“Relax and receive, feeling the sensations of the body breathing.” 

The words washed over us as we sat in a circle on our zafus at the beginning of the five-day meditation retreat. Dr. Nikki Mirghafori, artificial intelligence scientist and Buddhist teacher at Spirit Rock Meditation Center and Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City, California, sat toward the top of the circle, inviting us with these words as we settled into our bodies and took a breath. 

“Cultivating Peace, Wisdom, and Kindness: A 5-day Meditation Retreat for Young Adults” was hosted by Dharma Gates and sponsored by Tricycle. Dharma Gates is a grassroots nonprofit dedicated to opening pathways into formal meditation practice for young adults. Its mission is to connect young practitioners to a variety of Buddhist teachers and practice centers in an accessible manner, offering retreats on a dana (donation) basis. The organization strives to foster connections through which practitioners can cultivate compassion, resilience, and clarity to meet the unique challenges of our times.

This retreat, hosted at Claymont Society in Charles Town, West Virginia, focused on fostering a space for young adults to step back from the day-to-day bustle and reconnect with each other, ourselves, and the dharma. Balancing sitting instruction, dharma talks, relational practices in the form of improv, and walking meditation, the retreat offered an opportunity to explore the world of the dharma and encouraged us to take our practice into all aspects of life, not just the cushion.

I arrived Wednesday afternoon, excited and anxious, but open to whatever was to come. I had done a handful of daylong retreats before, but this was truly my first formal silent retreat. After checking in, kind smiles and friendly conversation ensued as we enjoyed a vegan dinner of vegetable stir fry made by the very humble and incredibly warm chef on site, Manuel. After we finished eating, I sat on the lawn with Nikki and some fellow retreatants, checking in about how we were feeling. That’s when we met Chilli-dog. Chilli, Manuel’s dog, was a chestnut-colored dachshund with big brown eyes and floppy ears. As he ran through the field, we realized that he was chasing rabbits left and right, even crawling his way down what I assumed to be a rabbit hole. Jumping all around, Nikki likened our mind to Chilli-dog. I thought about how funny it was that he was literally going down rabbit holes, chasing the bunny like we chase our thoughts. Nikki said we should try to avoid a “Chilli-mind.” 

The evening came, and the unsure energy buzzed around the meditation hall as we sat, awaiting the terrifying practice of renouncing our cell phones. After introductions and a brief share from each member of the group, the ritual began. Pens and paper were passed around, and we each wrote a letter to our future self, which we would open and read on Sunday. We were instructed then to wrap our phone in the piece of paper, tape it up, and write encouraging words on the paper, if we wished. Settling in and closing our eyes, we took a few breaths, and one by one, as we felt ready, we stood up and walked to the center of the circle, offering our phones in the basket and bowing to the statue of the Buddha. Nikki honored each release with the sound of a bell. I felt a sense of relief, freedom, even joy, as I dropped my phone in and let go.

The session progressed by taking the precepts together, taking refuge in the Buddha, the dharma, and the sangha, and relaxing into a guided meditation. The retreat had officially begun. We sauntered off to our rooms to rest before the first full day ahead.

Thursday morning came, and we enjoyed a silent breakfast after an optional 6:30 a.m. sit. After cleaning up with my fellow dish crew, the first session of the day began, and we settled again onto our cushions. A feeling of butterflies in my stomach arose, as I knew what was to come—improv. 

Nikki had taught both improv and mindfulness courses, and shared with us how similar the two are. Improv is about letting go of planning and tuning awareness into the present moment. It is important in improv, I learned, to not only become grounded and present with what is coming up in your own body but also to pay close attention to the people around you. First up, a name game. We went around the circle, stating our name alongside a movement, gesture, or dance move. I was toward the end. Nikki reminded us to stay present and let go of trying to prepare. That was easier said than done, as my mind ruminated on what move I was going to make. Three people down, twenty-six to go. I’ll do a spin. Eight people down, twenty-one to go. I can’t do a spin, too many people have spun already. Maybe a curtsy, yes that’s it! Fifteen people down, now just a handful more. The curtsy was used already! What will I do? What if it’s my turn and I freeze and do nothing? I’ll look really stupid then. Three people to go before my turn, and my mind was blank. I didn’t have any gesture in mind, but I had no choice but to let the moments pass until all eyes were on me. Without thinking, I just did. Jumping from one side to the other, announcing my name, “ERIN,” and it was over. That’s when the lesson stuck, and I truly let go. 

The theme arose again and again throughout the retreat: Don’t plan, just be. Rather than thinking into the next moment, I leaned back into right now. In our discussion session a few days later, Nikki offered something of great value to me: Rather than FOMO, the fear of missing out, embrace JOMO, the joy of missing out. Referring to the mind wandering into the future or backtracking to the past, we can just rest in the present moment, joyful that we’re missing some made-up future event. 

