In the summer of 2020 when the country was shutting down and Vipassana Centers were becoming more restrictive, I figured it was a good time to meditate on my own for ten days. In the woods. After all, didn’t the Buddha say, “Go meditate in the woods.” Or more precisely, in the Mahāsatipaṭṭhāna Sutta he said, “Here a monk, having gone into the forest, or to the foot of a tree, or to an empty room, sits down cross-legged, keeps his body upright and fixes his awareness in the area around the mouth.”
Okay, where to go? The summer wildfires around Eugene, Oregon helped narrow down my choices. Almost the entire Pacific Northwest was experiencing poor air quality, except for one patch in the southwest corner of Oregon: a region called Siskiyou National Forest just a few miles inland from the coast. Having learned that “dispersed camping” was permitted in National Forests throughout the USA, I decided this would be a smart and economical way to sit a course. Into my minivan I packed enough gear, food, and water for two weeks, and drove the three-hour stretch ending with the small towns of Remote, Bridge, Gaylord, and Powers, before veering onto Forest Service Road 3358 which took me by a trailhead claiming, “The World’s Largest Port Orford Cedar Tree.” Just a few miles on I turned onto an even more rugged road and found a clearing up on a hill. No bathroom, no water, no picnic table. Just a flat grassy mossy area surrounded by massive evergreen trees. The ditch I had to drive through to reach the site was too steep, and I ended up having to shovel dirt into it so that my old van could get through.
Arriving with only an hour of daylight, it was a rush to get my tent set up and a tarp tied to four trees before nightfall. There was no relaxed orientation after a light dinner or waiting patiently to be called into the Dhamma Hall to find your cushion, like you get on Day 0 at a center. It was lonely hard work getting my campsite set up.
A common thread over the next ten days was deep loneliness. I occasionally heard the calls of a vulture in one of the trees. Not exactly the cheerful chirping of songbirds. My companions were the silent banana slugs that I found every morning when I crawled out of the tent. Slime trails going up my tent, across my fold-up kitchen table, occasionally finding a slug in my tea mug or bowl. It was a quiet, wet, lonely environment, and for someone who gravitates toward solitude I was surprised to see my mind get the better of me. So many nights I lay in the tent with fears of abduction (I heard a wha-wha-wha sound coming from the nearby trees only to discover later on that it was the pulse inside my own ears), or fear of drunken locals attacking my camp. Every morning when the light returned, my fears dissipated, but it was a challenge every night.
The place had a few things going for it, though. It was quiet, had amazingly clean air, and supported my self-elected solitude. There were also, however, many downsides, namely, a lot of chores. I spent large amounts of time keeping the camp in order, cooking, and cleaning. Perhaps due to immaturity in my meditation, a lack of sufficient paramis, unsupportive dhamma vibrations at the site, or mere chance, I never achieved deep samadhi or insight throughout the entire course. My choice to meditate in these woods was based on air quality, but over the course of my time there, I felt the woods lacked other qualities supportive of a meditative practice. If I attempt another self course in the wilderness, I will first scout the area and meditate in that place for a day or two to see if it feels suitable.
Solo camp course versus a 10-day course at Dhamma Kunja? Dhamma Kunja wins in all the important categories: deeper samadhi and insight, stronger awareness and equanimity, easier development of sīla and paramis. Camping surpassed only in adventure, being out of my comfort zone, and self-discipline in an otherwise unstructured environment. I’m not sure if those are qualities I should be trying to develop on my path, although I could make a case that exploring new places that takes me out of my comfort zone may enhance my ability to cope with dukkha.
What about sitting a self-course in a cozier setting, instead of pitching a tent in the middle of nowhere? I’ve done that too. Twice. Both times were in my own home. The big advantage there was that it required no commute to a Center, and I could choose all my favorite foods for breakfast and lunch, including eggs. Other benefits included cultivating a good amount of self-discipline by maintaining possession of digital devices but never once opening a computer or phone, adhering to the daily schedule without bells or others to prompt me, and infusing my home with good dhamma vibrations. Also, the only guy burping, coughing, and sighing in my meditation hall was me. Going for walks without running into neighbors was tricky, so I confined those to dawn and dusk. There were also challenges not featured at Dhamma centers, such as the temptations of my artwork, rocks, gems, and garden. That’s one big advantage of going to a center: sense door distractions are kept to a minimum so I can more readily contend with my own mind.
Home course versus a 10-day course at Dhamma Kunja? Dhamma Kunja wins in all the important categories, especially renunciation, since at a center I must humbly accept what is given during mealtimes. All the servers working in the kitchen on our behalf provide us with such a unique opportunity.
With that said, I have learned a lot from my self-courses, some of which might prove helpful for others interested in sitting one of their own. For one, if you have someone who is willing to cook and wash dishes for you, that would be a big help. Those activities ate up a lot of precious time, energy, and thought. If you can sit in a space that has already been used as a dedicated meditation area, that would also be a great help. As for the basic structure of your self-course, I recommend going through all parts of the process, including taking refuge in the Triple Gem, receiving Anapana and Vipassana at the usual times, and communicating with an AT. For group sits, I was reluctant to play the recordings because they include metta sessions at the end, but in the future. I will observe even details such as these. I also would not play Goenka Dohas when I wanted a little “music,” as I later felt almost as if I had cheated. A fellow server shared with me that they are played every morning during breakfast at some Vipassana centers in India, though, so perhaps it’s okay to customize a self-course to make it more conducive to meditation rather than try to mirror a Center in the West down to the last detail.
I am intrigued by the life of dhutanga monks from the pre-deforestation days of Thailand who wandered the primeval forest on an ascetic journey that amounted to an endless self-course, with their small band of fellow meditators all resolutely walking the path of Dhamma. I know those idyllic forest meditation settings are gone, or nearly gone, but nonetheless hope that something similar to those meditative experiences exists here in the Pacific Northwest of the USA, where we might experience a wandering monk self-course. Although I deeply value the centers and specifically the group sits, I am curious about what those monks found in their peaceful caves, meadows, and forests, meditating in open air, away from people.
I know my experiment with self-courses is not over, but for now I’m going to take advantage of the power of the centers. It’s there that I can charge my dhammic battery and be empowered to practice anywhere and anytime, so that when the time comes, I can once again venture off into unknown territory or, better yet, known territory well-situated for meditation—maybe even a place that has a resident deva or two who will sprinkle some dhammic vibes on me while I tread the path of insight. In the meantime, I’m content and thankful for the existence of dhamma centers, and will satisfy my desire to wander with annual summer pilgrimages to Dhamma Passava in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. It’s much farther than Dhamma Kunja, far enough that by the time I arrive—after camping and slowly traveling through the sparsely populated mountains and desert— I feel more like a humble seeker, and less like the urban worldly creature I am.
