Day Zero. My hand shoots up ‘enthusiastically and emphatically’ (the
centre manager’s words) when the request for an old student to sound the
first gong is asked for. In the lead up, I have tried not to let
thoughts roll around in my head of ’do I really want to’, or ‘will
anyone else want to’. I am happy to give way — especially if another
student has never gonged before. This time I am the only female
volunteer. I request an additional alarm clock.
Day One. I
collect the key and proceed to the Dhamma Hall. That — and every
subsequent — morning I am very careful where I tread, moving any worms,
snails or stationary spiders out the way of impending sleepy feet. I
unlock the Dhamma Hall, double, triple checking I have absolutely and
definitely unlocked the Assistant Teacher’s door. I studiously sweep
away any late-night petals from the floor. Equanimously as possible, I
observe the satisfactory sensations of this honour to be the unseen
start of the meditator’s day. I am never not pleased to do it, even if
those few seconds when the first alarm clock goes off tells me
otherwise. Shelley S
I then sit and relish that blanket of nurturing
stillness and silence that will be broken shortly to give way to a
different kind of quiet. I reverently gaze at the moon and starlit sky,
soaking in the splendour of the Milky Way and unknown star
constellations that jump out at me on a backdrop of moonbeams.
Most mornings I marvel at animals racing, scampering, hopping and
bounding across the grass, through plants and up trees, in and out of
shrubs and bushes, taking their last exuberant — and often frantic —
dance before the day begins. A rabbit sits less than a couple of metres
away, more stationary than I, staring inquisitively at me. I work hard
to contain the quivering feelings of bliss as I don’t want to scare it
away. More Ānāpana. I hope there are no hungry foxes wanting breakfast
in close proximity.
One cloudless morning, I see two shooting
stars, separate chunks of space debris ending their unknown galactical
travels in tandem. It isn’t always clear skies — the changing
atmospheres evoking different qualities, startlingly apparent in such
stillness. The gong tones also changing, connected to their environment.
One morning everything is muffled by mist, on another the melodic tune
of different rain drops rings clear. Whatever the weather I am always
humbled by the opportunity to witness nature’s ever-changing song,
grateful for the sharpness of mind that this meditation provides.
4:00 am. Time for the first Gong Walk. I usually wait for the Big Gong
(keeping a close eye on time), but do delight when my first strike is in
tandem. It’s a soothing reminder that, like our meditation, we practice
alone, but also together. I resist the temptation to gong out ‘Twinkle
Twinkle Little Star’ (the triangle was always my favourite instrument at
school), and focus on patiently, persistently and consistently
connecting wooden hammer head to side of metal gong.
Gently,
yet strongly, I strike, ever mindful not to gong ‘too’ closely to
upright students (the sound can be quite jarring to half asleep heads).
At most, a soft tap if the sound is in danger of stopping, as I like to
wrap the campus — and myself — in continuous vibration.
I am
sympathetically mindful of the unseen student groaning daily at that
first gong, hoping they will come to love the sound (like me) by the end
of the course. But they may already, so I check the projections of my
wild mind and remind myself that I still have work to do to gain — and
stay — in reality with the freedom that universal truth brings. No
groaning from day nine.
It takes seven minutes to do that first
round, I now have thirteen until the next. I sit out of the way,
experiencing that transition from first silence of the day. I also hope
my dark, often hooded, stationary figure doesn’t scare anyone.
4:20 am. I start the second circuit. Trundling around, I encounter many
more scurrying students attempting to be mindful of as they travel to
the bathrooms or to the meditation hall. And they are definitely awake. I
have fulfilled my duty.