42~Vipassana Experience: Craving and the way out of it.

Day 7

What began as a search for objects, sensations, or rewards of some kind, very quickly turns into an addiction to the action itself: we become addicted to searching, and the object starts to fade into the background. Notice I don’t even say finding, but searching, which is even worse, because that movement has no end—it can be eternal. That is craving. The greater the attraction to movement, the harder it becomes to inhabit calm, emptiness, and stillness. It turns into a circle dominated by its own inertia. But that circle is not really a circle—in theoretical terms—but rather our very own life. Constant, automatic, and “comfortable.” Quite a little friend, isn’t it?

That hamster wheel we talk so much about, the one that pulls us inward like a centripetal force—suddenly we find ourselves dancing the mouse’s malambo, thinking we are choosing, that we are the owners and masters of our actions, without even the slightest idea of where we are or where we are going. And most likely, most of the time, we can’t even perceive any of this. And that, without doubt, is the worst part.

At this point, it goes without saying that this intense desire to possess something—if we are not awake enough to understand its true impermanent nature, whatever the thing or the “non-thing” may be—will very likely, almost certainly, lead us to suffering. Sooner or later. And that craving is so imperceptible, so masked, and so subtly dangerous that we lose ourselves as mere subjects of choice, putting on the mask of the impostor. A mask that alienates us and then turns—itself—into “ourselves” and into our well-known Ego. That mask adheres so tightly and becomes so much our own that we start to confuse it with our true being—with our identity—and that is one of the central points on the path of spiritual seeking. The famous question: Who are we?

“That which we believe we are,” “that which we believe we like,” “that which we believe we want,” “that”—which is nothing but a repetition of patterns that probably aren’t even ours. That is exactly what we will begin to deal with throughout our lives until, if we are fortunate, we decide to transcend it. Because at first it may please us—like good salespeople when we first meet them—but later it always reveals its seams. And sooner or later, the Ego will also turn into things we no longer want, that are no longer useful, that annoy us and cause us suffering, conditioning, and stagnation. And right there, showing us that we are not as in control of ourselves as we thought, it will build its dwelling place, and there it will remain: rebellious, insubordinate, alien, and yet so deep inside us that it hurts. So deep inside us that revisiting it will be a complex process. 

Carrying out that endeavor, going through that crossing, dismantling the Great Illusion of “who we are,” will become necessary if we truly want to know something about ourselves and about the Being that dwells behind the stage set. And many times, it’s not even that we fervently want to discover it, but rather that sometimes the force pushing from within is so strong that it carves its way on its own. And luckily, perhaps it comes from another life to save us.

The question about our true Being already places us, at the very least, in another space of greater awareness. Definitely not inside the systematized hamster wheel, anti-singular and capitalist—the factory of producing subjects that erases differences and the most intimate part of ourselves—the meat-grinding machine of Pink Floyd in The Wall. Nor does asking that question mean that we are automatically ejected from it, but it probably allows us to act with greater awareness and freedom of movement. Identifying the “where not” slowly brings us closer to the “where yes”—by opposition—and allows us to begin breaking some mental patterns that had crystallized.

Surely the true Being lies beneath all the dust that has accumulated on us and corrupted us. That has contoured us into shapes that may not be ours, but that still, even so, are not strong enough to erase what, from beneath shadows and weeds, pulses to come out. That Being is so powerful that it slips through, trying to escape through the cracks of a mask—consistent, but starting to feel threatened. That which surfaces as anguish, stress, questions, pain, discomfort, illness, impulses, energies. That which resists from the depths, almost drowned, but still there, surviving, and—if we are lucky—at some point will find a voice.

What is certain is that that “who am I”—with all the difficulty that comes from thinking about that conjunction of words—does not lie in the same place where the Ego resides. And what is also certain is that the Ego will do everything possible to defend the place it has somehow managed to “construct.” It sounds like a declaration of war. It may not be.

