Thoughts on Joshua before his first visit to a Buddhist monastery

On Tuesday I will go to spend five nights at a Buddhist monastery, where I’m told I will meditate, be mindful, and have one meal a day. Part of it is me simply buying some non-expensive time before going to stay at a (part of me wants to say “proper”) Anglican convent the week afterward, but part of me would actually like to learn something from the experience, despite not being a Buddhist. I think, particularly in preparation for the silence of a stay in a convent, I would like to become a blank slate. That is, I really earnestly hope to learn how to think of nothing, a way to drown out the voice that shrieks “YOU ARE GOING TO DIE ALONE!” or “YOU WILL NEVER FIND MEANINGFUL EMPLOYMENT BECAUSE YOU ARE SHIT” in every moment of silence.

However, the largest and most overwhelming part of me cannot stop thinking about minimal eating and the effect this will have on Joshua, my stomach. Even at the best of times, he is a difficult mistress who cries out for McDonald’s, red velvet cake, and every British biscuit ever made. But in this case I’m not even that worried about the thought of not having a constant supply of food piping into my mouth. No, I’m worried about something much more serious.

Regardless of what I eat, whether healthy or greasy, too much or just right, my stomach makes the most appalling noises whenever the volume in the room falls below a certain level. It had a particular knack for making a noise like a fat knight in oil-thirsty armor slaying a large, fire-breathing beast in the moments of silence before Evening Prayer during my PGCE year, and I would think to myself, “SILENCE, STOMACH BEAST!” to no avail.

What if my stomach makes a noise and the people meditating around me are only able to be mindful of the fact that my stomach is making weird noises like a cat being savaged by a cheese grater? Will I prevent them from reaching Enlightenment?

I’m also worried that during moments of silent meditation l will think about the college Zen Buddhism lecture that I had to leave because I couldn’t stop laughing, the one where I ended up collapsed in a stairwell weeping with laughter. A friend I was attending with had farted with incomparably beautiful timing, the memory of which STILL causes me to burst out laughing regardless of present location—lecture, classroom, public transportation, funeral, etc.

Between worrying about getting the giggles and worrying about the various roaring noises my stomach feels compelled to make, I’m a bit, well, worried about staying at a Buddhist monastery for the better part of a week. But there’s actually a lot to look forward to. I'm excited to learn more about Buddhism, something I studied briefly and don’t fully understand or even appreciate. But most of all, I’m quite looking forward to five days of FUCK OFF, WORLD. IMMA SIT HERE AND HAVE A THINK.

CAN WE GO?!

I’m on the District Line somewhere between Embankment and Upminster, my legs straining to prevent my enormous suitcase from falling on anyone and my brain straining to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. It’s officially my anniversary of job seeking, and I’m riding this train with a fresh sting of rejection. And even more than rejection, fresh affirmation that I’m probably not supposed to be doing the one thing I’m qualified to do: teach. I mean, I am supposed to teach, but I don’t think I’m meant to be a teacher.

I’m sitting there with a growing sense of panic, the kind where you think “IS IT HOT IN HERE?” and suddenly your clothing all feels tight and you just want to vomit everything, but there’d be nothing to vomit anyway because you’re too upset to eat. The kind of panic where, even after the train has emptied as you’re now far from the city center, you feel like there isn’t enough air in the train and you’re going to suffocate. Oh God everything is so shit, I’m so shit, oh God oh God oh God I can’t take it anymore I just want to cut my own head off, make it stop, I just want to scream—

And then suddenly someone screams. But it’s not me. We’d been stopped somewhere near wherever West Ham plays, but we’d been stopped for an obscenely long time. Train stopped, doors opened, waiting for no apparent reason. People were starting to get a bit impatient, when this woman’s voice from a different train car called out, “CAN WE GO?!”

After the first time she said it there was a long pause. Me and the person sitting across from me exchanged bug eyes, almost wondering if we had imagined it. But sure enough, she broke through the quiet again, this disembodied voice shrieking, “CAN WE GO?!” But we still didn’t go. We still sat there with the doors opened. So the voice asked again, this time louder: “CAN WE GO?!” And then with even more desperation: “CAN WE GO?!” Then again and again, louder and louder: “CAN WE GO?! CAN WE GO?! CAN WE GO?! CAN WE GO?!” Towards the end it sounded like she was about to start crying, not with sadness, but with frustration of the futility of her efforts to get the train moving. “CAN WE GO?! CAN WE GO?! CAN WE GO?!”

For a while I sat there with a vague smile on my face. I grew up thinking that English people were all quiet, polite and passive, and here was further evidence to prove my thesis formed last year that actually English people are some of the most in-your-face and/or obscene people I’ve ever met (I say that with love and admiration). I was amused, to say the least. But then I thought harder about this woman yelling at the train.

“CAN WE GO?!”

I think it pretty succinctly sums up how I feel right now. You know, some unemployed people don’t really have a clear sense of where they want to go, and even some of them just want to sit on the couch and laze around all day, never growing up. I’m not one of those people. I’m pretty enthusiastic about getting my life started (provided that I can still have the occasional “Fat Elvis” couch-sitting marathon). I have a very clear idea of what I would like my life to look like. Sure, I’m willing to compromise—my imaginary Beagle doesn’t HAVE to be named Simon Peter—but I think I have some very clear “career” goals that I’ve been trying to pursue. I want to go, I want to get this started. Let’s GO! Why aren't we going? CAN WE GO?!

Unfortunately, no door that I’ve tried opening has been unlocked. Actually, I feel a bit like how I felt a couple weeks ago when a friend lent me the key to her flat with instructions on how to find her flat and I, being jetlagged (okay, even without jetlag I’m this much of a bozo), spent about 25 minutes trying desperately to get into a perfect stranger’s flat. Eventually I did figure out that my friend’s flat was around the corner, and I was able to laugh about it. But to go back to my life in general, I feel like I have a key that does not fit into ANY door. Because, my God, have I tried a lot of doors.

So anyway, back to the train. This woman is screaming “CAN WE GO?!” and that’s pretty much what I mentally scream at my life every day. Eventually the train did go, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that this woman had screamed at it to do so. Part of me wonders if I should stop mentally screaming at my life because, like the train, my life isn’t going to take orders like that. But a larger part of me thinks that it must feel amazing to just let dignity go to shit and scream at the train for a bit.