Exploration Through Journaling

To document the application of meditation to my life and provide a platform for analysis, I have carefully written out my experiences in practicing meditation. Eminent entries have been selected and refined to form a cohesive illustration of my mental evolution through this process and are presented here.

Foliage. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

Beginnings

Without knowing what it was called at the time, I was practicing focused attention and mindfulness meditation

My journey through meditation did not start with this project. I unknowingly became interested in meditation four years ago when I was in high school and began practicing yoga. I had no idea when I started practicing it that the most intriguing aspect of yoga for me was that it was essentially guided meditation. After years of passively enjoying what I have now learned to call "moving meditation," about a year ago, I began practicing sitting meditation. This was all the more enticing because there was nowhere to hide when you are sitting absolutely still, focusing only on your breath. You are intimately--and sometimes unbearably--sitting with yourself. Many days meditation felt like a chore with no apparently promising future. Yet the thought of accepting my suffering and instead finding peace pushed me to continue.

I have been meditating daily for a year now, slowly working my way up to twenty-five minutes a day. In my daily life, I have noticed myself being more present during transitions throughout my day like while driving or waiting in lines. Sometimes when I am feeling a routine pang of daily existence, I am able to notice it as a cluster of feelings and thoughts. With this practice, I yearn to dive deeper into what meditation can teach me: truly accepting what is happening in each present moment.

Application

The first part of the during assignment description details meditating for an hour each day. I split this between (an average of) thirty minutes of formal meditation and thirty minutes of informal meditation or mindfulness throughout the day.

For the second part of the assignment, while I originally intended to attend classes at a few different centers, it was more challenging than anticipated to find meditation centers nearby that fit my particular specifications. I was interested in guided meditations that were also drop-in available. With the given limitations, instead of attending different centers, I opted to attend different teachers within the same center (at its different locations).

For the final part of the assignment, I attended a ten-day meditation retreat in Thailand, analyzing my experience here.

6/22/24

Today was the first day I planned to go to the meditation center for a class. I have been wanting to go for a while now and I finally had the chance. I planned out my drive so that i would have an extra fifteen minute buffer time for checking in and getting familiar with a new space. I arrived and the door was locked. I realized that I had driven to the wrong location. The Saturday morning classes were in Golden, not Denver like the rest of them. I ran back to my car and mapped out driving to Golden. Twenty-three minutes away. I hate speeding but I had been looking forward to this class for so long and I did not want to have to keep waiting. Twenty-two minutes away. As I drove I kept two ideas in my mind. The first was my frustration for my missing this detail, the second was the faint nagging that this is exactly what meditation is about. I had by now learned that meditation teaches awareness and acceptance. I was aware that I wanted to still make it, but could not accept the reality of the situation's physical limits. Maybe I could make it there, find parking, enter despite being late, and not have missed anything important. But maybe I had missed a detail that would postpone my ability to attend. I was halfway there when I remembered the meditative practice I had read about just days before. “Transform obstacles into objects of meditation.” (Epstein) As I drove the rest of the way to the center, I slowed the car’s speed, felt the gentle swarm of anxiety flitter through my chest, and watched the thoughts of planning and reckoning float in and out of my head.

When I arrived, the doors were locked and I was forced to wait to meditate another day. But I didn’t really have to wait, did I?

6/23/24

what is a productive meditation?

After a very long day, I got home and wanted to do anything but meditate. I had woken up hours before my usual alarm this morning, been on my feet all day, and was ready to pass out. Before going to bed and with much mental resistance, I finally settled to mediate for five minutes. I have meditated many times when I felt anything but a meditative mood. I was tired and had lost my ability to think more than a few levels outside of myself and my current desires. I felt as if there was no use in meditating, after all, my most productive meditations have occurred when I am alert, have coffee already swimming through the veins, and could hyperfocus on anything put in my path. This was not one of those days. Yet I found a way to close my eyes in meditation. By no means did I sit there with some perfectly clear mind, glimpsing into the abyss of the universe, but I did notice the power of pausing the eternal rush towards the end. When I stopped to look around me, suddenly the world fell silent--if only for a moment. Whatever sprint to the end I had involuntarily signed myself up for stopped and I noticed just how stagnant the world around me was. I saw just how much the world wasn’t moving, and perhaps just how much I was. And then, as quickly as the clarity had arrived, my mind snapped back into wandering again and my timer went off.

Later, I began pondering what "productive" meditation or "successful" meditation meant. My initial thought was that meditation was beyond the labeling of successful or unsuccessful. But when I stepped back, I realized that if you have a goal for your meditation, which we quite frequently do, then we can measure the quality of a session with the number of times you are able to bring your attention back to the breath. This is because when you are a novice meditator (as am I), you can only maintain attention on your breath for a short time, so the number of times you bring you attention to your breath closely relates to the total amount of time spent focusing on your breath.

Flowers by the Rocks. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

6/24/24

Today I finally attended my first in person, guided meditation at a Buddhist meditation center. The center was held in a rickety open art studio far off the beaten path. There were about five others at the center from varying walks of life, all middle aged except for me and the friend I brought with me. We sat together in a circle on couches and fluffy chairs, eyes resting upon the teacher. As I looked around at the others in the room, I found myself judging them for the ways they looked and for my assumptions about who they were, their professions, and the reasons they might show up to this strange looking meditation center.

