The sockeye salmon is one of the most tenacious animals on the planet. The name “sockeye” is an anglicisation of the Indigenous Coast Salish word suk-kegh, which means red fish, since both the male and female turn from silver to bright red when ready to spawn.
After sockeye eggs hatch, they turn into fry and remain in the freshwater estuary of a creek or river, or in a nearby lake, for a year or two, after which they transition to the smolt stage and migrate into the ocean. They swim north along the British Columbia coast feeding on zooplankton and growing in size, pass through Alaskan waters and enter the Bering Sea. From there, they follow a current rich in food that takes them towards Japan.
After a few years, they follow different currents that take them back to the coast of Alaska, down along the British Columbia coast, and to the very stream in which they were born. Only two per cent of them make it. Everything they do is so that they can spawn, ensuring that another generation will continue.
After they spawn, the fish die within a few hours. Their decaying bodies leave nutrients in the water to help feed their eggs after they hatch. Sockeye salmon have been doing this for at approximately five million years.
It’s amazing that they can somehow find their way back to the identical stream in which they were born, at the precise time that they are ready to spawn. I am in awe, and feel a deep love for them, as I find their determination and persistence inspiring.
In the fall of 1973, when I was 20 years old, I decided to take a four and a half month trip from Vancouver to the Far East. I planned to go to Japan and Hong Kong, and then let the winds take me wherever it felt right. Like the Sockeye, I would cross the Pacific, follow my karmic currents, and return home a changed being—although I never thought in those terms then. But I did hope that I would learn from other cultures and carry back with me whatever I found to be good.
In Hong Kong I met a young man who told me that he had recently arrived from India. I had read books about India and listened to audiotapes by Baba Ram Das. I was very curious about the country because, unlike in Canada where I lived, Indians seemed to focus on trying to understand the mind instead of emphasizing the fitness of the body, which is what I did.
I mentioned this to him. He told me of a man named Mr. Goenka who taught a course about reality. “Reality? What the heck is reality?” I asked. He admitted that he didn’t know. To find Mr. Goenka, he suggested that I fly to Calcutta, take a train to Gaya, and from there a bus to Bodhgaya.
He himself had never taken a course because he liked his hashish and had been told that he must stop taking drugs for at least two weeks beforehand. He also said that he noticed people’s eyes were brighter when the course ended. I was so taken that someone was actually teaching a course on reality that I cancelled my plans to go to the Philippines. I was off to India.
When I arrived in Calcutta, all the railway workers seemed to be on strike except those working the train to Gaya. I travelled third class. I had a guitar and a small set of bongo drums in my backpack. I took out the drums and started tapping away, and soon the energy in the coach changed completely. People asked if they could have a try; they started singing. It was wonderful listening to them. Then I took out my guitar and played some songs. It was fantastic.
Sometime afterwards the train stopped. A fellow passenger conjectured that this train’s crew was also now on strike. I looked outside the window and said, “Here? We’re in a desert!” He brushed off my remark with a look that said it was just another day in India.
He pointed out some buildings in the hazy distance and told me that was Gaya, and that I could walk there. I trusted him, so I packed up my belongings, said goodbye to my new friends and off I went.
While trudging along in the heat I saw a man sitting cross-legged on the sand, meditating under the hot sun. He had short crutches positioned under his arms to keep his back straight. I was quite impressed by that. He never moved as I went past. I wondered what he was thinking as he heard me come and go. I would have opened my eyes to see who or what was making the noise, but his remained closed.
When I arrived in Gaya I found a bus to Bodhgaya. It was packed with Indians, and people from Tibet, Nepal and Bhutan, as well as some Westerners. Someone named the Dalai Lama was soon to deliver an important talk. I had never heard of him, but Bodhgaya was charged with expectant energy.
Asking around after Mr. Goenka, I was directed to the Burmese Vihara. As I entered, other Westerners were leaving. When I inquired about Mr. Goenka, I was told that his course had just ended and that he had already left. However, another course would begin the following day. The teacher was to be a man named Robert Hover, who had been taught by the same teacher as Mr. Goenka. After that, no other such courses would be conducted in Bodh Gaya until next year. The course was called Vipassana.
Later on I realized that Mr. Hover was the same person whom Goenkaji talked about during one of his discourses, the man who bounced on his shoulders in his meditation cell when Sayagyi U Ba Khin and Goenka checked on him, the same man who helped develop intercontinental ballistic missiles.
