Alvin Soon

The bell rings before the birds remember to sing. I step outside my hut and greet the moon, my jacket around me like a shield. It is too thin against the biting wind.

In the distance, the silhouette of Wat Pa Don Hai Soke. I am not at home in the forests of northeast Thailand, but this temple has made a home in me. I walk the gravel path to the meditation hall, stones crunching like the bones of pilgrims.

There are nine more days of a simple schedule: 12 hours of meditation, one meal before noon, silence at all times. No devices, no books, no writing. The trees still like silent sentries. Perhaps I was mad to come here, I think. But my heart had become an open wound and was bleeding sorrow onto the ones I loved.

The word ‘retreat’ has two meanings. The first is to withdraw as a result of defeat. It is the breaking of armies, the gnashing of hope. The second means sanctuary. It is the victory of the spirit, the healing of hurts. I’d arrived unsure which was waiting for me.

A long time ago, Siddhartha Gautama sat under a fig tree in Bodh Gaya, India and entered meditation. Now six years into his search, he vowed not to stand again until he found enlightenment. His nemesis, the arch-demon Mara, mounted a war elephant and held a thousand weapons on a thousand arms. He attacked Gautama with rocks, swords, spears, arrows, fireballs and javelins. Each time, Gautama transformed them into flowers.

When the sun rose, Siddhartha Gautama was no more. Only the Buddha – “the awakened one” – remained. He had reached the end of suffering.

I have practiced for 20 years and still know nothing. Stillness feels, at first, like prison. My body complains: it was built for softer living. My mind protests: it was built for faster moving.

Each day repeats: I wake in the dark. I sit. I walk. I sit again. I feed the mind nothing but breath and silence and aching bones. At first, it rages. It snaps its teeth. It chews the ropes. Later, it slumps. Then, sometimes, it listens. I do not run (I want to). I do not howl (except inside). I stay, the way the trees stay when the wind comes. Somewhere, between one breath and the next, I begin to disappear. Perhaps I am not mad after all, I think.

On the last day, I vow not to move again until an hour of meditation is complete. Pain arrives like a thousand arrows – shoulder burning, legs cramping, back trembling. Every minute a kingdom lost. It takes everything I have to remain still.

And then I realise I have nothing left. I cannot win. I give up hope. I am breaking, I think. Let me break. No retreat. Full surrender. And in that abandonment, I fall through myself and find only breath. Breath and the bright nothing beyond.

Outside, the songs of birds. The bell rings. My eyes open, I look at my watch and laugh. I have gone past the hour. I have gone past myself.

When the sun rises, I leave the temple. I hesitate at the threshold – I had come to love the quiet. But I hadn’t come here simply for myself. I came to retreat so I could return. So I could transform arrows into flowers.

The path beneath my feet, guiding me home, until I leave my names behind.

Afterword

This essay was reconstructed from one I wrote in 2016 about my fourth visit to Wat Pa Don Hai Soke. I left fully expecting to return, I didn’t expect that I would never see its abbot again. I want to thank Venerable Ajahn Sa-ard for his kindness and generosity; I shall always remember the secret he gave me when we first met.