The teacher spoke with a soft voice. I feared I would not be able to hear it, yet this voice somehow cut easily through the ever-present humming of the AC. He spoke with relaxed ease, with no rush, and as if each phrase was effortlessly crafted as he spoke it, with no anxiety of preparation. He spoke of the love he had for his chihuahua. There was no shame in relation to this seemingly unprofound platitude, rather the radiance of its truth glowed through the watching eyes. As he lectured, his eyes moved from person to person in the circle, often pausing to truly connect for a long moment with each other set of eyes. The first time his lingering gaze locked with mine, I felt a pang cut straight through my feeble eyes and into the depths of my soul. In a split panic, this pang became the object of my meditation. His eyes moved on and the pang receded. Over the course of the hour, I grew more accustomed to his gaze, he continued to look upon the depths of my soul, but this slowly became a pleasant experience. After all, he was, in fact, viewing the entirety of my soul, not just what I saw.

The teacher talked about how we believe that if we do external things to make ourselves happy, we will in fact be happier. We believe that if we change enough of our external circumstances, we will be happy. If this were true, then every day, week, and year we would be compounding happiness. Eventually we would be so happy. But this isn't quite true with our experience is it? He said the only way to really compound happiness is to stop changing your external circumstances and start changing your internal circumstances. (Jordan)

6/26/24

I was very excited going into my meditation. I was planning to make a birthday cake for a friend and my mind was buzzing with ideas, how to flavor it and how to decorate it. So as opposed to an already peaceful mind, my meditation task was greater. With my eyes closed, all I could think of was ideas for the cake. I tried being mindful of these thoughts without getting sucked into manipulating and engaging with them, but this was infinitely more difficult (it was already difficult to begin with) when I was really interested in the topic. Was it the fact that the thoughts were more emotionally charged that made them difficult to be mindful of, or was it merely that I just wanted to engage with the thoughts? Reflecting on my experience processing difficult emotions in my car, I noticed that my thoughts were easier to be mindful of when they were painful and when I perceived that engaging in thinking (as opposed to being mindful of my thoughts) was less likely to help me find a more desirable future. So, I had a hard time being mindful because I felt that planning out my friend's birthday cake was a productive thing to do, rather than the waste of time thinking about being late would be. My question then is, was I right? Should you be mindful all the time or only when engaging with thoughts that are not helpful to your future?

Wild Bouquet. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

6/30/24

This morning I attended a meditation with a new teacher, kadam Lucy, a practicing expert for forty-two years. She was teaching a beginner's class and walked us through a foundational understanding of what meditation is and why one might practice it. She guided us through a breathing meditation, a practice of which I have done many times. We began with a visualization, let everything outside of this room melt away until everything outside this room has transformed into light. We sat, visualizing this for a few minutes. Let everything inside this room melt away until it has transformed into light, just you suspended in light. Then we moved onto letting everything in our past melt away into light. Then the future. With each development, more and more of my mind's inner chatter melted away until the spacial and temporal reality I was perceiving was utterly in the present. Of course, at times my mind wandered for a moment into various past fixations, future hypotheticals, or hypothesis of people around me, including how I would later write about the experience I was undergoing. But, more easily than before, I was able to gently but firmly sweep my attention back to immediate sensation of breathing. By the time she took us out of the meditation, I was finally experiencing something I had been seeking within meditation, but had only momentarily ever reached. I opened my eyes slowly and with profound peace. Before the meditation, as the teacher was lecturing, I could feel a slight anxiety that I was tired, a fear that I would not get as much out of this; I felt a fear that when my eyes zoned out, someone would know; I felt an anxious excitement to learn what she was trying to teach us. As I opened my eyes, I felt such a profound peace, all of these anxieties had melted away. For the first time, I truly did not want to leave the meditation. My mind was by no means the ultimate, perfectly clear oasis during that meditation, but I had felt a deep glimpse into the state of mind I knew I was ultimately pursuing.

This evening, after attending the meditation center, I drove to Boulder (a forty-five minute drive) to visit a friend. I attempted to focus on my breath, feelings, and thoughts. On the way back however, I found myself confused. I was feeling happy and wanted to enjoy riding back to Golden with all my happy thoughts, but if I decided to meditate the ride back, I wouldn't get wonderfully lost in these thoughts. It left me with the question: should I meditate even when I am happy?

A Child Learning to Catch a Ball

During my practice at the meditation center, the teacher detailed a metaphor to help illustrate the process of learning to meditate. When a child is learning to catch a ball, the parent may begin by throwing the ball towards the child. The child grasps at the ball, but it slips through his fingers. But, the parent does not ridicule the child or give up on the "lost cause." The parent picks the ball back up and tosses it gently again to the child. It slips through the child's arms many times before he can finally catch it. As soon as he has finally caught it, he drops it. It continues like this until the child is eventually able to catch and hold the ball. Meditation is like this. When one first begins meditating, they try to focus on their breath, but they lose it. When they are finally able to focus on their breath, they hold it for a moment, and let it fall away. Be patient like a parent teaching their child how to catch. (James, 30 June 2024)

7/1/24 - 7/7/24

Going into this family reunion trip, I knew it would be a challenge to find time to meditate. I set a goal of at least five minutes a day, each day of the trip, and of taking pauses when possible to notice my breath throughout the day. I was very curious to see how this would effect my mood on this highly busy vacation.

