At lunchtime on the third day I wash my socks then hang them over the clothes horse outside the room.
The gong sounds. I trail up to the hall, along with my fellow meditators. Along the path, in amongst the scribbly gums, are anonymous works of art – discreet arrangements of stones and pebbles, circles of leaves, a flower, a button. Except for meal breaks we meditate from four-thirty a.m. till nine p.m. For twenty-four hours a day we observe Noble Silence, not communicating with each other, avoiding eye contact, better to focus our gaze inward.
The meditation mats are arranged in neat rows, men on one side of the hall and women on the other, with a wide aisle down the centre. Everyone has a shawl and at least one cushion to sit on. Some people have backrests or sit in chairs at the end of rows, but the practice isn’t encouraged. With backrests and chairs, the quality of the meditation is dulled.
It takes two or three days for people to settle down, to find the one position they can maintain for an hour without wriggling or fidgeting. It’s not easy being still and quiet, even for an hour. In the silence we collectively hold aloft, bodily sounds are clearly audible. The scrape of fabric against fabric if someone moves their legs or adjusts their shawl. Joints creaking. Coughing, burping, nose blowing, sniffing and sneezing. Sometimes even the odd snore or gasp. The slightest sound pierces the silence, causing it to fall to earth like a spent parachute.
Afternoon meditation begins. The recorded voice of the master speaks of impermanence. It is the nature of things. All sensations arise and sooner or later pass; there is no point dwelling on this or that. If you experience agitation or mind wandering, focus on the breath, the area below the nostrils and above the upper lip. Remain calm and equanimous.
The voice stops and we are left on our own. It’s warm in the hall but my feet are cold. I try to focus on my breath but my mind is preoccupied with the area below the ankles. That’s not all. It has developed a fascination for the word equanimous and keeps repeating it. I’m not sure it even is a word. Equanimity, yes, but the adjectival form? I need to consult a dictionary, but we were advised not to bring any potential distractions such as reading or writing material. As well as repeating equanimous like a mantra, my inner voice is also singing ‘You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille,’ both verses of ‘Don’t Fence Me In’ and riffs from David Bowie’s ‘Starman.’
Accompanying the vocals are random images – snow-capped mountains, a country gate, children playing on a see-saw and people lining up to get their cars registered. Forehead, cheeks, chin. The area below the nostrils and above the upper lip – how come this part of the face doesn’t have its own name? My mind has fragmented into a scatter of jigsaw pieces. Is this what dementia feels like? Fortunately, someone coughs and my mind becomes momentarily still.
The respite doesn’t last long. I now see my socks, black with a trim of white, slumped over the clotheshorse like two dead magpies. Socks inevitably lead to feet but where have mine gone? I try wiggling my toes. No sensation arising and passing, no sensation at all. My feet have disappeared. It is very difficult to remain equanimous with body parts missing.
When we are finally released from the hall, I hobble out on a mass of pins and needles.
*
The weather in March changes from one hour to the next. Day four begins with a grey misty dawn but by breakfast time the sun has come out. I move the clothes horse into the slim streak of sunlight along the edge of the veranda. By lunch it is pouring and my socks are soaked.
All very well for the master to talk about being calm and equanimous; I bet he never had a sock problem. I do however become alert and vigilant, spending every non-meditation moment observing my socks. I dare not leave them outside unsupervised.
*
On day five when we break for lunch the sun is shining but not on the veranda. My socks, although no longer soggy, are still a bit damp and cold. A half hour in a sunny spot should dry them nicely. I step off the veranda into the natural environment and head for a sunlit tree a few metres away. Birds twitter, insects fly about. Would I be interfering with nature by hanging my socks in a tree? Inadvertently killing some microscopic sentient being? Along with the vow of silence we have also pledged to abstain from killing. With the utmost care and reverence for all life, I place my socks on the sunniest branch.
Then I notice something on the soles – ALL DAY SOCKS in brilliant white letters against the black. This could possibly be construed as reading material and here I am, placing it in public view. I quickly turn the socks over but there’s more, this time in bold red: Womens Size 5–8. I try not to obsess about the lack of apostrophe.
The gong sounds for afternoon meditation. I return to my room, hang the socks over the end of the bed and join the line of people making their way to the hall.
The first hour after lunch is a period of ‘strong determination.’ Be vigilant, observe objectively, sit without moving, do not leave the hall. It is common to experience mind wandering and agitation but perseverance will bring success. Impermanence. Every experience is impermanent. The socks will not be wet forever; eventually they will dry. Now I start to think about having to stay in the hall. What if I want to go to the toilet, feel nauseous, have an aneurism or a heart attack? I scan my body – no chest or head pains, no loss of sensation except in my feet. I do have a dry mouth. What does that mean?
All around me is silky silence. Under the meditation shawl I’m pinching my fingers, trying to divert my multitasking mind from its repertoire of songs, images and medical problems. Does anyone else have a tribe of chimpanzees in their head, swinging from thought to thought, shrieking wildly? Very slowly I raise my eyelids a fraction, look right and left through the curtain of eyelashes. Everyone is still as stone, row upon row of perfect little Buddha statues.