The anxiety dissipated, and my body began to feel at ease again. A few more games, and the nerves I felt initially turned into openness and full-belly laughs. Connection was blossoming before my eyes.

At lunch we officially entered the space of noble silence, narrowing our sense doors. In the short free time before the next sessions, I wandered the grounds, following a grassy path through the wooded field and stumbling upon a big, tall, bountiful tree locally called “grandmother tree.” As I sat under her long branches, I wrote: 

Oh, grandmother tree
Big, tall, proud, and beautiful.
Your base stable
Your limbs long and outstretched.
Hold me under your grace and power.
I surrender to you,
Grandmother tree. 

The sessions that followed that afternoon were interspersed with guided, silent, and walking meditations. Many of us chose to walk outside, connecting with the land with mindful steps and gentle movements. 

One of the notable guided meditations from Nikki invited us to receive our intention; our reason for being at the retreat. We imagined picking up a stone, asking ourselves “why are we here?” and dropping it into an imagined well. Nikki instructed us to again “relax and receive” whatever came up, not forcing or searching, but opening to whatever arose. The meditation steered us more deeply into our intention, picking up two more stones and dropping them in the well, asking what was truly the reason, the intention, for our being there.  

In addition to the meditation sessions, each day we settled into the meditation hall at 4:30 p.m. for Nikki’s dharma talk. Of the many teachings she offered, two really stood out to me. The first came closer to the start of the retreat and focused on mindfulness of emotions. Nikki offered a practical tool for when emotions arise in practice, known as RAFT or RAFCT:

– R: Recognize the emotion. Drop the story.

– A: Accept/Allow it to be here, held spaciously.

– The middle way between suppression and indulgence.

– F: Feel in the body.

– If needed, C: Compassion—addressing yourself: “Sweetheart, you’re having a hard time,” or “This is hard, dear.”

– T: Trust in the unfolding of the practice, in your capacity to awaken.

I found myself returning to this often, both on and off the cushion when feelings arose. Feeling into each emotion and exploring them with curiosity helped cultivate an acceptance and comfort within difficulty. 

Another dharma talk focused on the five hindrances, or the kilesas. Nikki explained these as coverings or veils that show up in practice, and offered skillful ways of working with them when they show up. As the days of practice went on, I was able to pinpoint exactly which hindrances were showing up for me, and how to explore the feelings that came with them. Reflecting back on RAFT, I approached these hindrances with a middle-way mindset—not allowing myself to fall too deeply into their trap, but letting them arise with compassion.

The final session of each day began at 8:30 p.m., and a bit of lightness entered the room when Nikki invited us to join in a communal chant that we all already knew—Row, row, row your boat. This idea was taken from a retreat she had done with Jack Kornfield. She noted how beautiful a dharma song it is. We sang together before making our way to sleep.

The latter part of the retreat was when I truly began to experience an openness, softness, and gratitude. I explored the many winding trails with a curious mind and soft feet, and at each turn I was in awe of everything—the dewy spider webs collecting in the trees; the family of deer grazing in the fields; the group of horses running in the hazy dawn. I relaxed into the experiences that moved around and within me, an awareness surfacing moment by moment, almost effortlessly.

The spider webs especially drew me in. Really looking at them, like I had never seen them before, I asked myself, What was their purpose? What can they teach me? I closely studied an armor-backed spider weaving its web. It was focused, detailed, mindful even. Pulling the silk with its back leg to place it where it wanted, creating an intricate mandala that was strong yet fragile. The web is what sustains the spider, a net to catch its food. But with a strong gust of wind or a creature like me walking into it, the entire trap is gone. I imagine that the spider doesn’t mind—it is used to this happening. It isn’t attached to the work of art it has just made, rather just picks up in a new spot to weave another. 

I came back to the question, what can the spiders teach me? I landed on a visualization for myself—a spider web in my mind, like a death trap for old patterns and stories. I let them stick to the web, then blow away in the wind. Weaving a new web in my mind, I was then ready for the next story to stick. 

On the second-to-last day I had a one-on-one practice discussion with Nikki. She graciously set aside time for each of us to meet with her during the retreat. Holding a warm space for me to share whatever I wanted to share, she listened intently and offered nuggets of wisdom for me to take with me on my way.