Halfway Through:

My room lies in the basement directly under the kitchen where people gather. I came down to my room because I was tired and wanted to rejuvenate from all the conversations I had had. I can hear all the activity going on above me, including all the conversations I'm not apart of. It is excruciating listening to it all. All the things I'm missing out on. What if everyone leaves to do something and I am

Big Hill. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

left out of it, all alone? I sat for seven minutes to listen to everything. I was mainly so proud that I actually got myself to do it. But it was so difficult to get myself to sit still with eyes kept shut when everything in my being wanted to bolt up and rejoin the conversation. I was only able to make it a few minutes through. I sat again for five minutes a while later and it was more rejuvenating. I was able to focus better and was able to let my thoughts be a little more. I suppose it was easier to stay the second time because there were less distractions and I was not suffering from an anxiety of missing out. In the future, I would like to more quickly acknowledge that the challenge of a distraction is akin to having an itch--every part of your being begs you to scratch it, but if you instead watch its pain, you will find it rise and fall of its own volition.

In doing only five minutes of meditation a day--while I was very happy just to do any amount--I also gained a deeper appreciation for longer meditation. It is simply very difficult to settle into a meditative state of mind in only five minutes. It has its merit--it can begin to center you, allowing you to take a breath and act as a reminder for your own goals of intentionality. However, it is a testament to continuing building up duration, even in the busiest of times or during vacation.

"You should sit in meditation for twenty minutes a day. Unless you're too busy, then you should sit for an hour."

- Old Zen proverb

7/8/24

After a week of not meditating for longer than five minutes and of far less mindfulness, longer meditation felt like sweet resolve. I wrestled with my mind for a few minutes before settling in. It is funny how the most intimidating and aversive part of a longer meditation--sitting for a painfully long time--is also its most rewarding quality. Before settling in to meditate, there is often a mental battle of negotiating yourself out of doing the whole length of time or often of doing it later because of the uncomfortably lengthy amount of time. However almost every time, once you have wrestled yourself to actually do the length of time, it is always so beautiful to sit in.

7/10/24

This morning, I awoke as I usually do to an alarm set for 7am. I usually refrain from sleeping in as it frequently provokes anxiety. For better or worse, I continually snoozed my alarm for about an hour, until I finally turned it off and went fully back to sleep. At 10:25am, I drowsily began awakening into a mind of anxiety. Instead of either suffering in this anxiety or jumping out of bed to end it, I started simply noticing it. I lay there for about ten minutes, feeling the anxiety and slowly accepting that I had slept in and that I had lost three hours of work time.

It is funny and ironic how this project has given me anxiety. It has not necessarily been any more than any other project, but it has been very real that I feel a "normal" amount of stress that comes with the desire to get something important done. I think the Buddha's teaching on suffering and impermanence entails realizing that I was stressed to finish all my work last semester, I am stressed to have enough time to complete this project as well as I want it to be now, and I will be stressed next semester when I have a whole new slew of classes and problems to face. His teaching points to the fact that what is impermanent in my existence is the exact situation "causing" my stress; what is constant in my existence is my mind making it so. My problem has never been with any one situation, but my own mental experience of it. Ignorance tells me that once I reach some milestone in this project, I will finally be relieved of my stress. Wisdom tells me that this project is exactly the place I should be working to practice these teachings.

7/11/24

Formal meditation

Time: 25min

Today I had someone review this very project. I asked them to read and critique my writing. I dislike critiques form others. I ask for their feedback because I know it is critical in my growth as a writer and in this project, but I do dislike the feelings I often find myself in of self doubt and shame. As I sat listening to this mentor's advice, I looked at the time, only half way done. Maybe I should say I have somewhere else to be. No. There is nothing this critic can do to hurt me. I simply can watch the shame fill my body without needing to remedy it.

When I got home after this "personal attack" of criticism, I once again felt shame creep in and an urge to figure out what to do now. Should I start working on all his critiques now? Should I take a break to watch TV, allowing myself to not have to think about what he had said? I knew what I really needed to do. Often times my reaction to difficult stimuli includes distraction from the pain by frantically finding a solution to the problem, fixing it so that I do not have to feel it. Or, I seek to distract by temporarily numbing, watching a show or talking with a friend, or filling my time with activities so that I do not have to face what is really painful. I decided to sit and meditate. It is funny that with how much resistance to meditation I experience, often engagement with the activity itself is quite pleasant. I sat for fifteen minutes and enjoyed not running from pain, but allowing space for it. Feeling it and letting it go.

Branches. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

7/13/24

One-Day Retreat in Evergreen

Today I attended a one-day silent meditation retreat in Evergreen, Colorado. The day comprised of four one hour sessions of lecture and meditation. During breaks we were instructed to continue to remain silent and to maintain our center, in essence, participating in an informal meditation.

During one of her lectures, she described a type of meditation where the object of meditation is the mind itself. We focused on multiple aspects of the mind, including consciousness. She described this meditation like looking into a mirror and trying to see the mirror, rather than whatever is being reflected (James, "Big Sky Mind: A Silent Guided Meditation Retreat"). Seeing the reflector, not the reflected. Naturally, when we use our mind, we see the reflected. We closed our eyes. We were tasked with focusing on consciousness, not any specific object in it. After a few minutes of focusing my mind on my breath, I felt relatively zoned in. I tried to focus on consciousness. I saw objects floating in and out of my mind. As I noticed these objects, I equally noticed this noticing of them, and the connection between the two. I could feel a connection between them, even see it. Then I realized that this was not consciousness, but merely another thought or visualization that my consciousness was perceiving. Hmmm. How could I see consciousness without seeing form, texture, or color?