—I am pure craving, I thought.

Perhaps we all are, aren’t we? But in these lines I only have the authority to speak for myself. Still, despite the limits and difficulties of my own behavior, I had quit smoking two months earlier and hadn’t had a single drop of alcohol for a full month. That last stretch had been the longest era of abstinence since the first time I ever tasted alcohol in my life, at the age of fourteen.

My first drunkenness was with my cousin at a Christmas dinner. We had stolen ten cans of beer and locked ourselves in her room while “the grown-ups” told funny stories and ate sweet bread and chocolate-covered peanuts. After the “crime,” my cousin went to bed. I was so drunk that my father had to put me under a cold shower to sober me up. From that very day I began drinking alcohol, and I never really stopped. What strikes me most is that I can see that so clearly, without even having to think about it. Since that first beer, I don’t think I’ve gone more than a weekend without drinking again. Wow. Is Terrible, isn’t it? From the age of fourteen until now, at thirty-three—or at least, that was my age when my journey in India began.

I don’t even want to start counting… But I lay all this out to say that what Goenka was talking about wasn’t something I merely understood in theory—it was something I could feel in every cell of my body, in every one of my ghosts, in every one of my fears.

That month in India was the longest period of abstinence from alcohol in my entire life, and paradoxically, instead of feeling proud, I was terrified.I could see the monster retreating, almost vanishing, but I could also see it poking its nose out of the darkness. I could hear it laughing, watching as it crouched, whispering to me that it was “only taking a nap,” and that it would take just one small trigger, one tiny everyday slip, for it to rise again in all its splendor—moving across the stage like a burlesque dancer. That in theory, everything sounded beautiful, but in the end, the proof is in the field.  And not only that—through clenched teeth—it told me I was weak.

The more sweets we eat, the more sweets we want. The more we drink, the more we want to keep drinking. The more we smoke, the more we need another cigarette. The more we desire material things, the more material things we crave. The more we buy, the more we feel we lack—and so the examples could go on.

The chain never ends. It is an endless chain. We live under the illusion that once we obtain what we believe we need, something will cease. But it doesn’t. The last stimulus reactivates the reaction, dopamine rises, and the circuit feeds back on itself, making us want more, more, and more.

So the idea Goenka proposed—that of cutting this chain backwards, preventing it from advancing and generating new reactions that, in turn, demand more “food”—made a lot of sense. To stop feeding it, to step back just enough to simply observe. To begin inhabiting stillness, and only then, from a place of calm and choice, to act—but diligently.

For psychology, it is a matter of willpower, of neurobiology, of defense mechanisms—and the list could go on, depending on each case and on each particular school of thought. For psychoanalysis, it is that structural lack we spoke of earlier that introduces us into the circuit of desire. Buddhism speaks of ignorance—that misunderstanding of the true nature of reality—and unless we are enlightened beings or have already spent many lifetimes working on it, in every single life we must transcend that ignorance.

We reincarnate and reincarnate in different bodies—different containers—within this cyclical wheel of Samsara—this school-life, as the Bhagavad-gita calls it—until we finally learn the lesson. Thus, each reincarnation is a unique opportunity to transcend that cycle of suffering. And the very fact of being born in human form is a blessing we take for granted—one we so often fail to make use of

The meditations during the retreat grew more and more intense—because yes, despite the long reflections that occupied my mind, my body was still in Vipassana. Perhaps that’s why everything felt so intense. The body kept hurting, each day in new places I hadn’t even known existed. Doubts, frustrations, and fears arose. Because even if everything sounded perfect and made sense, deep down, it was obviously frightening.

I had already quit smoking several times. I had also begged for a cigarette, desperate, after a few beers—more than once. I had already promised it would be just one. I had fallen back into the habit on many occasions. My mind was very sharp, but my impulsivity was just as determined. Almost always, the latter would win, and in a way, my mind had already lost credibility. Quitting alcohol, at least, was something I had never even attempted—never would I have dared go that far—and it wasn’t that this time I had set a concrete goal; it had just happened spontaneously. That gave me a certain lightness and a sense of improvisation.

