Time for a retreat

 It's been a long time since I last went away and retreated from the world... from all its troubles, all its peoples, from all its noises, from all its seductions. Finally, after a long wait and renewed hope, I was informed three weeks ago that I could attend a 10 day meditation retreat at Birken Forest Monastery.

It's about time, as I feel myself becoming more and more agitated and confused as the days wear on. Some days, I feel the motivation and drive that was within me has slowly been sapped away, leaving me drained and lethargic... Some days, I feel such sadness and loss as memories of those who have departed come back to greet me... Some days, I wish I could find shelter and comfort in being alone, even though deep down inside I long for belonging and company.

People react with shock when I say I'm going away for 10 days, and that silence and abstinence will be maintained throughout that time. No talking, no (solid) food after noon, no sexual activity... pure concentration on the mind and body, pure meditation on the here and now. What kind of life is that? A reflective life, a life that brings you back to the very essence of being, the very core of living, and the very fundamental of life.

Meditating for 10 days and slowly down may or may not drastically change the way I live or think... but it will rejuvenate me, I hope, and help me find my way on the path of Dharma. Perhaps I can meet and connect with people who share this bond of Dharma, and they will inspire me to distance myself from all some of tensions and conflicts with regular friends in every day life.

What is so important in the world that we trouble our lives with? What web of entanglements and attachments do we trap ourselves in daily and moment after moment? When you calm down, when you come to the root of it all, life is only so much. There is action, there is reaction, and there is suffering. And it is in suffering that we (and I) live and dwell. How to break through that suffering, how to transcend the worldly affairs and attachments... that is an art. An art of living that only the highest meditators can aspire to achieve.

By no means am I no where near enlightenment or becoming "the one who knows". But this little retreat is a step in that process. And even if I benefit from one moment of calm and inner peace, that is one moment more in this lifetime.

Disconnected

Not sure why, but for the past few weeks every time I talk to mum, there appears to be a disconnect on the line. Partly the reason is technical, partly it seems and sounds like whenever I call she's either not home or in a hurry to hang up quickly, even though we've only chatted for a little while. It's frustrating, and if there is anything more annoying, then it's a broken skype connection through which you can barely hear one another.

I hang up (or she hangs up), and I feel so dissatisfied, especially as I'm not sure how she's going or what she's doing these days. Even just now, I called her to say goodbye before I go away for the 10day retreat, the conversation lasted less than a minute. I just hope nothing is wrong with her.... and that nothing serious happens while I am away...

Disappearance

Nobody knows where she went, when she came back, or whether she came back only to go out and come back again. I suspect she was lured home by her hunger, for by morning I could see the bottom of her bowl of food. Canned food, which I had put out earlier during the day in the hope that she would jump right back into the house upon hearing the screeching sound of the can being opened. But she did not come back immediately. She was "missing in action" (MIA) for almost twenty four hours.

Nobody knows who she was with, or perhaps what she was with, if she was at all with anyone or anything. Perhaps she just lounged in the grass or shrubs of my neighbour's garden, perhaps she just lay there to absorb some sun, because her room, the one with a lot of sunshine during the day, is now off-limits after my flatmate moved in. The same flatmate who claims that my cat is "depressed", and later said that she is just bored.

Nobody knows what she did, what made her loose her collar. The collar with her cat-tag and my phone number on the back that a friend had given to my cat as a gift. Nobody knows, except for the cat, what suddenly made her so pensive, what made her quieter, to the extent that her usual highpitched screech is now nothing more than a soft murmur. Perhaps she has seen things while MIA a cat should have never seen. Perhaps, in the big bad world out there, with stinking skunks, the ginger bully next door, and player tomcats, she had experienced a terrible fright, and that made her go quiet.

But I woke up this morning, I found her lying on her usual spot on the sofa, her neck naked and her blue collar missing. The whole day she yawned, curled up and slept, the fabric under her belly warm from her little soft, furry body.

