There’s an itch on the end of my nose and I want to scratch it. Instead, I focus on slowly breathing in and out, noticing the sensation, but trying not to react. My feet feel numb and my hip is niggling from sitting still. I shift slightly on my cushion and try to concentrate on the air as it enters and leaves my nostrils.
It’s day two of a 10-day silent Vipassana meditation course at Dhamma Dipa, a centre in Herefordshire’s Wye Valley. I’ve dabbled in various forms of meditation before, but this course – a real deep dive with 10 hours of meditation each day – is on a different level. According to the website, this is the minimum length of time needed to master the technique, so I’ve signed up in the hope it will kickstart a long-lasting practice.
It’s a pretty drive through a landscape of rolling hills to the centre, in Pencoyd, 20 minutes from Ross-on-Wye. As I pull in, I’m tempted to turn around and run away. Do I really want to spend the next 10 days in silence? Who are all these weirdos who want to do the same?
Once an old riding school, Dhamma Dipa is simple but comfortable, with tree-filled gardens and a large, light meditation hall. About 100 people are here and, soon after we arrive, we put mobile phones and reading and writing material into a locker – no distractions are allowed. After a simple dinner and introduction, silence begins and it’s early to bed (I’m in a single room, some people are sharing).
I’m woken by the bell at 4am for morning meditation. It’s dark as I find a space in the hall. The 10 hours are interspersed with breaks (there’s a big vegetarian breakfast and lunch, as well as afternoon fruit and tea) and time to wander the woods. Each evening a videotaped lecture by the technique’s founder SN Goenka explains the next stage. It’s based on the teachings of Buddha, but not overtly religious. The main aim is to develop a non-reactive state of mind, one of “equanimity”, free from the constant flux of “craving and aversion”.
We’re taught to pay attention to sensations in different parts of the body, to observe rather than judge it as good or bad. As the days pass, I’m rocked by a rollercoaster of emotions. I’m angry, I’m gripped by fear, I cry, I laugh. It’s tough. I want to leave.
But slowly my mind becomes quieter. I notice a pain in my shoulder and as I accept, rather than fight it, it softens into the background. At one point, it’s as if my body dissolves entirely and I feel a peace I’ve never felt before. Silence becomes easier, too, and I relish not having to make small talk.
On day 10 we are allowed to speak again, but I’m reluctant to converse with anyone. At a service station on the way home everyone seems so busy, the tabloid headlines scream doom and gloom and yet my head feels spacious and light. I go straight to a one-year-old’s birthday party and remain unusually calm amid the chaos.
As months go by, my regular practice begins to wane. Still, each time I try, I drop into that space of stillness much more quickly and generally feel more balanced in all aspects of life. I’ve learned something that’s lodged in the core of my being – now it’s about finding the discipline to keep going.
Courses at the Herefordshire Vipassana meditation centre run on a voluntary donation basis; students “pay it forward” by donating at the end of a course for a future attendee
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