She then moved to talk about the relation between "perceive" and "appear" in Mahayana Buddhism. These words were deeply interconnected in this branch of Buddhism, so much that she named them synonymous. When the mind perceives a thought, it is "appearing" the thought (James, "Big Sky Mind: A Silent Guided Meditation Retreat"). We meditated on this. With eyes closed, I attempted to answer her questions, "Where does each thought come from?" "Where does each thought go?" I watched my thoughts come in and out. My back is really starting to hurt. I watched this thought appear from nothingness in my mind. I watched it disappear back into nothingness. My mind, without any will from myself, was "appearing" this thought. As soon as it was there, it was gone. And by perceiving it, I was creating it.

Buddhist monk, Bodhidharma, wrote, "Those who understand the mind reach enlightenment with minimal effort" (Bodhidharma). This is what Kadam Lucy was teaching to. I had never before used the mind itself as an object of meditation in this way, but I felt like I was experiencing it in a new way. While I felt far from understanding what is meant by observing consciousness without color, texture, or form, I was able to understand why this could lead one closer to a state of peace. By seeing your mind as it really is--processes and objects beyond one's explicit control drifting in and out--you might find some peace from its drama that pulls you in.

Buddhism teaches to let go of attachments. This is very fundamental to Buddhism. During her lectures, Kadam Lucy instructed, when you are meditating, you will observe many thoughts, there will be some that are disturbing, some enjoyable, and some insightful. Treat all thoughts the same. You must observe and let them go. Let go of the insightful thoughts? This piece of insight felt so profound, I wanted to hold onto it, write it down. I sat in subtle pain wanting to remember something so beautifully helpful, yet helplessly ironic. After a few minutes, I conceded and wrote down this nugget of curiosity.

Retreat Church Under Blue Sky. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

7/15/24

While meditating, I found myself lingering on a reoccurring theme in my meditation practice. I found myself thinking about how I would later describe or write about my experience of this session. I have for a while recognized that following this line of thinking is not in fact the point of meditation. Instead, the goal is to notice these thoughts, no matter how interesting or helpful they may seem,and let them go just as I would with any other "unhelpful" thought. This recognition felt all the more powerful given the recent one-day meditation retreat's insistence of this concept. It reminded me as well of a similar quandary during meditation. Through the years of practicing yoga meditation as well as my recent practicing of vipassana, I have heard the phrase, "notice your breath without trying to change it." This has always troubled me. It is like someone telling you not to think of the color green, and subsequently all you can think of is green. I find myself noticing my breath and immediately beginning to deepen my breath, or smooth it. But when pondering these two meditation "issues," I realized they are both the same--they are new objects of meditation. Everything can be an object of meditation. When nearby cars loudly sputter by, when you notice the room is feeling a bit too warm, or when your back begins to hurt. All of these distractions can be the new object of which you focus on.

"Transform obstacles into objects of meditation."

- Mark Epstein

7/18/24

I have noticed a trend in my meditation. I need coffee. I typically practice meditation in the morning, so that I can experience its benefits throughout the day. However, I am careful not to meditate too soon after I wake up so that I can have an hour or so to wake up and at least a few sips of coffee first. Even more, when I participated in the one-day meditation retreat, I drank about five or six times my normal caffeine intake. Is that cheating?

7/19/24

I did not want to sit and meditate this morning. It is so tempting to jump straight to working because that is a productive thing to do. I was able to sit down and close my eyes, but I was struggling to remain focused on my breath. I remembered the "right resolve," the second of the steps on The Eightfold Path. This tenet refers to the fact that you must passionately commit to the path if you wish to see enlightenment. It reminds me of Nietzsche's famous quote, "He who has a why to live can bear almost any how" (qtd. in Frankl 76). To successfully reach a goal, one must have a highly motivating reason to reach it. In the case of reaching enlightenment (or getting closer to it), it is not enough to simply know the steps towards enlightenment. One must wholeheartedly trust and commit to following the steps, remembering their "why." As outlined in right resolve, this means remembering that no worldly things--accomplishments, possessions, situations--can ever lead to lasting happiness.

While this was no magical fix, remembering this truth during my meditation allowed my mind to more frequently focus on my breath.

7/21/24

Last night I went out with friends, laughing, dancing, and having a good time. And now, the day after, I am tired. I don't feel nauseous or like my head is spinning, but I also don't feel entirely "on." I do not feel entirely awake. Part of me feels like just wishing the day away, not because I am miserable or deeply uncomfortable, but because I simply don't feel as great as I normally do. I feel meh. It would be easy to close my eyes to what is going on around me and zone out the day until I feel back at it tomorrow. But I know my meditation practices would tell me otherwise. Notice my tiredness. Notice my lack of "pizzaz." Notice my desire to feel myself again tomorrow. Notice my desire to cheer myself up with activities.

8/1/24

Thailand Retreat: Day 1

Holy fuck. This is hard. Free time is the hardest. I don't know what I am supposed to do during this time. I have no phone, no responsibilities, nothing to do. Meditate? I've already done loads of that today. Be mindful of all of my thoughts? Well that's kind of sucking.

I cried. I feel lonely. I was flashed with a memory from my childhood. I remembered years and years ago when I was staying at my grandmother's house. I don't know where my mother was. I don't remember why my grandmother came into my room, but I was crying before bed. She told me it was called being "lonesome."

I remembered another memory when I was a kid. Before going to bed, I didn't want my mom to leave me. She said she would stay with me for a little while so she laid down in bed next to me. I don't know how long she laid there, maybe an hour, but all I remember is her eventually leaving. I think I have been subconsciously reliving this moment in my adult life. I never want them to leave me.