The final full day came, and I enjoyed a midmorning walking meditation along a gravel path in the woods. This is where I rediscovered the sound of gravel under my feet. Crunching and crackling as I stepped softly, the sound wrapped around my eardrums and delighted me. I moved my foot different ways as I walked back and forth, listening to each piece of gravel colliding with those around it. After a few more meditation sessions and a cup of tea on a warm rock in the sun, I thanked the land for providing, quite literally, such fertile ground for practice.

My retreat experience was one of spaciousness, compassion, warmth, and a collective energy that was fostered so beautifully by our teacher, Nikki. I left feeling calmer than I had in a while, more in awe of everything around me, and more connected to others. The retreat came to an official end as we broke noble silence, and kind chatter filled the building and grounds as we shared our experiences and contact information. Going on our way, we wished one another luck with our respective practices, and said goodbye until next time.

♦

Dharma Gates offers many retreats by donation! Learn more about them and see their upcoming retreats here.

The post A Few Days of Silence appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

If thrashing guitars and pounding drums don’t make you think of Buddhism, then you aren’t Paul Masvidal. A Tibetan Buddhist practitioner for 20 years, the guitarist, songwriter, and vocalist began his career in the metal band Death. But over time, Masvidal’s music has matured into a unique genre-defying sound through which he aims to inspect the inner workings of his mind.

After playing in the progressive rock band Cynic for more than two decades, Masvidal is now putting out a solo record called Mythical Human Vessel. A vulnerable deep dive into the human experience, this collection of mini-albums experiments with varying the frequencies in the left and right ear as a form of sound therapy. Masvidal also writes about how his music expresses his dharma practice in his blog, the Metta Mind Journal.

In a talk with Tricycle, Masvidal discusses how he strives to create art that is both a reflection of his inner struggles and our shared nature.

When did your professional music career begin? My band Cynic formed when I was really young. We were making demos as early as elementary school. But my first professional experience was with the band Death. Chuck Schuldiner, the founder of the band who has since passed on, was like an older brother to me growing up. I became penpals with him through the underground tape-trading scene. His band became fairly successful and well-known, and he ended up bringing me in. Often, Chuck would let me play on tours with him when I was in high school.

In 1991, we made a record together called Human. I was suddenly in a well-known band and touring everywhere. I’ll always be indebted to Chuck for having brought me in.

Metal tends to be noisy and violent, while Buddhism idealizes quiet and peace. But one place that they do overlap is that both talk openly about death. Why do you think these two seemingly different worlds share a morbid fascination? Death, the band, is considered the progenitor of death metal. They were one of the first bands to influence a whole generation of bands. Death’s first records were out in the eighties. Chuck is called the “Godfather of death metal.” His early records were very much influenced by horror and gore.

For a lot of artists that get into these extreme forms of art, it serves as an outlet for their aggression and helps keep them out of trouble. These genres turn into an incredibly therapeutic place—a place to pour out all of the loneliness, confusion, and anger. All of that goes into the music, which is why it sounds so intense.

The place where this parallels Buddhism is in the willingness to explore uncomfortable topics, like impermanence. In those extreme metal genres, the angst around death is expressed through an art form. Buddhism takes it to another level by just sitting and contemplating our impermanence.

As a practice of getting comfortable with something that has freaked me out my whole life—the reality of impermanence—I have worked as a hospice volunteer since the mid-nineties. Working in hospice has taught me the importance of looking into our fear of death and having a willingness to be with the discomfort. To sit with somebody who is dying is not easy, especially if they are cognizant. But that experience can be a reminder of how precious this life is and how quickly it goes by.

Related: A (Incomplete) Guide to (Sort of) Buddhist Rock

Why did you name your band Cynic? The Cynics were like the yogis of ancient Greece. They believed that the source of happiness was internal. They were homeless, but content. The word cynic has come to refer to someone who doubts people’s honesty, which has its roots in a story of the Cynic philosopher Diogenes. He would walk around with a lantern during the daytime, and when people would ask him why, he would answer, “I’m trying to find an honest man.”

The Cynics were also very progressive. They coined the term cosmopolitan, which originally meant “a citizen of the universe—not from any place.” That answer is so forward thinking, even today. So that philosophy inspires the progressive music of Cynic. Progressive rock is often described as sui generis, meaning without genre. It’s about breaking down all the trappings of traditional style and being completely free to express yourself musically.

When did you begin practicing Buddhism and what initially drew you to the practice? From a young age, I was exposed to various forms of spiritual investigation through my mother. Her good friend, an astrologer, said that I was a seeker and that I had free reign to explore and create my own journey. The same astrologer friend gave me Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda (1893–1952), which opened my eyes to a spiritual path.

It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I became interested in Buddhism. Your twenties can be a very challenging time; it’s a journey of figuring out who you are and what your identity is. Personally, I was unraveling in so many ways, and Buddhism—the dharma—spoke directly to my heart.

