33 ~ Vipassana Experience Part 2: Daily Routines.

We meditated for a total of 10 hours a day, or at least that was the plan if you didn't leave early out of exhaustion or frustration, with a mix of courage and guilt, like when you sneak out of a university class. At times – many times – it was difficult. I didn't always manage to concentrate, I didn't always manage to meditate, I didn't always manage to stay awake or endure the bodily pains of sitting on the floor for two or three hours straight, and I didn't always manage to quiet the mind that kept questioning whether all of this was really worth it.

It was intense, at the very least something far more extreme than what most of us are used to, and in those first days, the challenge became even more daunting. We still didn't quite grasp the purpose of the meditations, and we also weren't used to taming the famous Monkey Mind, the one that jumps from branch to branch of absurd thoughts for hours when you need to concentrate.

We also weren't used to sitting on the floor for such long periods without any support to keep our backs straight, and the body aches started to make themselves known. This would be the real challenge. This would be the battleground where all the lessons would be tested and where the real battle would be fought. And that was the part of the rules they didn't tell you about.

I was still figuring out how to sit. I still got up in the middle of meditation like everyone else, to catch my breath and stretch my legs, starting to think I wouldn't last even three days this way. Would I be able to get used to it?

As for not having my phone on me, unlike what one might imagine, that was actually the best part. Leaving your phone in a locker with a key, perhaps for the first time since you were a child and your parents took it away, was another component that made this a true vacation. Knowing that you wouldn't be able to touch it for 10 days, no matter what, gave you an initial sense of anxiety, like when you're parting ways with the love of your life. The phone isn't the love of your life, thankfully, but the anxiety it generates in us is definitely greater. There's a part of you that doesn't want to let it go, it feels like you're giving up a part of yourself, like half of your life is locked in there. Actually, and unfortunately, we do have it there.

Once you get past that initial detachment, it's an inexplicable sense of freedom. Living again like our parents or grandparents, or like people in rural areas, without having to take pictures of every beautiful thing just because you can, without having to share it or show anyone where you are, without having to send "important" messages, and without having to see or hear what the rest of the world is doing at the same time as you, in dozens of different places.Just you and the present, without intermediaries. Beautiful.

In my case, I was already in hiding. My social media had been frozen in time for a while, so, by choice and by necessity, life was already a bit easier for me in that regard.I'd been on my own retreat for a while.

You also couldn't talk to anyone. You didn't have to worry about anyone but yourself. Total freedom and complete rest, allowing you to dive deep into your own world with permission and love. How come no one taught us before that this was possible?

So many people need a time to hibernate. A moment for recovery, a reset from everything and everyone. This was all of that.

As I said, this was the "easy" part – at least for me – the hard part would be the battle-not-battle with the mind. Actually, it would be more about realizing that we were both pulling in the same direction, my mind and I. So we had to start being more patient, more understanding, and kinder to ourselves on this journey of life that we'd been walking together for a while, but had rarely acknowledged as such.

Now we were in the same boat: alone, isolated, and most importantly and by choice, so there was no other option but to look each other in the face and get to know each other again.

-Hello mind, a lot has happened. You were on top of the mountain for a long time, controlling everything from above, and that's okay, it was your moment. Now things are changing.I know you tried to do your best, but you've hurt me a lot. I know it wasn't your intention, I know that family and social mandates have given you this shape and this authority as well, but now, with love and together, we are going to rearrange the roles for the good of both of us.We both need a break and, as they say, we are going to be together for every breath we have left, so we absolutely have to work this out. And if we're here and not on a damn beach drinking a Mojito, it's because we're going to take the deep path.

Welcome to the rest of our life!

In the free moments we had, beautiful things used to happen. Basically, things happened – things other than being inside our own heads meditating almost all day.

Each of us created our own routine. We couldn't talk to each other, so our daily practice often involved walking around the garden, almost always in circles, repeating the same rounds over and over again.

Whenever we had a few minutes, we would sit on the benches in the sun. When a few rays appeared, they were deeply appreciated, and there we were, trying to squeeze ourselves into those little patches of existing light, stretching our necks like giraffes toward the great Phoebus, as if we were sponges soaking up water. Almost... we were women absorbing solar energy, appreciating the small but enormous things we had.

When there's not much, you start to value the little things. It wasn't something anyone said, but these were subliminal lessons. Those moments of appreciating simplicity that brushed close to your soul are some of the most beautiful sensations I remember from those days.