Sandy Path. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

8/3/24

Thailand Retreat: Day 3

I skipped chanting today. Instead, I sat by the pond and practiced mindfulness meditation, focusing on my thoughts and feelings. This was different from the usual guidance, which emphasizes focusing solely on the breath, avoiding attention to thoughts or feelings, and even using the breath to "clear away" distractions. Before this mindfulness meditation, I had been going through periods where I almost began forgetting who I am. Apparently, when you stop reflecting on your memories, avoid thinking about the past or dreaming about the future, and refrain from speaking, you start to lose a sense of who you are. I think this was actually the point—a very unsettling one at that—the idea of "no-self" (as discussed in the Background).

The mindfulness meditation I did was discomforting at times, filled with an intense desire to leave this place. Since I am technically not supposed to practice any styles not explicitly taught here (such as mindfulness), I will return to the equally unsettling practice of pure breathing meditation.

Meditation Hall. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

Primitive Shower. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

8/4/24

Thailand Retreat: Day 4

this wasn't the last time I would learn this lesson

Today, I felt very frustrated during one of the walking meditations. After yesterday's struggle with stepping away from the path they've laid out here, I was far more determined to regain the concentration I once had. Sitting meditation was relatively "unsuccessful," and walking meditation followed in its footsteps (lol). I felt a slew of emotions, including but not limited to dissatisfaction. During the next sitting meditation, I sat with even more determination to focus single-mindedly on my breath. After a short while, I burst with frustration. I was reminded of something the teacher once said: "Don't get attached to not being attached."

I let myself slouch. I opened my eyes, rolled my neck, and closed my eyes again when I was ready. I kept telling myself to let go of this ideal of perfect concentration. I began following my breath in a completely new way. Instead of the visualization method they had taught, I visualized in a peculiar, lopsided way. I used a mantra of random, meaningless syllables that I had mentally generated. Most importantly, when thoughts and feelings arose, I noticed them and let them go. How could I have forgotten that? I didn’t push them away and did I try to "zone them out" either. I entered an entirely different mental space.

When did "gently" disappear from "gently bring your attention back to the breath"? When the bell sounded to end the session, I was, for the first time, sad. I continued meditating through the ten-minute break. What did I learn? Let go of perfection.

I could be wrong—the correct way to practice may very well be what I initially experienced, a complete "zoning out" of everything except the object of meditation—but this way felt better, like I wasn’t cheating. The mindfulness method maintains clarity on the object of meditation without everything going fuzzy. But this isn’t the style they are teaching. Even if this method isn’t the "best," it might still be right enough for my layperson's goal of simply finding more peace.

I think a good question for myself would be: What do I truly want to get out of meditation? What do I want it to bring into my life? I don’t think I want to become a monk, but if I could experience more of what I felt in the latter half of today, maybe that would be enough.

Tree Line. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

8/5/24

Thailand Retreat: Day 5

Today, I scheduled an interview with a monk. It’s a chance to ask questions one-on-one about the technique or practice of meditation. I wanted to ask her: How do you meditate through strong negative emotions? I’ve been using the mantra “let go,” but it doesn’t feel like I’m doing it right. Is there any part of these emotions that needs to be felt, to be worked through?

I’m not sure if she fully answered my questions, but that’s okay. The interview helped me realize that what I’m really feeling is loneliness. Everything else here—the bed, the 4:00 a.m. start, the swarming mosquitoes, the long meditations—I’ve accepted for the duration of these ten days. But my real struggle is feeling alone.

I finally saw my boyfriend (who is also on this retreat) today, after days of not seeing him. He said he has the flu and needs to rest. Seeing him was rejuvenating—if only for a moment. It’s funny, when I thought about quitting the retreat, I realized that leaving would free me from these minor discomforts, but it wouldn’t free me from what I’m missing most: companionship. Even if I left, he’d still be here, and I’d have no one to run to. Alone in a hotel room. The prison isn’t the meditation center; the prison is my own mind.

The monk I spoke with suggested finding things here that do make me happy. So, I made a list:

The cats
Yoga at sunrise
Walking group meditation in the dark around the pond
A cold shower after lunch
Loving-kindness meditation while stretching in my room
When I feel like I’m correctly doing meditation and can focus on my breath

I think this last point is where I get tripped up. The monk told me to expect nothing from this retreat, and I find that difficult. Why am I here if not to find some relief from my suffering? Maybe I need to come to terms with the possibility that this might not happen.

I’ve always appreciated that Buddhism acknowledges life is suffering. It speaks to something many people don’t want to admit—that life is inherently unsatisfactory, or better put, that nothing in life can bring lasting satisfaction. But lately, that idea has been making me feel a bit crazy. Accepting this truth, and finding meditation less immediate than I’d hoped, feels hopeless.

But maybe I don’t have to choose between no pain and all pain—the life of a monk or an unfulfilled Western life. Over the past five years, I’ve cultivated deep friendships and strong relationships with my family. I have a fulfilling career path, and I like who I am as a person. I work hard, play hard, and always push myself to be better.

When I attended my first meditation talk weeks ago, the speaker said that none of the things we do to make ourselves happier truly last—we always return to the same state we started in. I resonate with parts of what he said, and I think that’s why I’m here. But I can also look at my life and see how wildly untrue that is at the same time.

The question now is: How am I going to finish this retreat? Because I’m determined to see it through. I need to remember that none of my other options involving leaving the retreat would truly alleviate this pain or offer guidance on how to handle future pain. I want to stay mindful as much as I can and be intentional about enjoying the parts of the retreat that I actually find enjoyable.

