The Meditation - Retreat in the woods | 23.11.2017
Looking around, I check that no-one can see me. There are some movements of my fellow students, sleepily going about their ways to prepare for meditation. Nobody seems motivated to climb up to the kitchen area. Good…
Woah! This is a chronological set of short-stories, so if you haven't read the story before this then click right here, and give it a read before reading this!
The following short story is inspired by a retreat course that I have taken part in 3 times (once as a student, once to train to 'become a supervisor', and once co-supervising). This is a great Retreat in The Woods, called the Foundations of Natural Intelligence. It's held in the Chisholme Insitute, located in the Scottish Borders.
To find out more about the course click here
MEDITATION | RETREAT
Short-Story | 23.11.2017
(Photo by Johnny Dupré)
The heat of the fire is making its way through my thick coat, I can feel the heat penetrating my skin and heating my whole body. Taking a step away from the fire pit, I immediately notice a drop in temperature. Enjoying the residual heat, I can hear the leaves crunching underneath the feet of the chaffinches that are happily jumping about, looking for insects, luckily there’s no shortage…
I spot a chaffinch that has taken residence on one of the branches in front of me. It seems to be contently observing the other birds, occasionally joining in with the fruitful conversational chatter. I pause my thoughts and think about the life that bird must have lead to get to that point, it didn’t look that young, an elder in the group of chaffinches perhaps.
Looking around, I check that no-one can see me. There are some movements of my fellow students, sleepily going about their ways to prepare for meditation. Nobody seems motivated to climb up to the kitchen area. Good…
The gun, still resting in my hand, feels warm against my cold skin. I close one eye, I’ve seen people do that in movies and I presume that helps with accuracy. Aiming for the little bird's chest, that should be the best spot. The bird is so small, that it seems that I’ll miss no matter what, but I can try.
The chaffinch is innocently chirping away, greeting the fellow birds, telling stories of his bird adventures that he’d had in the past, mentoring the young ones. I could only imagine that he must be the ‘big’ grandfather, that all the little young chaffinches look up to for comfort or wisdom.
I clear my mind from such little stories and readjust my aim. I can feel my blood pumping through the finger that lays on the trigger. Everything seems to go quiet. Starting at three, I countdown quietly.
Three, two…I breath in and on the out breath, one. I pull the trigger.
Quick as a sparrow, a red dot shoots across landing on the chaffinch. I can see my hands trembling as the laser wobbles all over the chaffinches chest. And then. A faint beeping sound.
I relax my arm and look at the digital display. 12 degrees, not as warm as I’d imagined.
Swivelling towards the kettles on the still roaring fire I lazily aim the temperature gun at the kettles, 82 degrees, good enough, they’ll boil during meditation, and be quick to reheat for breakfast.
I indulge in doing some more shooting around with the laser gun, taking the temperatures the trees, feeling a bit like Jame Bond.
4 minutes till meditation, I put the gun back down. Looking back a the chaffinch that is still perched on the branch, happy as ever, I toddle down to the meditation yurt.
Walking up to the door of the yurt I grab the handle, it’s stiff and makes a small but loud squealing sounds as you turn it to open the doors. I turn my back to the entrance, using the ledge in the doorway to wiggle off my wellies. I try to be as quiet as possible, but end up making more of a clumsy fuss than I’d care to discuss.
The warmth of the fire is delightful, a few students are already perched on meditation stools, all surrounding the fire. Some closer than others, but all already beginning to enter a state of meditation. I grab a stool and a blanket. Trying to find the Goldilocks zone of; not too hot, and not too cold. I settle for, what I can only imagine is ‘the perfect spot’ (I was wrong, it was very very hot). With a blanket protecting my knees from the hard floor, I settle into a comfortable upright position. I soften my gaze and indulge my brain in the hectic thoughts for just a few more moments.
The last students trickle in, finding their own Goldilocks places. Everything becomes blissfully still, with only the sounds of the gently wind making its way through the tree branches, and the birds singing as they hunt for there food.
I hardly hear the gong, my gaze transfixed on the chimney pipe from the fireplace. My mind still buzzing and blubbering. My eyes play tricks on me, trying to distract me. I let it happen, I relax into the 30 minutes of stillness, broken only by an occasional readjustment. My mind is like a little kid throwing a massive tantrum, begging for something fun or distracting, I give it nothing but acceptance and my breath. It’s not happy, but with a bit of inner negotiation I get to a happy medium; I get to imagine a flower opening and closing at the rhythm of my breath, or a wave coming into the shore and leaving again. And so I tame my mind, keeping it occupied with some visuals, whilst still doing what I suspect is meditating.
