Buddha Boot Camp:
10 Days to Frighten and Enlighten

By Stuart Hickox

I tend to get swept up in the daily whirl. Balancing fatherhood and a career doesn’t leave much time for contemplation. One Saturday last November I was tense and rushed, running errands, when something strange caught my attention. A group of men on wobbly ladders was adorning an odd little building with bright striped flags and colourful banners. On an impulse I pulled into the parking lot, the sudden stop an instant reprieve from the stampede of pre-Holiday traffic.

A smiling middle-aged man climbed down and greeted me at my car. I had stumbled across a Sri Lankan Buddhist Monastery in the heart of suburban Ottawa. The decorations were to mark the beginning of an annual festival. I was intrigued.

“What do you do here?” I asked.
“ We meditate.”
“ Do you offer meditation courses?”
“ Just come by and meditate.”
“ Well, what’s the schedule? What is the cost?”
“ Just drop in and meditate. There is no charge.”

I was given a tour and met the resident monk. The warm welcome and the shock to my preconceptions were jarring. How could there be no schedule, no brochures, no fees, and no formal courses – just a haven of peace and repose? I felt the pain in my tense shoulders and decided that this might be worth exploring.

On-line I found a 10-day meditation course called Vipassana, taught in the Eastern Townships of Quebec near the picturesque ski village of Sutton. The programme promised to teach participants how “to see things as they really are.” And, again, for free. I registered.

When I arrived for the course I was hugely relieved to find a converted ski lodge completely free of religious images or icons. There were no Buddha statues, no incense, and no UFOs in the parking lot. Registration included accepting five “precepts.” I had to refrain from killing, lying, sex, stealing, and using intoxicants. Seemed reasonable. They didn’t ask for my watch, wallet or a DNA sample. My mother-in-law had warned me about that.

I was nervous. I’d heard that the course was brutally tough. No talking for ten days – not even gestures and eye contact. There were 40 participants at my course, of all ages, split evenly between the sexes. The woodland setting is beautiful, and the centre is simple and comfortable with shared rooms and a common meditation hall. We ate well, delicious vegetarian food, but there was no meal after 12 noon -- just fruit and tea at 5 p.m.

Each day starts with a gong at 4 a.m. Instruction is provided on audio tape. Between meditation sessions, we were not allowed to scamper freely through the surrounding woods. A large figure eight path was cut into a field with a snow blower. On day two I noticed that someone had leapt off the path to make a snow angel. Rebel! All distractions are denied (news, contact with family, reading, writing, snacks, alcohol), and we faced ten hours of pain and tedium each day kneeling or sitting on the floor in a chilly darkened room. From day three we were asked to sit perfectly still for three of the ten hours of daily meditation. These “sittings of strong determination” were pure torture. I’m a now an intimate of my sciatic nerve; our relationship is defined by violence and hatred. The guy next to me cracked and left, sobbing. Turns out, he was the snow angel rebel.

Once I realized that I was supposed to feel miserable, I just gave in to it. It’s funny how men in pain start to look like the tortured Christ – it was hooded greasy hair and ruddy beards all ‘round. No smiles. A guy named Ben looked particularly earnest. I spent a long time wondering why people with that name always seem this way. My heart jumped one afternoon when a plastic cup materialized on the back of the bathroom sink. It had “SAVE ME” written on it, in caps. I thought it was a desperate appeal for help, but it was just a home for the sponge.

Yeah, we were miserable. We were there to suffer. The suffering wasn’t a by-product; it was the point. I started to accept this, and quit fighting it. I realized that learning to face anxiety and pain without any way to escape is the course’s primary teaching tool. After hours and hours of struggle, my mind settled. It began to observe my situation objectively. And then the physical torture and mental anguish started to melt away.

By day four my mind was incredibly sharp. We were asked to move our awareness over our entire bodies from head to feet. Instantly, I could feel subtle tingling, heat, pressure, and the oddly discomforting sensation of ants crawling in my hair. (Try this: Think of your scalp. Can you feel it?). By this point, my daily routine, my life, had completely left my thoughts. One afternoon during a break I realized that I wasn’t even thinking about not thinking.

Then the real battle began. With all distractions gone from my mind, the soup of neuroses I usually keep tucked deep down boiled to the surface. Long-forgotten memories of trauma and joy flooded my mind. So did lust, deep insecurity, and gut wrenching fear. By following the instruction, I began to notice how my body automatically reacts with pain or pleasure to what I’m thinking. One minute a memory of a confrontation with my sister set my lower back on fire. Evoking the smell of my wife’s hair sent me buzzing on a high of sexual energy.

Kneeling there on the floor, physically tortured by the whim of my mind, I realized that happiness is found in breaking the link between thought and feeling. My misery is all in my head. Suddenly I felt like I was bathed in light. My body surged and vibrated, and the pain vanished. It all seemed so simple.

Then it was over. I returned to Ottawa quietly in the middle of the biggest storm of the winter. My neighbours had shovelled my driveway, and my little son’s embrace provided a soft landing back into my day-to-day life. A calmness that had eluded me for years padded my world like the drifts around my house. There’s time to figure out what it all means. The secret is to just observe.

 

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