I want to focus on not expecting anything from this retreat. If I get frustrated, I’ll open my eyes during meditation or adjust my posture. Maybe I’ll switch to loving-kindness meditation for a moment—or longer. Maybe I’ll stand up and walk it out, or relax with a water break. My goal is to keep trying my best to be mindful while putting the same effort into accepting myself.

Concrete Bed. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

Path by Pond. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

Forest Infrastructure. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

8/7/24

The Retreat: Day 7

This afternoon was more difficult than the morning led me to expect. I think I’ve reached a point where I really just don’t want to be mindful when I’m feeling bad. Typically, when I’m happy—or even when I feel mild discomfort—mindfulness helps me enhance my happiness or soothe my pain. But when I feel very uncomfortable and sit mindfully in that pain, it can mean hours of agony without any of the mind’s usual tricks (like mindlessness) to help me cope.

I know it’s important for me to finish this retreat because the reward of completing something this hard, despite all the agony, will be entirely worth it. Still, I’m having a harder time figuring out why I should be mindful even when I’m in pain.

Mornings and evenings are my favorite. In addition to the usual meditations, there’s group walking meditation in the dark and yoga at sunrise. I think I find it easier to enjoy these meditations because my mind races less and lets me “just be” more often. My mind has less to say about what I need to be or change. During the rest of the day, it worries and plans how to get through the long, painful hours ahead. It so desperately wants to protect me from the pain. And part of me wants it to.

So, why be mindful in these next three days when it doesn’t seem to help me toward my goal of being more at peace? Because even if it doesn’t seem like it now, meditation is a historically and scientifically backed tool for experiencing more peace. Learning to create peace is a skill that will last longer than the few days I have left here.

Let me underscore this as well: just because I’m going to give full effort to mindfulness doesn’t mean I won’t also be practicing forgiveness and acceptance of myself and my efforts.

Laundry Basin. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

8/6/24

Thailand Retreat: Day 6

Bell Tower. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

This morning feels different. The other day, when I talked about being more gentle with myself, I didn’t realize I was simply using it as a trick to improve my meditation. "Letting go" had become a means to an end. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but that’s what I was really doing. Now, I’m trying to practice true self-acceptance while still meditating. I’m making a greater effort to recognize my thoughts, my shortcomings, and my lack of concentration—without judgment.

I’m working to examine the part of me that feels the need to do everything right, to follow all the rules perfectly—the part that can’t tolerate making mistakes. Patience. I’m trying to remind myself that even when non-judgment slips away, that too is impermanent. Let go, and then let go of the part of me that always needs to let go.

My boyfriend left today to go to the hospital, and the one friend I made before the retreat told me she wanted to leave too. And yet, I can confidently say this has been a better day than the others. I had another meditation session that I enjoyed enough to continue through the break. There was a sense of letting go of “getting it right,” of cultivating patience, and being mindful of my thoughts and emotions rather than trying to force them away.

I’m not sure if I’m following the exact instructions, but this approach has definitely helped me in the past when dealing with big emotions more peacefully. Can I apply this to other parts of my life? Expect nothing. My first job interview? I can be mindful, truly expecting nothing.

8/8/24

Thailand Retreat: Day 8

Morning Trees. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

It's like quitting an ice cream addiction (not that I would have any experience with this)—you think that by eating ice cream, you'll eventually stop craving it. But the more you eat, the more you want it again and again. You have to suffer through the cravings to stop desiring it. And it doesn't mean you'll never have ice cream again.

I've noticed I tend to get sad during the dharma talks. I think it's because they remind me that everything beautiful, joyful, and filled with love is impermanent. When you're feeling very sad, that's not what you want to hear. I've also noticed myself feeling sad every time I think a pleasant thought and then bring my attention back to the less pleasant present. In both situations, whenever my heart started to ache, I reminded myself that I'm enduring this pain for future peace. I'm investing my current happiness in exchange for greater happiness in the future. This has helped.

Today was definitely the best day I've had. Despite my efforts, I was struggling to calm my mind. I felt frustration about not "getting it" or not trying hard enough. At the same time, I knew I was trying. I just kept bringing my attention back to my breath every time I lost focus. Simple as that. No judgment, no drama.

Also, I find it funny that every day after having successfully pushed through some sort of challenge or having a small breakthrough, I think, "Okay, I’ve learned my lesson. Can I go home now?" And then, the next day, there’s always something new to struggle with. I suppose this is a perfect moment to reflect on the impermanent nature of our thoughts and feelings.

8/9/24

Thailand Retreat: Day 9

Dormitory Hall. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

I may have forgotten how to breathe normally. Sometimes, when I’m breathing so mindfully and intentionally, it starts to feel uncomfortable, and I forget how to let it go back to its natural rhythm. My mind has been distracted by all sorts of things this week: flashes of negative memories, happy memories, and even happy memories cast in a negative light. I think I’m experiencing positive memories in a negative way because I’m afraid I won’t ever feel that happiness again, and I’m not allowing myself to feel it. My mind will also wander through the plots and scenes of movies and TV shows I thought I’d forgotten, or ones I know too well.

If I manage to quiet my thoughts, with closed eyes, my mind plays disruptive and uncontrollable visuals—meaningless, sometimes gory, and often with an overwhelming sense of closeness. I remind myself—I’m here to invest my current happiness for future peace.

