Prime Time - Jane Fonda [133]
Five and a half months later, I was in that hall, sitting in silence with sixty women and men ranging in age from nineteen to eighty. My friends couldn’t believe I was really doing it. “Aren’t you scared?” they asked me. Several were positive they could never go eight days without speaking. Scared was the last thing I could imagine being. Excited was more like it. This was a wonderful chance to jump-start a regular meditation practice—and maybe even a deepening of consciousness. As for not speaking, I knew I would relish it. I’m not my father’s daughter for nothing.
During the eight days, we weren’t silent just during meditation. Even in our adobe guesthouses or as we walked to and from the hall in the early mornings and late evenings, the center was bathed in utter silence. We were asked to avoid eye contact and to fold our hands at our waists as we walked. I cheated, of course, sneaking furtive glimpses as I passed other guests and hating myself for being occasionally judgmental. “That one’s a sure loser,” I’d think.
Except for the first meditation period, at 5:45 A.M., and the last one, at 8:40 P.M., when we faced out into the hall, the rest of the time we sat on black cushions facing the wall, backs straight, hands folded in our laps in a ritual position—left hand resting in the cupped right hand, thumbs touching. That is when, in my case, all hell would break loose between my ears. Who knew there was so much chatter in there? If this was my true nature, I needed to be locked up. I tried to “follow my breath,” as we’d been instructed. I tried shutting my eyes but would fall asleep. (I discovered that I can sleep in a perfect meditation pose without anyone knowing.) I tried opening my eyes a crack, so that just a faint bit of light would come through my lashes. I’d count—four breaths in, four breaths out—and less than five seconds would go by before some thought would come galumphing in and get stuck. Later Joan described it as having a “sticky” mind, like flypaper—all your poor little thoughts buzz around and get stuck and drive you crazy. I would remember to “let it go” and return to the breath, but in another few seconds a new thought would move in and get stuck. “Am I the only person here who is waging a war with my mind?” I’d think. Everyone else appeared to have it all together. Then again, I must have appeared that way, too.
Every forty minutes a lovely gong would sound and we would rise, bow to the center of the hall, turn to our left, and begin a walking meditation, single file, ever so slowly, our hands held in ritual position at waist height, back straight. We reminded me of the black-robed magicians marching up the dungeon stairs in Dr. Seuss’s The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. The first time we did this, I continually risked bumping into the woman in front of me. “What a loser,” I remember thinking. “Why’s she creeping along like that? She doesn’t even know how to walk.” After a while, trying to get from judgment to meditation, I began to focus all my attention on how each foot slowly touched the ground, heel first, then bit by bit rolling through the arch, the ball, the toes, until the full foot was flat on the ebony-dark hardwood floor. Only then would I lift the other foot. Before I knew it, I was walking just like the “loser.” It was a humbling experience. Mourning my stupidity was becoming a full-time job.
Except for the chants that preceded and followed the meals, the food was served in silence, in a simple, highly ritualized ceremony in which servers would enter carrying large steaming pots, turn, bow to each of us as it was our turn, and kneel. We would return the bow with our heads and offer our bowl to be filled. As there were three bowls, this process would be repeated three times, each server bringing a different food. We’d been taught at the start exactly how to place our wooden spoon and chopsticks, fold our three cloths (place mat, napkin, and cleaning towel), clean our three bowls, and fold everything back up again. The simplicity and exactitude of