“You’re wearing a button-down?” Jon asks me from across the
living room. “I’m gonna wear something simple. I think the atmosphere is going
to be minimalistic.” He is donning a black v-neck and jeans.
“I’m just wearing what I would wear to synagogue,” I reply,
looking down at my forest green shirt and corduroy pants. “But I think you’ll
be fine, too.” I glance over at Eytan’s room. “Eytan, what are you wearing?”
He emerges with a graphic tee and jeans. “Wait, should I
wear a button-down?”
****
We arrive at the address and find a smaller-than-expected
brick building with a Subway restaurant on the first floor. Approaching the
apartment-style door and buzzers, I hesitatingly press the button marked SMC. We wait anxiously until a pleasant
female voice greets us: “Shambhala Meditation Center, how can I help you?”
As the button-presser, I am the de facto liason for our
group. “Hi, is the meditation happening now?” I ask, unsure if the words sound
as awkward to her as they do to me.
“Meditation is every Thursday from 6:30 to 7:20.” We are ten
minutes late.
“Can we come up and meditate now?”
She says yes and I grab the handle of the door; it won’t
open. “The door’s locked,” I tell her. She had already hung up. We take turns
trying to open the door – just to make sure – until Eytan sees a sign that
instructs visitors to enter on the side of the building. We curl around to the
shadowy side, see a cast iron staircase and contemplate climbing it until Jon
makes a crack about getting murdered back here. Perhaps we went to the wrong
side of the building? We double-check the sign (we were right), walk back to
the murderous stairset and eventually make our way to the third floor, where we
are greeted by the suddenly visible lady with the pleasant voice. She ushers us
in.
The foyer opens into a small room laden with hypo-allergenic
carpet and earth-toned furniture. Against the back wall lies a long table
holding large bowls that contain berries, nuts and muffins.
The smiling Indian-looking lady instructs us to take off our
shoes and asks us if we need instruction to meditate. “Uh, I don’t know,” I
answer. It’s a strange question – I know how to meditate per se, but I’ve never been here before and I want to learn the
Shambhala technique, if that’s even a thing.
“Well,” she replies “have you meditated before?”
This is the first time someone has asked me that question,
as far as I can remember. “Yes.”
She points to a double door down the hallway. “Enter the
Shrine Room. Meditation has already begun.”
We approach the room and Jon slowly opens the door. Fifteen-or-so
mostly middle-aged people sit cross-legged on plush blue mats facing away from
us. Another five are sitting similarly at a 90 degree angle against the other
wall on the side. A handsome man in his early thirties is wearing a dress
shirt, tie, and glasses, and is staring at us. Actually, he’s just meditating
with his eyes open.
Silence, save for a hissing radiator, cars passing outside,
and our shoeless steps onto the hardwood floor as we scurry toward three
unoccupied mats by the wall. Apparently everyone shows up on time to these
things.
A roomful of meditators evokes a placid harmony seemingly
unattainable with any other group. Most
of the people here are white and look like they just came from work. I was
expecting browner people dressed more comfortably, but am somewhat delighted at
the light mix of ages, races, and genders – a cross-section of the affluent
Cleveland Park neighborhood we are in. Most of the meditators have their eyes
closed and are likely approaching elevated astral planes.
Meanwhile, I am analyzing the shrine at the front of the
room; it is composed of a gold-framed psychedelic painting, ornamental glasses
filled with water, and candles, and is flanked by two photos – portraits of
anonymous Asian people. The man with the glasses is sitting with his back to
the shrine and still staring straight ahead. Perhaps it’s time to meditate.
I close my eyes and inhale slowly and deeply. Establishing a
consistent breath is always a safe bet to break into the meditation. I’ve done
this several times before but, as I take in the silence and begin to
introspect, feel inexperienced as I attempt to wade in the psychic space of the
Shrine Room. I am comforted by the near certainty that Jon and Eytan are not
approaching enlightenment either. Then the thoughts pop up like zits.
It’s been a long time
since I’ve meditated; I should do this more often. I wonder how often the
people here meditate. Probably every day. Why do they all come here to meditate
in a group when they could just do it in the quiet comfort of their apartments?