Today was another roller coaster. In the first half, I felt a deep longing to leave the retreat. Day nine followed a monk's schedule more closely: only one meal in the morning, no Dharma talks, no morning readings, no listening of any kind, and more freedom in choosing which type of meditation (walking, sitting, or standing) to practice and for how long. During the second half of the day, I felt calmer and wanted to see how long I could continuously practice sitting meditation. I sat, focusing on my breath, drifting away, and then coming back again. I maintained a relatively steady flow of concentration. I sat for two and a half hours—all without checking the clock! I’m very proud. During this time, I didn’t feel happy or sad, just focused. When I opened my eyes, I felt a cool calm that lasted for about five minutes (haha).

I think one of the takeaways from today is realizing how much I don’t know, and how much I came in thinking I could quickly figure out. After journaling, I usually feel a refreshed and supposedly "correct" understanding of why I felt good or bad during the day. But I think this feeling of control was far from the truth. Our whole lives, we carry a sense of control despite the infinite amount we don’t know. Today, I was able to see more clearly just how much of the world—and my own mind—I don’t understand or control. You need effort to get where you want to go, but effort alone doesn’t guarantee you’ll get there.

I’ve assumed up until now that effort could be a shortcut to the goal, but I’m realizing it’s like learning any other skill—whether it’s basketball, guitar, or engineering. You need both effort and practice over time. Even if you have the will to run a marathon, you still have to train.

8/10/24

Thailand Retreat: Day 10

Life is out of our control. Our minds are out of our control. If you are smart or good at something that is out of your control. With effort we can steer our ship towards a destination, that is our only hope of getting there. But don't assume that by steering, the arrival is set. Chance favors the prepared mind, but it is not a slave to it. In attempting mindfulness and meditation here, when successful, I believe it is all my doing--a sole result of all my efforts. When failing, I feel the same. Effort has helped bring me here to this experience and helped keep me here, but the success and failures I have faced have factors influencing them that are far beyond me. Steer the ship, but don't curse the wind.

Day ten. Before the sweet pangs of nostalgia persuade me to believe that this place is something that it's not, I want to have a final reflection on what it is actually like to be here. It sucks. Simply, it sucks. Even when I feel happy, I know that chances are it may last only even a few minutes or I know that I am being happy the "wrong way," letting my thoughts take me away from the present, dwelling on the pleasures of my past, future, or sense of self I have devised.

I have gotten better at making peace with the bugs around me, letting them buzz in my ear while generally remaining still to hear it. Similarly, letting each tickle on my body that I fear could be a bug be soothed not by itching but by calming myself through breathing. However these are still the same big-ass, gross, and/or flying bugs. While I am pleased with a more relaxed presence around these bugs, I certainly will be happy to not live a few feet from their looming terror.

Not anticipated, I have a new appreciation for mindlessness. Used in moderation, I understand that it can provide peace or strength to an individual during a challenging time. It can be momentary relief, allowing one to muster up the strength to keep going despite the pain that awaits in the present. While one should not spend all of their time in mindlessness, it can serve a purpose.

I feel a deep understanding and compassion for other religions. It has been a long time since I found myself in a religious mindset, and that distance has sometimes made me question its worth. I don’t have all the answers—whether one religion is better than another, or if the world would be better off without religion at all. But more importantly, I now have a profound understanding of how religion can help a person. It provides strength in times of suffering and eases pain when it runs deep. It brings people together, united by a shared sense of humanity, humbled by the realization that there is something bigger than ourselves—even if that "something" is simply the collective mass of people who feel the same intense, complex emotions we do. I’ve developed a newfound compassion for other religions and for the sometimes "unjustified" or "illogical" feelings that religion may evoke. To dismiss these experiences and their power, I now realize is foolish.

With all the pain this experience has brought, why did I go through it? If someone were to ask me if I’d do it again, the answer might be no. This experience may have taught me that I don’t want to become enlightened—not if it takes thirty years of this kind of suffering. But maybe it also taught me that there’s no shame in not forcing yourself to endure too much pain all at once. Instead of diving in completely, perhaps it’s better to slowly immerse yourself, bit by bit. Instead of berating yourself into submission, you can accept and work with yourself—with kindness.

Maybe this is closeness to the experience talking, but I don't really know if I feel that different, other than a burning desire to not want to feel so much pain. I think the quote that could sum up this whole trip is, “wait a second, this whole thing wasn't about making you suffer?”

Meditation Hall Between Trees. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

Sun Through the Trees. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

8/12/24

Post-Retreat

What does it mean to be spiritual? At the retreat, I experienced moments of profound peace and connection with reality, where I felt removed from my usual, self-centered thoughts. These moments allowed me to glimpse something beyond myself. The peace I found went deeper than any pleasure I’d felt before—it wasn’t tied to any action or accomplishment but was rooted in a larger sense of belonging to the world. Are experiences like these what it means to be spiritual? Does spirituality require believing in something beyond the physical and scientific world—perhaps a belief in souls? Or is it simply about recognizing the emotional depth of the lives beyond our own? I wonder if this feeling is what draws people to religion. It is helping me empathize with their values.

During the retreat, I also realized why I’m often late to events. The retreat encouraged a slow, mindful way of living, with no rush. When the bell rang for meditation, I had no distractions—no phone, no tasks to finish—just time to put on my shoes and walk to the hall. I would arrive early, sometimes with five minutes to spare before the teacher began. But at home, I’m rarely early. I understood then that I avoid being early because I don’t want to sit with myself in stillness. For me, the anxiety of waiting, of having nothing to do, is more uncomfortable than the stress of being late.

