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I was so unsure of what to expect when first driving up to this Buddhist Monastery in Sterling, Virginia. I learned of it's existence just a few days ago, which is surprising because I often go to the Buffalo Wing Factory, which is located near this Monastery. I visited the website and found out that they offer Meditation Training on Tuesday evenings from 7:00pm to 9:00pm, so I called and the man who answered said that I was welcome to come. At quarter to seven, I drove up and turned into the driveway in between the large, old trees and obeyed the "SLOW" sign. I saw many benches and picnic tables across the huge lawn of the two buildings. While trying to figure out where to park I crept past the first building, which is white with orange trim around the windows. In front of it there is a big covered bell. All around there are signs nailed to trees and fences, some written in a language that is not English. I parked and walked back toward this first building because it looked bigger and had more signs on it, but before I got to the door a small monk happened to be walking out. He kindly directed me to the other building, the one that looked more like a home, and smiled when he asked in his broken English, "this is your first time here?" As I warily walked across the lawn to the house, I remembered that I was chewing gum. I was so afraid of unintentionally doing something that is not respectful that I swallowed my gum. I took off my shoes on the porch when another sign directed me to do so, and placed them with several other pairs of shoes. I knew that I was at least ten minutes early, so I was a little confused when I opened the glass porch door and saw six people already there sitting on the floor attentively looking at the instructor. Luckily, I got a few small welcoming smiles so I didn't fell like I interrupted the teachings too much. I was sitting in the converted living room of a house, and a mild but permeating smell wafted around me. I never heard the teacher's name, but he seemed to be a nice man with a pleasant sense of humor. He was white and probably under forty years old. He was teaching the Dharma of Theravadan Buddhism; it was about what happens when you meditate, and the stages you have to go through to get to the thoughtfulness. He spoke for a few minutes more, then switched off the lamp next to him and directed us to meditate, concentrating on our breathing-inhale and rock forward, exhale and rock backward. I looked around the room in the light coming in from the porch and the red glow coming from what I assumed to be a lotus flower lamp on a mantle. By the lotus lamp there were several pictures on the wall, and several small statues. I think they were all of Buddha, but I do not know. In front of that was a larger gold Buddha with unlighted candles around the statue. Beside me there was a bookshelf with children's reading and picture books on the bottom two shelves, but they were not written in English.
As I am playing the part of the observer, I hear the teacher softly speak: "If you feel yourself drifting away to outward thoughts, concentrate on your breath and bring your thoughts back inward." I close my eyes and do as he instructs, but of course this is very difficult for me. I find my self thinking the most random thoughts: "I have to call the dentist for an appointment tomorrow," "I hope my car doesn't break down on the way and have to be towed like last week," "I'm glad I'm wearing comfortable pants," "does gum really stay in your stomach for seven years?" et cetera. I tried to focus on my breath and lose awareness of my physical self and surroundings, but I hear the clock gently ticking away, cars speeding by on the road, and everyone in the room seems to be either hungry or digesting at this seven o'clock hour because everyone's stomach is making noises. After some time has passed, the leader puts his hands together and mumbles a few words, (the only one I comprehend is "Buddha"), and he turns on the lamp. I feel so weak at this point not only because of my boredom but also because my back is so tight from trying to sit up straight for half an hour. We all stretch a little, and then he talks some more about the Dharma. One woman asks a question: "How should we hold our hands?" I wondered the same thing at first, but then copied the instructor's hands, one of which was open palm up and the other palm down. He explained the meanings of the "mudras" (which is what I think he called them). Palms open means receiving energy from the world, or giving it openly to others; palms down or cupped to the body means circling the energy within ones self; palms facing and fingers touching the ground means getting strength from the earth. I notice in prints on the walls around me that the person depicted is using one of these gestures. The instructor turns the light off again, and we meditate for another thirty minutes. He is silent this time, and my mind drifts from topic to topic, from problem to problem, from solution to solution. But this time I remember one thing he mentioned during our previous meditation: to note the thought and be aware that I'm thinking it, and then bring my focus back to my breath. My back is tightening and my head keeps falling down each time I straighten up; and I am not tired but I have the same feeling I get when I am in bed about to go to sleep. I try not to think and clear my mind, but unfortunately I never really succeed. The session ends, and it feels really good to stand up and stretch. The teacher announces an hour-long meditation session on Sunday, and I don't think I'm ready for that yet, but I feel like I learned something today. It would be a shame if I did not go back and try again on another Tuesday evening, because I will probably get better and learn something new each time I try Theravadan Buddhism meditation. |
| Created by Laura Ellen Shulman |
Last updated: October 2002
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