we should break the silence and alert someone?
So, instead, those questions buzzed around my head. They comprised my monkey mind, which stayed active until lunch when… There she was again, muttering or humming and grabbing food.
When a dharma talk was about to begin in the meditation hall that afternoon, I saw her again and grew more affronted when she sat down in a row behind me. She didn’t leave—as I thought she would—when the teacher entered, took his seat, and began the talk. She did cut back on the vocalizations.
The woman—whom, for purposes of this story, I’ll call WWAM (Woman Who Affronted Me)—had the audacity to ask a question. It sounded disjointed to me, but the teacher gave an answer and—Surprise!—even knew her name. She must have been a regular at his retreats.
I learned a big lesson then. I needed some of the open-heartedness the teacher and other members of that sangha exhibited toward WWAM. But I still couldn’t shake my annoyance with her—I couldn’t stop my monkey mind.
As I started the retreat, I had been reading Lama Surya Das’s newly released book, Make Me One with Everything, in which he discusses co-meditating. That’s a technique for bringing another being into your meditation space—your mind as you meditate. Lama Surya says:
Co-meditation provides the fitting vehicle for us to be intimately engaged with whoever and whatever appears, through incandescent, moment-to-moment presence of mind. Being totally attuned and aligned is love.
Vajrayana Buddhists often imagine bringing a revered teacher—or perhaps a loved one going through a period of suffering—into our minds. But co-meditation can also be used to overcome our annoyance toward another. So, I decided to try it with WWAF.
I set aside time and space—a seat in the dining hall when it was otherwise empty—to co-meditate with WWAF, who, of course, had no idea what I was doing. I brought her, or my idea of her, into my meditation space. As we meditated together, I felt the need to vocalize, make a splash, wear bright, disheveled clothing, and be eccentric. When the meditation was over, my annoyance with her was gone.
The next time I saw her, though, I was in for a surprise. I felt connected to her, and she seemed connected to me—without words. A few days later, as the retreat was nearing its end and the participants were talking again, WWAF and I exchanged pleasantries and sat together for the closing ceremony.
As we were preparing to leave the retreat center, she insisted on carrying my bags to my car before getting into hers.
Years later, I used co-meditation with a dying friend. His once-strong cognitive abilities were failing as his cancer progressed, and I couldn’t restrain my impatience with him. Intellectually, I knew better, but I let my impatience take over and became annoyed with him. When my annoyance became so apparent to others that it was brought to my attention, I co-meditated with him. I felt his desperation with his failing health and disappointment with his failing mental abilities.
My patience with him improved, and we spent many hours together in his last few months.
I’m not proud of the raw me at the start of these two stories, but I share what they teach about strengthening our awareness of our interconnections with others.
In the nine-minute video below, Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche explains how he dealt with his anger during his retreat as a wandering beggar when he was rebuffed by a rude, bigoted, caste-conscious householder.
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