Chp. 4 from "Inner Pilgrimage: Ten Days to a Mindful Me" is previewed in this Book Excerpt.

1. Day Three: Sit, Breathe, Feel
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Day Three: Sit, Breathe, Feel
The early morning routine is beginning to strengthen my
sense of awareness. No sooner does the gong clang at 4:00 A.M.
than I arise, shower, and set off to the dhamma hall.
Last night, Goenkaji instructed us to focus our attention on the
triangular indentation located between the end of the nostrils and
the upper lip, or the philtrum, and to become aware of any kind of
sensation there. The conjecture here is that if the mind is centered
enough to feel sensations in a very small area of the body, then the
individual is ready to receive the vipassana technique. A tide of
excitement flutters my heart as I step into the dhamma hall. I’m
dying to know what vipassana is and how to practice it.
I’m beginning to like the 4:30 meditation. The serenity of the
outdoors fills the room, casting an enchanting spell on the
meditator. Snifflers, sneezers, and coughers are greatly reduced in
number as two-thirds of the crowd are not in attendance. The air
conditioner activates only after 8:00 A.M. Interruptions being
minimal, I fall silent nearly immediately.
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2. Inner Pilgrimage: Ten Days to a Mindful Me
Getting the mind to focus on a narrow area such as the
philtrum is no small task, as it turns out. I attempt it, but my nose
keeps getting in the way! Not that I have a large nose or anything,
it’s just that it gets between the area of focus and my “sight.” I
imagine detaching my mind from my body, setting it directly
across from me, and observing the triangular upper-lip area from
the outside. Needless to say, this is colossally confusing.
Frustrated, I start over. I take off the philtrum from my face and
visualize it in front of me. Then I try to observe it as if I’m staring
into somebody else’s face. As it turns out, this isn’t a very good
idea either. My frustration is up several notches. “How do I do
this? Nothing seems to work.” The out-of-sight success frazzles
me. I’m very close to giving up when I remember Goenkaji’s
words.
With a deep breath, I calmly and patiently recalibrate the lens
of my mind’s “eye,” aiming it directly at the indentation in my
upper lip, ignoring the silhouette of my nose and disregarding my
physical discomfort. I do this over and over. As the seconds turn
into minutes, I get comfortable with the idea of watching my
upper lip. I don’t feel any sensations yet, but I can smell success
and I know it’s within reach.
As the early morning sitting comes to a close, the rumble of
the audio rolls through the room. I quickly become absorbed in
the chanting. The Hindi couplets Goenkaji sings are profound and
poignant, and resonate the teachings of Eastern philosophies. It’s
not nearly as torturous as the nights before. In fact, my body
sways back and forth as if it were enjoying the melody. I’m
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3. Day Three: Sit, Breathe, Feel
surprised as earlier I disliked his singing. I still do. I mean, who
wants to listen to a melodically bland song? That’s just my
opinion, of course. Anyway, his singing is quite palatable now.
At breakfast, for the first time today, a sense of presence
washes over me. I wait patiently in line, bereft of any ill feeling
toward those ahead of me who need extra time to fill up their
bowls. If they set their grimy plates or spoons on the counter, I
pick them up, promptly, willingly, and stick them in the
dishwashing rack. I take the time to mindfully eat my oatmeal,
one spoon at a time, experiencing its texture on my palate and
swallowing it with a sense of gratitude.
Following breakfast, as I strut back to the cottage, a scene in
the meadow stops me in my tracks, captivating my senses. In the
meadow, an expanse of bright, golden dandelions beams in the
warm sunlight, a light breeze rippling the supple stalks, rendering
a performance that is jubilant, soul-stirring. Butterflies, orange,
brown, copper, fan their delicate wings and siphon the flowers’
nectar. They flutter about, flying up and dropping down,
delighting in their heavenly dance. I watch with bated breath,
knitting my eyebrows, deep in thought, wondering why I haven’t
noticed this resplendence before.
Back in the quarter, I reach over to the tissue box and pull out
a tissue. My stuffed-up nose has been irritating me since dawn. I
blow into the tissue to relieve the obstruction. Blood comes
squirting out and falls into the tissue, making a brilliant red spot
on the crisp, white surface. My reaction at the sudden sight of
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4. Inner Pilgrimage: Ten Days to a Mindful Me
blood is surprise, shock, confusion, and alarm. “Gosh! I’ve never
had a nose-bleed before. Why is it bleeding? How long is it going
to bleed? How do I stop it?” As I wipe my nose dry, I remember
that the teacher had asked about sensations in the nose yesterday.
“Oh, that’s what it’s about.” It’s an expected outcome of the
focused breathing. I drop the used tissue in the garbage can and
visit the bathroom before heading out. On the counter lie several
white plastic tubes with the sign, “Saline water. For nasal rinsing.”
I step outside. “Think I should do some stretches.” I exhale
and spread my legs three to four feet apart, then turn my legs,
feet, and torso to the right so my hips face my right leg. On a
second exhalation, as I bend my torso and bring my left hand
down to the ground by my right foot, a big bug, perhaps a beetle,
nearly two inches long, purplish black, fierce, vigilant, on all
eights, like a warrior, crawls out from under the bushes and
marches toward me. I stare, eyes wide open, legs frozen, and
lungs tightened, as it approaches me. It crawls right under me,
seemingly unaffected by my presence, and then inches forward as
if preparing to attack an invisible enemy. Ordinarily, I would have
screamed and scampered off at the sight of an insect that size. But
today, I un-pretzel myself, arise, and watch the bug crawl away
and disappear under a clump of dry leaves and twigs. My mind
feels stable, alert, untouched by fear.
© Raji Lukkoor, 2011. All rights reserved.
More information at http://www.rajilukkoor.com
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