The Journey to Nilambe

After a month at home enjoying the pleasant weather of the cool season, Dan announced at the beginning of March that he and Thilak needed to go back up north do conduct more interviews. For this trip, he had an intense schedule of rituals and interviews planned. I considered coming along and lounging by the tank, but I felt I would only be in the way. Not wanting to be alone in the house for several days, I opened my Lonely Planet Sri Lanka and began to review my options. Looking at the “In and Around Kandy” section I was reminded of the various meditation centers tucked into the hills of the tea country. All of them required at least a ten-day time commitment except for one, Nilambe. “I can just go for two days and two nights,” I told myself. “If I hate it then I can always call Manju and he will come and take me home,” I reasoned with myself.

“I went to Nilambe as as ISLE student when I was here as an undergrad,” Dan commented when I relayed my intention to him. “There was some crazy British guy named Rick there. He would start to have seizures and things when he was meditating. I asked him how often he got into town and he looked at me as though I had asked him how often he gets over to the Moon,” Dan paused, rolling his eyes. “A group of us went up there for the day and stayed for the evening conversation when all of the sheltered little hippies talked about how threatened they felt that we were there,” he finished disdainfully. “But it is really beautiful up there, I think that you should go,” he added encouragingly.

“I think it’ll be good for me,” I agreed. “I feel like it’s time for me to get out and see something. Plus, if I hate it there, Manju can always come and get me and bring me home.”

That evening I went to Nilambe’s website to get an idea of what to pack. The website had a “Day at Nilambe” link. I clicked the link and found the following schedule illustrated with a few candid pictures:

4:45 wake-up gong

5-6 group meditation

6-6:30 tea

6:30-7:30 yoga

7:30-8:00 breakfast

8:00-9:15 working meditation

9:30-11:00 group meditation

11:00-12:00 individual outdoor meditation

12:00 lunch served

12:00-2:30 library open/free time

2:30-4:00 group meditation

4:00-4:30 tea/right speech

4:30-5:30 yoga

5:30-6:30 individual outdoor meditation

6:30-7:30 chanting and group meditation

7:30-8:00 snack

8:00-9:30 discussion and metta meditation

“If I hate it, then Manju can come and get me any time,” I told myself again after reading the schedule and feeling a worried knot form in my stomach. It seemed like spiritual boot camp. Wouldn’t it be better to work up into meditating four times a day rather than plunge into a retreat clinging the side of a mountain? Wouldn’t it be better to be a meditator at all to start with? I rationalized as I threw a blanket, flashlight, and some warm clothes into a small duffle bag.

Dan arranged for Manju to come for me at 8 AM, the same time Thilak was coming to get Dan to go to the north. Nilambe was only 13 km outside of Kandy, but Manju predicted that the trip would take an hour and a half due to road conditions. Looking at the familiar back of Manju’s head as we started out of town in the three-wheeler I forced myself to review the ways in which I might be prepared for the experience, attempting to combat my deep sense of utter dread. I reminded myself that I had been doing yoga for five years and currently practiced yoga for 90 minutes a day four days a week. None of the meditation sessions were longer than 90 minutes, so I reasoned I already had the ability to focus for that length of time. In the eight-limbed path of yoga, posture practice or “asana” practice, is supposed to prepare the body for meditation. The translation of “asana” literally means “seat.” In theory, by practicing yoga I should have been preparing my seat for sitting practice of breathing and meditation. As the road wound up into the tea country I also reminded myself that I was no stranger to meditation. I learned and practiced my first meditation techniques when I was 17 years old and still in high school. I had a tape that I would play on my walkman that instructed me to envision myself at the bottom of a pond and watch my thoughts go up like bubbles and vanish at the surface. I had done my tape on and off until I got to college. Once in college I had found a meditation group I had participated in a few times, but my main memory of this group was back fatigue from trying to sit up straight for half an hour. After my second year of school, my seated meditation practice had fallen away completely.

Manju negotiated the three-wheeler around huge Tata buses, lorries, and cars on the slender but paved road that wound higher and higher into the mountains. I recognized the tall tea bushes of an abandoned estate lining the sides of the road. At a functioning estate the tea bushes are cut almost back to the ground every seven years. I also reminded myself that Nilmabe encouraged the practice of yoga whereas many Buddhist centers expressly forbid it on the premise that yogic austerities run counter to the goals of Buddhism. I was encouraged by Nilambe’s more liberal approach.

When we made the turn-off to Nilambe, the road seemed to disintegrate completely. In some places the paving stones held together, and in other places gaping ruts traversed the road. I felt horrible for the wear and tear on the little three-wheeler as I listened to the strain on the engine and loose rocks flying up to hit the chassis. When we left the main road, I realized that we had obviously turned into a managed tea estate with well-trimmed bushes flourishing under the shade of a few tall trees and jasmine bushes flaunting their delicate white flowers.