What is the collective noun for chimpanzees – a gang, troop, parliament, colony, unkindness, murder, party? A paddling of ducks, an ostentation of peacocks, a crash of rhinoceroses, a kindle of kittens, a pod of whales. A shrewdness of apes. Ah. But it doesn’t quite seem right for chimps. Ground control to Major Tom.
*
Day six. Perseverance has brought success. The socks are dry! Liberation from suffering. In the wisdom gained over the past few days I know that my slip-on shoes flick up moisture and debris, so I do not put the socks on till I am safely inside the meditation hall. Clean dry socks. I can dedicate myself totally to strong determination, with no cravings or aversions.
I am at one with the group, feet warm and cosy, at one with all sentient beings. The air in the hall is warm and nurturing. My mind is alert and vigilant. I am equanimous. The word doesn’t bother me anymore.
After a while I notice a smell. Occasionally, as well as small sounds, there are evanescent aromas in the hall. Pleasant smells – shampoo, moisturiser – that give delight and harm not. This one is unidentifiable, a blend of old goat cheese, straw, stagnant water, dead rat and a hint of possum pee.
Is it a test? Are they piping something into the hall to see how equanimous we really are? It’s stinging my nose, getting into my lungs. Very soon I am going to have to cough.
Someone beats me to it. The cough sets off a cacophony of sneezes, nose blowing and throat clearing. The woman beside me, obviously not perfectly centred in her lotus position, lurches backwards. I hear a series of soft thuds as the entire row behind goes down like dominoes. I try to maintain strong determination. When I put my head under the shawl so as not to be diverted by the goings on around me I get a good strong whiff and nearly fall backwards myself.
At the end of this excruciatingly long hour everyone makes a rush for the door.
Back in my room I fill the sink with hot water, pour in liberal amounts of rosemary-scented shampoo, add a shot of lavender oil for good measure and throw the socks in.
I have enough underwear for ten days; why did I bring only one pair of socks?
Instead of going to breakfast, I walk past the rooms of other students. There are not only socks and underwear hanging out to dry but T-shirts, jeans, a skirt and even a jacket. I’m having trouble with one small pair of socks, yet here are entire wardrobes. How come everyone else is coping? What do they know that I don’t?
*
Evening of day six. I lift the socks gingerly out of the water. Still a faint odour of cheese. Are protracted periods of meditation distorting my senses? Is it an illusion? I’m a very clean person. I don’t smell. How come my socks do? I drop them back in the water, add more lavender oil and clean my teeth in the shower.
*
Lunchtime, day seven. I wash and scrub the little buggers. Rinse them over and over. When I wring them out the lettering on the soles contorts into Day Sucks. I try not to take it personally.
I go for a walk, gaze at the artworks scattered in amongst the trees. Near the boundary fence is a new addition – an abandoned sandal. Then I see its mate in the bushes about a metre away, the strap hanging loosely. What is the point of one sandal if the other is broken?
There are a few people on the path, prowling like lions, but they are all wearing shoes. The abandoned ones are women’s, size seven. I imagine a muddy-footed woman silently weeping in her room.
*
Day eight. Socks still not dry.
*
Day nine. The retreat is almost over. Socks improved but still not dry. Tomorrow is the last day.
*
Day ten. Noble Silence is replaced by Noble Speech. We can talk. Silent anguish is now given voice. One woman left her towel out in the rain and had to make do with paper towelling. ‘Drying my hair was the worst,’ she adds forlornly. Another had a spider scurry out of her hoodie and onto her face. One man, a sleep-walker, got into bed with his room mate. Imagine the room mate coping with that in Noble Silence, trying to keep attention on the area below the nostrils and above the upper lip.
‘How about that weird smell!’ says a man with a shaved head. ‘When was it, day five?’
‘Day six.’ Everyone turns to me, wanting more information. How much of it am I willing to share? Eventually I say: ‘I think it was someone’s socks.’ Everyone nods thoughtfully, as if I’m terribly wise. I feel like a liar, a fake. I’m not wise. I did not remain equanimous, I was subject to cravings and aversions, obsessions. I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, they were my socks.’ I expect everyone to get up and leave but no one does. Several people appear to be on the verge of saying something but instead sip their tea.
Finally, the man whose room mate got into bed with him says, ‘You’ve no idea how grateful I am to those socks. I’d been holding on to a fart till I thought I’d burst. When that smell wafted over I was able to let go.’
Then others start owning up to coughs, belches and grunts. One man reveals that he’d smuggled in a fitness magazine and some sudoku puzzles. Another confesses to keeping a diary, writing his thoughts on toilet paper.
*
End of the retreat. The socks are dry. They don’t smell.
While packing, I realise that I have managed most of the time without them. Sockless feet took me to and from the meditation hall each day. I have the memory of cold but can no longer feel it.
One last walk. To the boundary fence. The abandoned sandals are still there. Unobtrusive as a butler I lay my socks down with them, then quietly step back.
The outside world. At the train station we equanimously observe the newspaper headlines. Even though the news is a week old and now focused on the aftermath, it seems beyond belief. On the day I first washed my socks, the earth shifted along a fault line in the north Pacific; a wave gathered momentum and monumentally made its way towards Fukushima.