After I returned from my first ten-day Vipassana course, my husband signed up for the next one, amazed by the changes in my character and attitude. Last November we attended a course together at Dhamma Dharā in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts. We felt excited about the opportunity to deepen our practice. It was my husband’s second course and my third.
I am an elderly Jewish woman who entered marriage for the first time in her fifties and has no family apart from my husband. I tend to worry excessively about him. I wondered how attending this course together would affect our relationship. While we had always been affectionate and compatible, we sought greater closeness and understanding. After I began to meditate, I became less demanding of him and appreciated my unique position as his wife. After all, I was the only person in the universe married to this remarkable man who had practiced yoga and lived in an ashram.
Upon entering the meditation hall on day one, I scanned the men’s area for my husband. I forgot that I wasn’t supposed to do so. Meditators are required to listen to the teacher’s instructions and practice as if they were alone at the center. It was a very challenging directive for me. I reminded myself to concentrate on my sensations, but my mind kept wandering to the men’s side of the room and weaving stories about what my husband might be going through: “Was he comfortable on that plastic chair? Did he have enough cushions for support?” The slightest distraction seemed to pull me away from my practice. Once I finally reassured myself that he was fine, I closed my eyes and started concentrating. Noticing my habit of worrying about him, I began observing my thoughts as they surfaced and, over time, recognized how they gradually faded away. This process of self-awareness and introspection was a key part of my meditation journey, allowing me to delve deeper into my thoughts and feelings.
I expressed concern about my husband’s dietary requirements during my first interview with the teacher. She assured me they were being taken care of, and encouraged me to relax and allow the teachers and the center’s volunteers to care for him. It was a revelation to realize how much energy I devoted to thinking about my husband.
The sound of the gong marked the day. It invited us to rise at four o’clock in the morning, signaled when a meditation period was about to begin, and called us for our two daily meals. During breakfast, I focused on my oatmeal instead of the women around me, signifying a notable change in my behavior. Typically, I’m curious about others—what they eat, how they dress, and whether they seem friendly toward me. Now, each meal was exclusively about my nourishment and meditation. My senses became attuned. The prunes in my mouth felt plump and juicy, and the local, organic apples were crisp and sweet. The aromas of home cooking during lunch and the clinking of the utensils among the other silent students blended into my meditation.
On the fourth day, as we entered the meditation hall to learn the Vipassana meditation technique, I glanced over to where my husband usually sat, only to discover his empty seat. As the session began, I felt a sinking sensation overpowering me. Although surrounded by scores of meditators, I felt lonely. I had promised my husband that I would see the retreat through to the end and never leave without him. If necessary, I would keep going for both of us. A tear rolled down my cheek as I followed the instructions, shifting my focus from one sensation to another. After almost two hours of meditation, I hurried to my teacher and asked anxiously, “How is my husband?” She smiled and reassured me, “He’s fine.” I continued, my voice strained, “But his chair is empty!” She replied calmly, “He changed his seat to avoid disturbing other meditators.” I turned around, feeling a mix of joy and self-criticism. “He’s in good hands,” I thought. “He just switched seats.” That incident was pivotal in building trust in my teachers. I could finally take a break from caring for my husband.
As the days progressed, I grew more comfortable with the routine. When I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, it became calmer and slower. I tuned into my sensations, scanning my body from top to bottom and from bottom to top, noticing how the intensity of my sensations changed. I established a rhythm of meditating in my cell in the pagoda to feel a closer connection to our past lineage of teachers. When I wanted to experience the atmosphere generated by the entire group outside of our three daily group meditation sessions, I returned to the meditation hall. During each session, I altered my posture less often and felt more at ease sitting without movement for an entire hour. If I felt tired, I meditated, lying down in my room.
The breaks between meditation periods and meals last a few minutes to two hours. One day, I stepped outside to glimpse the stunning beauty of the meditation center after its first snowfall. The grounds were pristine and vibrant. Trees and bushes were in various stages of shedding leaves. I don’t ordinarily connect with plants, but with heightened awareness, I began to sense the uniqueness of each flower, bush, and tree. I felt a strong connection to the tall grasses bent by the snow, noting how they slowly yet remarkably rose to bask in the benevolent sun, breathed the air, and seemed to appreciate each other’s presence. I stood before a birch tree. The texture of its bark varied along the surface and exhibited shifting shades of brown, ranging from deep reddish to ashen. For several minutes I observed a spider crawling on its surface. The little creature seemed as confident in its movement as I felt stepping along the path. Once the break ended, I returned to meditate in my pagoda cell. Later, I discovered my husband hadn’t adapted to his; he found it confining and uncomfortably warm. Instead, he opted to meditate with others in the large hall. Practicing separately allowed us to get what we needed without sacrificing our preferences.
On the tenth day of the course, I finally faced him. He looked alert and confident. “I had a fantastic experience,” he said. Each morning, he meditated in the meditation hall. His dietary needs had been well addressed. He had met his teacher daily and had formed a strong bond that he was eager to maintain into the future. He said that throughout the course he had learned to accept his limitations and trusted that Vipassana meditation was his path to spiritual growth.
Since returning home, meditating together has become a cherished daily habit that helps us navigate the hurdles, large and small, that we face throughout the day. We listen attentively to each other and quickly regain our composure when we become preoccupied with the need to be right. Last Saturday, as I was retreating from an argument, my husband immediately called out, “Please come back!” When I turned around and hugged him, he said, “I don’t want to spend the rest of the day regretting the good times we could have shared.” I buried my nose in the nape of his neck and relaxed.
My reliance on my husband has evolved. Now there are new areas where his wisdom nurtures my growth in Dhamma. One evening, I left my cell phone in the car and felt uncertain about meditating without its virtual guidance. I usually use the Daily Practice feature on the dhamma.org app for meditation. I was at a loss about meditating without it. My husband suggested that I simply set a one-hour timer and proceed independently. I did, and the empowering experience felt quite different without the teacher’s voice guiding me through my sensations.
My husband is resting while I write. Our home feels calm and serene. Everything seems perfect, even as it continues to change. We have attained this comfort through shared spiritual work, including meditating together during that ten-day retreat at Dhamma Dharā. Thank you, Dhamma.
Aviva Derenowski