When we reached the top of the terrible incline at around 9:30 AM, I saw a tiny garden and a few low buildings built into a natural shelf in the side of the mountain. When an older British woman who looked like a spinster librarian in a small English town came out the greet me, I said goodbye to Manju and he headed back to Kandy. “Hello there,” she said, looking at the ground. I introduced myself and told her that I wanted to stay for two nights. “Right then. I’m Jeanne. Let’s go to the office and get you set up,” she replied, continuing to look at the ground. I followed her to the first of the small buildings. She had a seat behind a desk and I sat on a bench across from her. “There’s a copy of the schedule there on the wall,” she told me, indicating to the laminated itinerary outlining the day as I had seen it on the website. “It’s pretty ambitious,” she commented. “But not as ambitious as some.”

“Yes, I saw the schedule on the website,” I replied.

“Ah yes, I see, that’s very good,” Jeanne remarked. “So you have some idea. When I first came up here and saw the schedule I headed right back down the mountain!” she laughed and met my gaze for the first time.

“Well, you must have come back up at some point,” I replied. “How long have you been here?” I asked.

“I go home to England in the summers, but other than that, for 18 years,” she replied. “Do you have any questions about the schedule?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “What is the outdoor meditation?”

“That’s when you are meant to go out and enjoy nature on your own,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Lots of people here skip it, but I think they shouldn’t do that. That is your time to really be alone. Most people aren’t used to being alone you know. The founding teacher here, Godwin, used to say that meditation is seeing how long it takes to get bored with yourself,” she paused to chuckle at the memory. “I think that the outdoor meditations, being alone in nature, are a good way to try that out,” she finished and handed me a form on a clipboard to fill out. I suddenly felt very re-assured.

After I filled out the check-in forms, Jeanne began to assemble a key, a lock, mosquito netting, candles, sheets, and a pillow into a bundle. As she pulled various items out of the cabinets in the office I looked at another laminated sheet thumb-tacked to the wall. It read “Skillfull Intention” at the top and contained the following bulleted list:

I aspire to truth, beauty, goodness

I don’t expect contentment from this worldly life. I realize that Samsara cannot provide it.

I aspire to know the truth and realize that this planet earth is not my real home.

I am not the body, thoughts, or emotions, these things are just passing phenomena.

“Truth, beauty, goodness, that’s all pretty straightforward,” I thought to myself. I found it ironic that so many people, myself included, flocked to meditation practice and retreats like Nilambe to develop a sense of peace and contentment and this “Skillfull Intention” was telling us not to expect it in the second point. “That is a really weird paradox,” I thought to myself, “Perhaps it all hinges on the word ‘expect,’” I reasoned. The third point asserting the “earth not being my real home,” had a bit of a Scientology ring to it for me. “The earth is my home for now,” I thought to myself incredulously as Jeanne completed my pile and nodded her head to indicate that it was time to go to my new home on this earth for the next two nights.

“That’s the men’s quarters down there,” she indicated to the left as we stepped out of the office. “Up there is the main meditation hall and past it, the library,” she informed me, pointing up to a higher terrace cut into the side of the mountain. “And down here through the garden in the women’s quarters,” she finished as I followed her through the low hedges to two low buildings in an L-shape joined by the bathroom area. Each building had a block of four cells on the front and four on the back. I followed Jeanne to the first building to the third cell down. The cell was all concrete with two concrete benchs poured into the side of two of the walls, each covered by a thin straw mattress. “So, this is your room,” she remarked cheerily, placing my pile of bedding and candles down on the mattress along the back wall. “You can arrange it any way you like,” she assured me benevolently. “The next sitting meditation is at 2:30, so go ahead and get settled in and then join us for that then,” she finished before leaving the cell.

My first action was to pile the two straw mattresses on top of each other on the side wall and deposit my bag onto the exposed concrete bench along the back wall. Then I tucked in the top sheet, pulled out my blanket, arranged the pillow, attached the netting to a hook in the ceiling and everything was ready to go. I then decided to go and explore my surroundings. I stepped out of my cell and noticed that the fourth cell down was inhabited by an old Buddhist nun who I assumed was Sinhala. Her cell was stuffed with blankets, bolsters, and plastic containers. When she saw me she smiled and I could tell immediately that she suffered from some sort of dementia. She gave me the smile of someone who wasn’t sure if she was supposed to recognize me or not. I could tell that she was thinking “how long has this one been here?” I smiled back re-assuringly before walking around to the back of the building where all four of the cells were occupied. I saw Jeanne in her cell and a young woman in another. The other two cells were locked. On my block the first cell on the end contained another long-term resident, an older white woman with a number of books in her cell. Then an empty cell, and mine again.