I was accepted and the volunteer staff assigned me to a room where I slept on a bed made of straw. Above me, in the top corner of the room, were several large spiders, but for some reason I wasn’t afraid of them.
Before the course began I met Mr. Hover. I told him that this was the first time I had done anything even remotely similar. But not to worry, I had come from a great distance and would do everything he asked of me regarding his teaching. I also informed him that I had decided to fast during the course. It wasn’t something I had done before but seemed the right thing to do. He tried to dissuade me, but I wouldn’t listen.
As the course began, Mr. Hover told everyone, “You have just finished a course. We are going to take this one to the next level.” I thought to myself, “Well, this is my first course. Should I be going to the next level? Oh well, I’ll do as he says and then judge my experience after it’s over.”
It was the most challenging thing I had ever done. The desire to move, to relieve the physical pain and yet remain still, was intense. But I had travelled this far, so I was going to go for it. I found that taking slow, deep breaths helped me focus during anapana, and my agitation eventually dissipated.
A couple of days after the Vipassana instructions, we were asked to sweep our awareness of bodily sensations from the top of the head to the tips of the toes in one breath. I could do that. When the teacher was checking us on day six to see how focussed we were, he asked us to concentrate on an earlobe and see what sensations we were experiencing in that area. I remember thinking, “Which part of the earlobe are you talking about?” My mind was so concentrated that an earlobe seemed like a huge area. As my attention went there, the sensations sizzled as if my mind were a welding torch.
As a child, I used to watch the sky and see tiny bubbles bursting in the air. Other endless bubbles took their place and also burst. I spent hours doing this. I asked my friends whether they could see them too. None could, nor did they care. But the experience stayed with me. The bubbles that I had seen bursting in the air when I was a child were now doing the same in my body, only much faster.
I followed all the instructions and did everything the teacher asked. I had no idea that I could concentrate like this. I didn’t know it was possible to be so alert and in the moment. It became clear to me that this meditation technique was very special and offered so much potential for my daily life. I realized that Vipassana could help me overcome my doubts and fears and become a better person. It was life-changing! I felt genuinely alive for the first time in my life. I still get goosebumps thinking about it.
At the end of the course, I landed like a duck on water. Like a sockeye salmon, I had travelled very far and finally arrived back at my natal stream. All my wanderings and life experiences had brought me here. I was finally home.
Returning home, after some time, I started work as a realtor. But I was quite shy, so talking to strangers was a challenge. When I called my first customer, I hung up the phone as he said “Hello.” I immediately swept my body, observing the fear and doubt that I’d generated until they passed away. I recalled the impermanence of everything.
After the third phone call, fear no longer had control of me. Within two months I was the top salesperson in my office. Two years later I was the top salesperson for my company in the province, and then one of the leading salespersons in North America.
Vipassana helped me to take on a greater workload, yet I still had time for my family. It helped too when Goenkaji told me that being a realtor was an important and worthy occupation.
Years later I realized it was not luck that had brought me to my first Vipassana course. It was supposed to happen. Look closely at your experience. You will see it’s the same for you.
It’s been more than fifty-one years since that first course. Meditation has shaped my life in so many ways. Because of Vipassana, instead of blindly reacting to my thoughts and feelings as I had done before, I’m able to be more equanimous, more proactive.
Vipassana also showed me how important sila is. It’s the foundation of the home that you are trying to build. If you are inattentive to your morals, the foundation of your home will crumble. If you are harming yourself and others, it’s hard to be aware in the moment or to be happy.
Since taking that first Vipassana course, I feel that I’m a kinder, more caring, patient and generous person. I’m not afraid to love and be loved. I’m not afraid to tell the truth. And I’m not afraid of people who are different than I am. If anything, our differences make me want to know more about them. If I see a racist or bigot harming or being mean to someone, I no longer walk away as I did in my younger years. Now I jump in and try to stop it.
With the help of this wonderful Vipassana technique, my life is much happier, both with the good and with the unpleasant things that I experience.
It’s difficult living the life of a human. We humans are constantly wanting things that we don’t have and rejecting things that we don’t want. This is the cause of most of our suffering. But keep smiling, because whatever it is that you’re experiencing, good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant, it’s changing quickly—anicca!—and then it’s gone.