Why am I here? Why am I here?
Realizing the slippery slope I have encountered, I begin to
recite a mantra: “keen” on the inhale, pause, “wah” on the exhale, pause. Over
and over again I silently say “quinoa,” pleased by the sound but slightly
distracted by the imagery. I chose the word instinctively, but it probably
stemmed from thoughts about last night’s dinner. I’m starting to get hungry.
This goes on for an indeterminate length of time, all the
while thoughts passing in and out. I’ve learned not to get frustrated, but to
allow them to flow through until they altogether disappear. Transforming into a
deep meditative state is much like falling asleep the night before a concert
that I’m really excited to see. I want nothing else but to turn my brain off so
the night will pass timelessly, but instead I am shackled to my sheets, unable
to release my thoughts for just a few hours. The music is stuck in my ears.
Eventually my body and mind begin to numb and I am no longer
narrating this experience.
For a moment I enter the threshold of the illusive
meditative state and a barely perceptible headrush of endorphins welcomes me to
the party. I am nowhere close to losing my ego, but sustaining this presence is
intrinsically rewarding. Then, I become aware of this shift in conscious
experience and, consequently, the feeling escapes me. Traffic whooshes past
outside, the radiator hums. I am back to square one.
It occurs to me that I have little idea how much time has
elapsed since I sat down. Ten minutes? Thirty minutes? With such sparse
external stimuli, I am left pondering the rate at which my thoughts transpire.
Perhaps everyone is already finished meditating and they are all staring at me,
waiting for me to open my eyes. That’s extremely unlikely… but entirely
possible. After all, my eyes have been closed this whole time. I try to write
off the idea as non-sensical, but the paranoia grows. They are all watching me. I open up my eyes.
They are not all watching me. In fact, everyone’s eyes are
still closed (except for the man with the glasses, who is still staring
straight ahead, unwavering). Eytan and Jon are now in sync with the other
meditators. I close my eyes and change my mantra to a standard “ohm.” I am still
hungry.
****
Jon and I are sitting on the earth-toned chairs and
exchanging glances. There is light conversation in the room, but it is too
quiet to speak candidly about the meditation. Eytan is helping himself to
another portion of berries.
The man with the glasses is standing alone by the bowl of
nuts; I stand up and approach him. “Hey, were you meditating with your eyes
open?”
He smiles warmly, and his words come out with a listless
ease. “Yes, that’s the way they teach us to meditate here. I stare about five
feet in front of me.”
“Doesn’t that make it difficult for you to concentrate?” I
ask.
“No, not really. I guess I’m used to it.” He grabs some nuts
and eats them. “How long have you been meditating?”
I pause and think. “About two years, but not consistently. I
have enough trouble concentrating with my eyes closed, I can’t imagine trying
to meditate with them open.”
“For a long time it was difficult for me to focus because
thoughts would come into my head during meditation and I couldn’t get rid of
them.” I begin to nod as he speaks. “It can be very frustrating. But after
enough practice, I learned to filter them out.”
“If you’re trying to get really deep into meditation, why
don’t you close your eyes? Isn’t it easier to focus without any visual stimuli?”
I ask.
“Well, there are two components of meditation: mindfulness
and awareness,” he says, turning both palms up to emphasize the duality. “You’re
referring to mindfulness. The mind is trying to focus on a single point during
meditation, compressing all activity to the center of your mental space. This
isn’t easy to do when you have thoughts floating around. But, awareness is
important as well. That is, how our mind and body fits into our environment.
And for me, this is easier to do with my eyes open. It’s a balance between the
two.”
Even now as he stares at me, I get the feeling he is still
in a meditative state. “Mindfulness and awareness,” I repeat, letting the
sounds soak into my ears.
My focus turns to Jon and Eytan, who are anxiously eyeing me
from the door. “Hey, I’m glad I got a
chance to speak with you, but I think my friends are waiting for me.” We shake
hands and I approach them.
As we step outside into the doldrums of Cleveland Park,
Eytan asks, “What do you want to do for dinner?”
