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My first 10-Day 'silent meditation' retreat not only kicked my soul in the gut-balls.

It made me face a dear friend's ugly, cancerous curtain call...

And it made me Remember.

BB

(FEATURING THE MUSIC OF TOBIAS TINKER)

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They say there is no suffering at the heart of all things.

That, in truth, there is no pain, or doubt, or loss.

That all of space is Here. \xa0And all of time is Now.

That if you seek it, it will be shown to You.

The truth of what Love is.

And you only need to see it once

to know\xa0that it\u2019s real\u2026

\xa0

It seemed like a grand idea at the time. \xa0Self-discovery! \xa0Personal improvement! \xa0Spiritual progression! \xa0Ten days at a remote Buddhist retreat in southeast Thailand. \xa0Eighteen hours each day to focus on \u2018mindfulness\u2019, in whatever task was assigned. The wake-up bell at 4AM. \xa0Using candlelight to wash and dress oneself. \xa0 Bare feet on cold, wet grass. \xa0Orion\u2019s jewelled belt pointing the way through the jungle from a sky made of black velvet.

They tell you that the struggles will come in sequence, based on what is taken away. First you\u2019ll want to talk again. Then you\u2019ll want a nice bed, and more sleep. Then better food, vegetarianism be damned. And then sex with others, or yourself. They say the real shit doesn\u2019t kick in til Day 5. The deep dive.

The sexes sit on opposite sides of the sand-floored sala. This divide persists for the duration. \xa0Separate dorms. \xa0Dining areas. Walking paths. Eye contact is discouraged. \xa0A deeper, deafening silence.

We are told what our days will consist of.

Meditation.

Yoga.

Monk lecture.

Rice soup and (fly-covered) fruit.

Monastic chores. (sweeping for me)

Meditation.

Zen Walking.

Monk lecture.

More rice. \xa0Vegetables. \xa0A cooked rice \u2018dessert\u2019. \xa0More flies.

Thermal springs (oh yes)

Meditation.

Monk lecture.

Zen Walking.

Meditation.

Tea.

Meditation.

Zen walking.

Meditation.

Lock-down.

A rush for the communal toilets. \xa0The sound of 40 men, dressed in coloured sarongs, ladling water over their heads and shoulders in unison. Slapping and scratching at hundreds of insect bites. Grunting and flatulating behind thin wooden doors. Gasping in frustration and disgust at having to \u2018tidy one\u2019s business the Indian way\u2019.

That's right, folks \u2014 wiping asses with hands.

Candles again to navigate a 2x3m cell with concrete bed, barred window, mosquito netting, bamboo mat, and\u2026wait for it\u2026a wooden pillow. \xa0If you\u2019re lucky, then your room affords a slight breezy balm to humid 30C+ nights. \xa0If you\u2019re not \u2013 if you\u2019re cursed with Karma like mine \u2013 then you\u2019re right next to the latrine, the air is deathly still, and there\u2019s a spider the size and furriness of a kitten guarding a pulsing egg-sack a few feet above your face.

Somehow I drift. \xa0Somehow peace finds me on the slab. \xa0Somehow, sleep swallows me whole. I saw you in my dreams that night.

We raised a glass

and dined in silence

in the belly of

a dead whale\u2026

\xa0(CONT)