The bathroom area was very clean featuring a concrete floor, two squat toilets, one Western toilet, and a shower all enclosed in separate stalls under one large run-in shed roof. Two sinks were set into the side on the stall containing the Western toilet. I then headed back up through the garden, past the office, and up the stairs to the upper terrace. The 11:00 meditation was just letting out and a few meditators mindfully drifted out of the main meditation hall, past the kitchen, and toward steps that led up to the pine forest on the top of the ridge. Suddenly I saw one of my former inmates amongst the meditators, the one who had killed her mother, and I felt all of the blood drain away from my lips. Of all the inmates I had ever worked with in my job as a prison infirmary nurse, she was the only one who scared me. It wasn’t the knowledge of her crime that influenced me; I worked with lots of murders, from women who murdered strangers to women who those who murdered their own children. None of the other murders ever bothered me. This inmate’s presence was so cold and evil I nearly shook whenever I had to work with her. Lots of other staff at the prison told me that she was a coward and nothing to worry about, but being in her presence never got any easier. The woman walking perpendicular to my path did not remind me of this inmate, she was the inmate for me in my mind. The inmate always walked with a detached and mindful air, as this woman did now. Her whole presence was the inmate, way beyond the strong physical resemblance. She headed up the steps toward the pine forest, so I decided to go to the library.

I walked past the now empty meditation hall. Gazing into the windows of the long narrow building I saw an array of round cushions on long concrete benches that had been poured as a part of the concrete wall. Continuing down the flagstone path I came to a small building with books visible in the window. A middle-aged woman with a shaved head wearing all white sat out in front of the library. She stood up and followed me inside. “Are you looking for something?” she asked in a heavy German accent.

“Um…I don’t know. What do you recommend?” I asked.

“Well, that depends,” she replied coyly. “What are you looking for?”

“Something for, you know, new people?” I answered tentatively. She walked over to a corner of the library and pulled out a spiral-bound packet.

“I like to give people this to read,” she told me, handing it to me. “It is the transcripts of Godwin’s teaching in Hong Kong, it’s a good place to start,” she explained, smiling kindly. I started to flip through it, nodding my head. The contents looked like really good, practical information.

“Sara?” I heard a male voice from behind me.

“Yes?” I replied, turning around to see a young Sinhala man wearing all white.

“I am Upul, the one of the meditation teachers, Jeanne told me that you got here today?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I answered.

“Would you like a little instruction before your first meditation?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied. I handed the packet back to the bald German woman. I figured I could do the check-out details later.

I followed Upul farther down the flagstone path to a small meditation area with a few rocks to sit on covered by a canopy of orange and yellow pitcher-shaped flowers hanging down on large vines. “Please sit,” Upul invited me, indicating to a rock. “Have you ever meditated before?” he asked me as he sat down on a rock next to me.

“No.” I replied. “I have done yoga for a few years, so I am used to focusing on my breath,” I added.

“Ah, I see,” he replied. “In meditation we do not control the breath as you do in yoga. You just breathe and observe. Observe where your mind goes and then bring it back to the breath. Don’t try to force or control anything,” he instructed gently. I nodded my head. “Let us try it for a few minutes shall we?” he asked. I nodded my head again and closed my eyes. I focused on my breath. I felt it go into my nostrils and then out. When I heard Upul say “how did it go for you?” I realized that I was trying to remember all of the names I knew for the Hindu god Murugan, “Murugan, Skanda, Subramanian, Katragama Deviyo…”

“Fine,” I opened my eyes and replied.

“Good,” Upul told me. “In the group sitting it’s OK to change positions or even mindfully walk if you need to,” he re-assured me as I heard the sound of someone hitting the hollow wooden gong with a stick. “And that must be lunch!” he told me happily.

“Thank you for your time and guidance,” I told him as I jumped up off the rock as if it were burning hot and headed back toward the library. When I reached the door of the library it was closed and there was no bald German woman in sight, so I headed down the path past the meditation hall to the kitchen.

The food was served in large metal pots set out on a white tile shelf. Each person took a plate and helped himself to green beans, carrots, red rice, and a sweet tapioca dessert. Most people took their food to a series of concrete and brick benches outside of the kitchen in front of the main path to eat their food slowly and mindfully while looking out over the valley. I counted ten Western meditators, all slowly chewing their food around me like cows in a field placidly chewing their cud. After eating each person washed his own plate, utensils, and cup, before returning them to the wooden rack.

After lunch I returned to my cell. When I walked down my block I saw the packet of Godwin’s speeches propped up outside my door. I looked around for the German woman but I didn’t see anyone except for the old nun petting a calico cat sleeping in the sun. I felt grateful for her thoughtfulness and retreated into my cool cement cell to read the packet. I felt relaxed as I settled into my straw mattresses on top of my black fleece blanket from home. I started with the first speech in the book, a piece on self-talk. Godwin discussed how most people are grading themselves all the time, just like teachers in school. If they get good marks then they think they can be happy, he told the audience. “But some people live in a hell they have created, a hell where only minuses exist,” he told the group, which I thought was an interesting idea and made a note of it in my journal. I listed areas in which I gave myself marks and decided to try and be more aware of this practice in my daily life. I was happily journaling and reading the packet when I realized it was 2:15, almost time for the first 90 group sitting.