She is a mystery, my cat. In the way she tiptoes to stare out the window for ages. In the way she comes to my bed and walks around on my bed at night, just before I fall asleep. In the way she likes to peek into the bathroom whenever I am showering, peeing or pooing. She is a special little creature with a mind and character of her own, who likes to jump and hide in boxes, who likes to navigate the maze of feet at the bottom of the kitchen table and chairs, who like to butt her head against my fingers when I hold them out.

She is a special little creature who makes me feel so happy and loved.

Ça Marche!

The normally wild and boisterous main thoroughfare of St. Catherine suddenly descended into silence. Save for the murmur of traffic in the background, the crowd that had gathered stood still. Faces turned stern, others closed their eyes and lowered their heads. There was coughing, and the occasional sniffing, triggered by a runny nose or perhaps moist eyes. Yellowing leaves rustled overhead, almost careful not to make too much noise.

Two minutes of silence for the victims who have left this world. Two minutes of silence for victims suffering from stigma and ostracism. Two minutes appear to be so short and insignificant in the bustle of daily life. But even in this relatively affluent society, for those dying a slow, painful death because they do not have the financial or medical means to battle an illness that slowly eats away the body’s immune system, two minutes can seem like an eternity .

Then the silence was broken. A frail looking lady walked slowly onto the makeshift podium. As she addressed the crowd, her voice was gentle, yet crisp, determined yet filled with gratitude and emotion. She is the mother of Ron Farha, a Montreal businessman who founded the Farha Foundation in 1992 after he was diagnosed with AIDS. Despite Farha's passing, the Foundation he established continues to bear his name and legacy, and has annually organised events to raise awareness and funds for people in Quebec living with HIV/AIDS. ÇA MARCHE, the biggest fundraising event of its kind in the province, takes place annually in mid September, and is a AIDS walk that goes through downtown Montreal.

Prominent politicians were present, and in view of countless eyes and lenses a ribbon was cut to mark the start of the march. A red ribbon, the colour of blood, the colour of warmth, love as well as feeling of solidarity which victims of this devastating epidemic need in addition to the dozens of pills that need to be ingested daily.

Cars stopped and patiently waited as the main arteries of the city swarmed with teeming bodies and voices of thousands marching in sync. I was one of those people, on this beautiful, crisp Autumn morning, marching slowly with a little red ribbon pinned to my chest. For a brief moment I connected. For a brief few moments, I and many others marching through Montreal that very morning, connected with countless many across the world we have never seen or met, but whose plight and cause we shared. In sharing, we care. In caring, we remember and remind ourselves of the suffering of others, and how to prevent further suffering.

Somewhere along the route, my little red ribbon fell. When I noticed, it was too late, for the ribbon was gone and can no longer be found. Even if the sound of its falling did not resonate for the rest of the world, fall it did, to be swept under the dirty soles of countless people trampling over it. Trampled over like the millions of AIDS victims who are neglected and shunned because of sheer fear and ignorance.

AIDS is an illness that transcends colour, class and race. It is a blind and lethal disease that can infect any one, hetero or homo, old or young. On a mural in the heart of the Gay Village, Ron Farha's hopeful words lives on:

AIDS will disappear one day.
While we wait, we have the opportunity to learn and grow.
And we should do that.

Church choirs sung as the marchers walked on by. People stood along the pavement and gave out balloons, brochures, condoms, and free hugs. Bystanders stopped and watched, their attention caught by the music, dance and laughter of the crowd that flowed like a river through the centre of shopping district. The occasional shopper, with big, laden bags, paused and stared at the ever-moving circus act of drags in wig and fishnets, of dogs that wore matching black T-shirts and red collars, of the toddlers with little red ribbons painted on their smooth little cheeks. Perhaps for a fleeting moment, while clutching to their big, laden bags, they wondered to themselves what difference the money spent on the new dress could have made if it went to a greater cause...

I looked up at the blue, blue sky, and saw red and white balloons float away. Were they released, or did someone inadvertently loose their grip on the thin pieces of thread that tied them down? Higher and higher and higher the balloons floated, to a destination unknown, yet their bodies bearing an important message for all to heed. As they floated higher and farther, it was as if I could see them nodding, like happy heads high on helium... nodding approvingly at the people marching in solidarity below.