It’s been more than 20 years since my first retreat, but I still remember the rigor and the rhythm of that week in October. The eyes are always lowered and the voice is silent. The only time I spoke was for chanting and dokusan, meditation interview with the teacher. The chants that seemed so strange at first began to seep into my bones, my pores. The words reverberated during long sits, transmitting secret wisdom that I longed to understand. Long-forgotten memories arose, and I cried. I felt emotions I hadn’t allowed myself to feel, always keeping them at bay with distractions. I fell ill with a mild flu and cried tears of self pity. I felt as though my heart had become an over-ripe watermelon — huge and tender and mushy — that had burst inside my chest.

I sat next to Frank, a very old man whose rheumatoid arthritis had curled his feet and fingers into twisted lumps. I was dismayed with the seating arrangement and wanted to get away from him. Sure, the Buddha found enlightenment after confronting old age, sickness and death, but I didn’t want to sit next to this living reminder for 7 days. His mottled skin and misshapen hands offended me. During closing chants when everyone held their hands in gassho, palms together at the heart, Frank’s fingers splayed awkwardly and refused to meet in symmetry. During walking meditation, he shuffled in front of me on his twisted feet.

After a few days, I noticed how Frank carried his burdens with such dignity. He was there for me as my swollen heart pumped hot tears down my cheeks. When I wanted to scream from the pain in my knees and hips from holding half-lotus position, Frank sat stoically next to me in his chair. Did he long to sit on a zafu in half lotus? Did he envy my slender fingers and flexible feet? I cried for his disfigurement and I cried tears of gratitude for his silent strength. One day, Frank didn’t come. I felt alone at the sight of his empty chair, ashamed for wanting to get away from him. Late the next afternoon, he took his seat next to me once again. My heart swelled with joy and relief.

When at last the week came to an end, I felt transformed. It was one of the most difficult things I had done, and just finishing felt like a huge accomplishment. I overcame my aversion to Frank’s suffering — and my own. Outside in the fresh air with eyes wide open, I looked around me and found the world itself had transformed. The trees glowed with orange, red and yellow leaves against the blue sky. Everything shimmered with life. I felt so alive and happy.

Not all meditation retreats are as rigorous and demanding as that October sesshin was for me. You can do retreats focused on yoga, running, tai chi or meditation, or some combination of them all. Body, mind and heart grow accustomed to the practice, and it gets easier over time. Part of me yearns for retreat, especially when the days grow short and the air turns cool.

What will you give yourself this year?

About the Author:

Dhi Good is a senior teacher in Shambhala, who studied Zen intensively for 10 years. In addition to Shambhala path programs, she teaches mindfulness at work for non-meditators. She earned a masters in Future Studies from University of Houston, and is co-author of Trendbenders: Building Healthy and Vital Communities (2002). Dhi lives in Denver and works as Director of Business Development for DMC.