After lunch was usually the time when women washed their clothes. Or rather, it was what my neighbor across from me did. An older woman with long gray hair and a beautifully hippie vibe, like something out of a '70s movie but with an Indian twist. I used to sit at the doorstep of my little cottage, where fortunately the sun hit just right, and that's when I would see her. I loved every moment of her practice.Watching her filled me with an immense tenderness.

She would sit with her endless white braid, grab a bucket, soap each piece of clothing, and start scrubbing in a squat, in the Indian style – knees bent, bottom near the ground but with enough flexibility not to fall or touch the floor – almost like an asana.She did it with an admirable peace. After a few minutes, she would hang each garment on the line. It looked like a meditation. Maybe it was.

After a few days, I started copying her – she'd inspired me. We didn't have many things to do, other than walk, reflect on ourselves, take cold showers, or sit in the sun when it was there, so that romantic routine had captivated me. It became a beautiful moment of self-connection, self-care, and presence.

When you can't talk, you also can't ruin the moments by saying silly things or trying to kill the awkward silences. So your attitude changes completely. You really feel like a different person. I, who am always smiling, making jokes, and chatting with people out of kindness, was just another body trying not to make eye contact, not trying to be overly accommodating or to please everyone. It was curious, but it gave me peace not to have to be so aware of everyone else, as I often am, and to have the freedom to be within my own bubble. No need to explain myself, no need to justify my actions out of habit when no one asked, no need to make small, friendly comments to the whole world. It was also a vacation from yourself, and that's a gift we rarely have in front of us.

Nothing about sunbathing, washing clothes, or anything at all happened during those first days, when both my body and I were little more than a human wreck. Nearly two days had passed, and my state of intoxication remained. I kept losing massive amounts of water, and the only thing I could do was lie down and give my dehydrated, weakened body some rest.

I had no phone to check my symptoms, nor could I talk to anyone for advice, and while I tried to stay calm, I was starting to get a bit scared. I think those miserable conditions were what kept me from overthinking or questioning what was happening – I only had enough strength to keep myself upright, go to the meditations, eat plain white rice, and stop my body from collapsing. That's how I spent those first days. Not having the energy to complain is also something to be grateful for.

Day 2

“COMPLETE SURRENDER TO THE PRACTICE FOR 10 DAYS”

That was what Goenka told us through the loudspeakers and also through the videos.His voice and his chants echoed through the monastery grounds frequently. Every morning, after the first meditation, something like a mantra or song with his voice would play. It was always the same one, as we walked in silence, eyes down, toward the dining hall.

I felt like I was in The Handmaid's Tale or my favorite Orwell novel, 1984, except now we were the ones in gray coveralls.

In my opinion, Goenka was not a particularly talented singer, so at first, the song made me laugh – it added to the strangeness and unfamiliarity of the whole situation. Obviously, I had never been in anything remotely like this before in my life. After a few days, though, that same song would transform – even to this day – into a symbol of peace and the soft morning light in the middle of the countryside.

« Accept reality as it is. We don't create sensations, we don't try to change them, we simply accept reality as it is. »

Easy. What else could we do? In the conditions we were in, it didn't seem that hard. It was almost the only option.

As the hours passed, our walks started to feel a bit more pleasant and meditative. Little by little, after making peace with the silence and our minds, the first memories began to surface.

I thought of Joan, as I often did in those days. He was still a part of my reality, a topic that remained present, just as intact as when I left, waiting to be addressed at some point.I thought about us, about our story, about who had made more mistakes – as if it mattered – or where the difficulties had truly started. In which of all my departures, in which of all those moments across our four-year relationship, and who held more weight in this guilt – as if it were a matter of magnitudes.

This topic remained like a dense cloud for me. I couldn't see anything there, nothing clearly. A month had passed, and it was still impossible for me to gain any understanding of the situation, no matter how hard I tried. Conclusions were even further away. All I had managed to do was place a giant set of parentheses around our non-relationship, where we still talked about superficial things, but not about the relationship itself, which by now had taken on a kind of undefined shape, yet one we continued to hold on to.

He was in Denmark, and I was in India. Not even being on different continents – once again – could push us to fully walk away from each other.

True love? Obsession? Fear? Loneliness? Companionship? Understanding? Energy? Or probably a little bit of all of that. It's so hard to identify and separate the elements when they're so deeply intertwined.

I didn't know, nor could I even think about it, so I just left it there, still floating like fog in the air and time of my mind – untouched and pristine.

I didn't know how, but I knew that at some point, a light would come through that whirlwind of emotions. It just wasn't the time yet.