I began doing retreats at Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Woodacre, California, and realized that our problems aren’t the outer circumstances, but our reaction to them. If I wasn’t a musician, I would probably go into retreat for the rest of my life and give myself completely to the dharma. What else is there to do?

What types of meditation do you practice? I’m a fairly long-term practitioner and have done different meditations over the years. I started with calm-abiding meditation, or sitting meditation. Then I got into Theravada insight [vipassana] meditation, which works well for me. I combine that with metta [lovingkindness] practices. Cultivating lovingkindness is everything. When asked, “What is your religion?” the Dalai Lama replied, “Kindness.”

I also do a listening practice, which is just what it sounds like—sitting and listening. Being a musician, I pick out and analyze miniscule sounds in a room. With listening meditation, I can practice hearing that level of subtlety.

My ultimate goal, which I share with most Buddhists, is to reach nondual states of pure mind or nonconceptual awareness. In Zen, this is called satori—experiencing flashes of enlightenment. But as blissful and beautiful as that is, I also can’t get too attached to that. It’s not just about finding a comfortable sweet spot in your mind—it’s about going back out into the world and helping your brothers and sisters.

These practices dovetail with my music because they push me to challenge my sense of self.

How does challenging your sense of self help you as a musician? Ken Wilber, a prolific spiritual teacher and pioneer of Integral theory, wrote in his book No Boundary, “Just when the circle’s drawn, just then the circle’s gone.” That line inspired an old song of mine; I was taken with the idea that the minute we’ve drawn a circle around what we’re doing, it’s our job to step outside of it—to keep pushing.

There are many things we use to escape the dark crevices of our mind. The reality is—and this is what Pema Chödrön discusses in her book The Wisdom of No Escape—that once we learn to not run, and to not go in the other direction, that’s where happiness is found. Instead of constantly trying to fill that gap, we have to realize that creativity exists in the gaps. In our meditation practice, there’s a gap between breaths. That’s where the moment lives, and all true creativity is inspired by the present moment. I believe that if we can really show up, it’s all right there for us.

Robert Venosa, the painter who has done all of the Cynic covers, said that the duty of any artist is to inspire other artists. I think the way to do that is by bringing something new to the table and honoring our own voices and all the peculiar aspects of our artistry. People connect with that.

Related: Good Vibrations: A Buddhist Music Playlist

Is there a Buddhist community in the progressive rock world? Not that I’m aware of [Laughs]. I’ve been somewhat of an outsider. What’s funny is that early progressive rock like Genesis and Yes had a spiritual component. But that doesn’t seem to be the case now.

Can you tell me about your upcoming solo acoustic album, Mythical Human Vessel? That album is a collection of music that I’ve had for a long time, but never did proper recordings of. I never finished them because they felt particularly vulnerable. But even though the songs are deeply personal and honest, they have nothing to do with me. By telling the truth, I think I ended up with something more universal that hopefully everyone can relate to.

There’s another component to these songs. I’ve been interested in binaurals, or frequency training. What you do is listen to different frequencies in headphones. In one ear, a certain frequency enters, and in the other, another frequency. Binaural frequencies tap you into various brain states.

Sometimes the different frequencies create a dissonant sound. But because they are going into the left and right hemispheres of your brain, the imbalance in the two frequencies creates a new frequency that affects your thinking. Binaurals can be used for many things—as a tool to boost memory, be more focused and alert, or increase creativity.

So I embedded binaural frequencies into each of the records. This component of therapeutic harmonic frequencies turns the album into more of an offering, because I think they can help people in a very concrete way.

You said your music is universal because it is personal. What do you mean by that? Artwork and music are imbued with vibration, which allows it to resonate with people. That has something to do with the level of attention the creator gave it when they made the work—but ultimately it transcends personality and identity, and it enters into the space of universal communication. Any great work does that, including all of the dharma teachings. They point to these truths that we’re all connected to.

In writing music, sometimes things come up to the surface like a deep sadness, and you don’t know why. All of a sudden you’re crying like a baby. But it’s not only a sadness from something that is coming up for you, it’s a collective sadness from this energy you are tapping into.

In both music and meditation, if you’re willing to show up completely and treat it with a sense of sacredness, that’s where its value lives. It’s rare, but there have been moments where I entered a complete meditative flow state—becoming one with the performance. There was no “me”; I became the process.

As with any art form, we can’t make music happen; we have to let it happen. It doesn’t have to go anywhere and it doesn’t have to arrive. There is no deadline; it’s just about showing up. In those ways, music and Buddhism are essentially one and the same for me.

The post The Heavy Metta of a Buddhist Rocker appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.