They sometimes resemble a series of cotton balls, or a cauliflower.
Don’t tell the vipassana people, but I went to the Zen centre a couple times in June. One Saturday morning, a woman who had been to the intro session with me brought her seventeen year old daughter. For your first month at the Zen centre, you don’t have to sit for the whole hour and a half. You can leave after half an hour, or one hour. The woman and her daughter left after one hour.
On Sunday, June 28th, Simon’s 36th birthday, I brought daisies to the rooftop of Simon’s apartment building, where Simon had jumped off and killed himself. I walked home in the pouring rain. Just a few blocks away from Simon’s apartment, I ran into the woman from the zen centre. I had already walked all the way down the city and all the way up the 23 floors of Simon’s building in silence. Now I was in front of this woman's apartment on De Bullion Street. The silence and the ritual were over. Or at least changing. The woman told me that after their hour at the zen centre, she and her daughter had gone to a café, where they’d laughed with immense relief.
At vipassana, I would count down the hours. Twelve hours left in the day. Twelve hours ago, we were going to bed. It felt like forever ago. Oh God. But the Vipassana People don’t think there is a God. Oh shit.
|Sixteen years old, with my friends Tamar and Caleb, |
reading Amelia Bedelia, at another summer camp where the sessions were only 5 days.
Well, I don't look like I'm counting down. Must be the excellent book.
Through much of the vipassana course, the song in my head was, “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” by Neutral Milk Hotel.
|The Spiritual Pants made an appearance at vipassana.|
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