In Rishikesh, and in much of India, alcohol is not well regarded publicly. In small towns there are hardly any night bars, nor is it so easy to find. The customs here are different: chai, kirtan, bhajan, aartis, Yoga, meditation, workshops of all kinds, ecstatic dance, cacao ceremonies, and so on—but in none of them is alcohol present. That detail, without me even looking for it, was like an extra gift.

—But what about when I return to “normal life”? —Because at some point I would have to return, or at least that’s what I believed…—What would happen then? Would you still feel this strong, this “over it”?

I knew I had several months of hibernation in the Indian bubble ahead, but just imagining myself near or inside a bar, with a little rock and roll and some friends, I could already feel the anxiety rising in my stomach.

—I’m still here, whispered the monster. Did you think I had disappeared?

My ego and I, in all its forms, were still scared shitless. Everything is easy when you’re inside an ashram, within a sphere of goodness, but the “real” world is a little more challenging than that—unless you decide to stay in India forever, or move to a carefully chosen place elsewhere. Both could be good options, and my mind played with them, but even so, my confidence in my own willpower was far too battered. What I didn’t know was that I was beginning a journey with a doorway in, but no exit. Well, in truth, I did know—and I think that was what scared me the most.

“Keep practicing to be successful,” Goenka used to say. Of course, what else could we do? Well, thinking about it, we could actually do many things. We can always do many things...

When do pleasures become craving? When is a new point of attraction created? Can we live without pleasures? Should we live without pleasures, or just learn how to deal with them better? Are my morning sweet cookies my new craving? What would happen to my mornings if they were gone? Was Joan my craving? Did I love him, or did I need him? Do we even know how to distinguish between loving and needing?

Is that why I messed up so much?

Reality asked us questions and gifted us with lessons at every step.Lessons sometimes hurt, and then we don’t want to learn so much anymore. Learning from them is a choice, but the lessons themselves we cannot avoid—they simply appear.

I was beginning to understand that the only way to find true peace was through surrendering our stubborn desires and accepting things as they are. Clinging to the satisfaction of our desires means struggling for reality to adapt to them, and if we don’t have the detachment and equanimity needed, we generate more tension—sometimes a permanent state of life. And in any state of tension, it is very difficult to find peace. Calmness, then, was not only about stopping the wheel we were trapped in, but rather about accepting its movements, finding an anchor somewhere inside that would allow us to inhabit peace without having to stop the wheel. And yes, of course, that anchor had to be found within ourselves.

In a way, that was a relief, because we can’t always stop the wheel—or our lives—and probably stopping it isn’t even the exact solution we need.The key was rather in how to accommodate fluidity with movement.

—We are not our wheel of thoughts… then why do we identify with it?—Kaare said in one of those sessions I loved so much—Close your eyes, imagine yourselves sitting in the center of the wheel and find there the stillness you are searching for.

I don’t know if that’s what he meant, but in my mind I had imagined a giant Ferris wheel, and I had the chance to sit at its very center, right at its “axis,” the place where all the movement begins. A stable, safe, comfortable place from where I could watch everything moving. The different compartments-matters spun around me: work, love, future, family, money, etc. But I wasn’t inside them, I was somewhere else—in the center, in my center—watching everything with enough distance and calm to find new perspectives.From where I was sitting, the wheel could be seen for what it was: a play of elements. Dismantlable and functional.

And then there was the remote control. I didn’t know where it had come from, but I had it in my pocket—and I realized I had always had it. With that control I could sometimes slow the wheel down, stop it, turn off the light of some compartments when they became unbearable, or turn on others. If I wanted, I could climb into one, or get off and move around, but always knowing where my original place was: the center. The axis. The place of the observer.