On the tenth day of the retreat, we had one last time for tea and a soak in the hot springs. For the first time, I ventured to the spring and joined a group of women as we reflected on our time at the retreat. We talked about what brought us here and shared our different meditation experiences—some were beginners, while others had been practicing for decades. One woman stood out to me. I’d noticed her earlier, always smiling in the meditation hall, eyes remaining closed long after the rest of us had left. I asked her how long she’d been meditating. She laughed and shared her journey. She started with yoga then began practicing daily meditation, eventually leading retreats herself. When I first saw her meditating, I wondered if she was just showing off. But as we talked, I realized she was simply a person, relatable yet deeply inspiring, living a life I aspire to.

Though I admired the Thai teachers at the retreat, I sometimes found it difficult to see how their monastic teachings applied to my life. I don’t aspire to be a monk, and their emphasis on avoiding pleasurable experiences felt distant from my own goals. But this woman was different. She wasn’t a monk, and she approached life with a balance I could relate to—acknowledging struggles while remaining calm and centered.

I asked her a question that had been on my mind throughout the retreat. Early on, we were instructed to set aside any previous meditation practices and fully immerse ourselves in the instructed vipassana method, which emphasizes cultivating concentration before moving to mindfulness. In my practice, I’ve always combined both concentration and mindfulness meditation. I asked her if it was unwise to focus as much on mindfulness as I had previously practiced. She reassured me that while she primarily practiced concentration meditation, others found the same insights through mindfulness. What mattered was finding what worked best for me. This felt like a revelation: even in something as rigorous as meditation, there’s room for personal adaptation. While concentration meditation helps me avoid getting lost in thoughts, mindfulness allows me to practice non-judgment and accept unpleasant emotions. It has been profoundly meaningful in my life.

After our conversation, I felt rejuvenated and motivated to keep practicing. It’s funny how permanent feelings can seem until they shift with new experiences and insights.

One of my main takeaways from this highly traditional retreat where we even used wooden pillows (the last center to do so), was a deeper appreciation for a more Western approach. Before the retreat, I was searching for an untainted, traditional practice. I’d grown tired of how Western yoga classes often feel stripped of their more traditional depth. But now, I see the other extreme—how hard it can be to relate to the aspirations of monastic life. Integrating these teachings into my own culture and worldview seems more realistic. Perhaps a middle way is best.

Return to Civilization. Photograph by Madelyn Swelstad.

8/13/24

Post-Retreat

Unrelated to my meditation journey—so I thought—I’ve also been working on judging others less. I’ve realized that withholding judgment improves relationships and offers a more realistic view of the world. When I see someone’s faults, I can recognize them as a reflection of our shared humanity, acknowledging that I struggle with similar things in my own way. I believe this need to judge originated in my childhood. My parents, with the best of intentions, often told me I was special and that one day I’d see just how unique and gifted I am. While this was meant as encouragement, I interpreted it as a pressure to be extraordinary, to be better than others, more talented, more exceptional.

Malcolm Gladwell speaks about the value of entitlement, or more gently, the belief that you deserve success, admiration, love, wealth, etc. But I now see how this focus on excellence, intelligence, and creativity above all else has driven me to feel that I must be extraordinary at all times, unable to simply be ordinary or average. I’ve become resistant to accepting my natural, human imperfections. For example, I can’t enjoy pop music because it seems too easy, too ordinary. I criticize myself for wanting something simple, even though millions of people find joy in it. I also struggle with making mistakes when it comes to money, avoiding cheap souvenirs or frivolous purchases because they feel too “average.” I hold myself to impossibly high standards—I don’t let myself enjoy sugar in my coffee, pack more luggage than absolutely necessary, or be uninformed about unfamiliar words in conversations. During the retreat, I wasn’t just miserable because of the hard bed or the restricted meals. I couldn’t allow myself to be imperfect. I couldn’t accept who I was and work with the beautiful, flawed individual inside me. Sometimes I’d have moments of happiness, imagining my future successes, but then I’d force myself back to the present, thinking that was the “correct” practice. Isn’t that what the retreat was teaching—to neither indulge in happiness nor sadness? Wasn’t that the point of the concrete bed—to reject comfort? I treated myself like a slave to the practice, never truly accepting an alternative, only pushing myself to return to the meditation.

What I was missing was self-accepting kindness—the grace to work with myself as I am. While the retreat emphasized discipline and rigor, I learned that meditation doesn’t always need to be a painful, negative experience. Yes, experienced meditators talk about the challenge of letting go of old habits, but day-to-day growth shouldn’t drive you away from the practice altogether. What I needed in those moments of struggle wasn’t to double down and force myself to suffer. I needed to acknowledge my imperfection and give myself grace. I could have shifted to mindfulness meditation, which I enjoy more, instead of pushing through concentration meditation. And when even that didn’t work, I should have allowed myself to stop altogether and just exist in that mindless space. Moving forward, I want to continue meditating, but with more gentleness, allowing the process to be gradual and kind.

One of the key lessons I’ve learned is that mindfulness in the small things comes before mindfulness in the big things. This practice takes decades to master, and there are no shortcuts. I can't blame myself for not grasping this earlier, but in the future, I hope to give myself patient compassion when I fall short of understanding.

I also admire my persistence. I voluntarily endured an emotionally taxing ten days, and while I learned from my lack of self-compassion, I also learned from my determination. I am strong. I can handle emotional difficulty and emerge better for it.

So what did I learn about judging others? If I can patiently learn to love and accept my own imperfections, I’ll be able to accept others’ flaws more easily too. I see the seeds of this lesson taking root in me now.