The Morning - Retreat in the woods | 14.11.2017
I hear the pitter patter of the gentle morning dew, dripping off of the tree branches and landing on the canvas of my yurt. The sun has been up for a few hours, softly encouraging me to get up.
The following short story is inspired by a retreat course that I have taken part in 3 times (once as a student, once to train to 'become a supervisor', and once co-supervising). This is a great Retreat in The Woods, called the Foundations of Natural Intelligence. It's held in the Chisholme Insitute, located in the Scottish Borders.
To find out more about the course click here
Morning | Retreat
Short-story | 14.11.2017
I hear the pitter patter of the gentle morning dew, dripping off of the tree branches and landing on the canvas of my yurt. The sun has been up for a few hours, softly encouraging me to get up. I can hear the birds happily chirping away, probably greeting each other and conspiring how they’re going to steal our food.
I groggily lift my head from my pillow and shiver, as the cold damp air caresses my neck. I bury my face back into the pillow, trying to find any residual heat. No luck, the cool morning air took it’s chance as soon as my head left that pillow.
I lie there, staring at the design of the yurt roof. I can see the silhouette of the leafs that have landed on the canvas, and I ponder, just for a second, what it would be like to be a leaf on a canvas, what a simple life that must be.
I huff and puff, and swivel myself upright, my jaw tightens, and my limbs shiver, I scramble to find a pair of trousers, and layer on two jumpers and a coat. I look at my ‘yurt mates’, still sound asleep. They must be so warm. Soon they’ll be waking.
I grab my, now damp, towel and slide on my welly boots. I open the doors and sigh in relief; It’s warmer outside. I step into a ray of sunshine, and pause, absorbing the sunny, much needed heat. Closing the Yurt doors behind me, I walk down to the shower block.
The shower fire was up in flames roaring, cracking and snapping away all night long. This should be a good shower. I go into the first stall out of three, it doesn’t have the benefit of a view, but it is larger, and not having a view means not having a cool draft to accompany you in your showering endeavours. Once nearly undressed I switch on the shower so I can immediately seek refuge under the hot stream of water when I’m ready. I proceed, doing the ‘outside shower dance’ AKA constantly rotating around, so your whole body benefits from the heat. I ablute (clean) myself, and start considering my ‘plan of action’ as soon as I turn off the water. The prospect of standing around in the cold for even a second longer than necessary is unbearable.
I can hear the movements of my fellow students, sleepily making their ways into the shower blocks. My body now warm, and my mind slightly more awake, I leave the shower behind and trudge up to my yurt.
I don’t even bother entering my yurt because that would mean taking off my wellies, and in my somewhat lazy state, that just seems like too much of a bother.
I semi-gracefully throw my, now wet, towel onto my bed. Ignoring the consequences of that action completely. I once again close the yurt doors and quite happily trot up to the outdoor kitchen.
I lean down and scan the pile of wood next to the elevated fire pit on which we cook. First grabbing some small wood, then medium and finally one large. I place them delicately on the fire pits' rim as I stick my arm into the big bag of kindling, I’m not even sure if I need any kindling, but in this cold, I don’t want to run the risk of having a fire burnout…
Like a woody-firey architect, I go to work to construct my carefully considered pile of wood. I imagine how the air is going to flow through the wood, visualising it feeding the fire. And then. I pause…Laugh, and realise that the reality is, is that I have no actual clue what I’m doing…I strike the match, set the ‘fire-starter’ a flame, and hope for the best.
After emptying my lungs of all oxygen and replacing it with fiery smoke multiple times to get the fire to actually burn, “all proper like”, and such, I pick up the filled kettles and pop them on the grill , then I grab the biggest heaviest pan we have and fill it with porridge oats, I pour the oats in from a distance so I can see the beams of light that are reflected into the woods make their way through the oats. I find myself mesmerized by the beauty, and suddenly realise how much I miss technology.
Not being able to capture such a beautiful image hurt in that moment. I breath, and realise I should just appreciate it for what it is. I add the water to the pot and hang a tea towel over it, so no bugs or birds can get to it during the morning meditation session. I look up to the clock, 10 minutes till meditation, I stand there waiting, with a semi-elegant spin, I now face away from the fire, feeling the heat penetrate my coat, and filling me up with so much comforting warmth that it makes me want to never leave that position. I stand there, waiting, quite content, with the gun in hand, shouldn’t be long now…
The Sending | Short Story | 02.10.2017
I put my head down in shame, my thumb hesitantly lingering above the ‘send’ button.
There I am, sitting on my couch, for lack of a desk to work at. It’s 3 in the afternoon, and I just created a generic message to send to a bunch of friends.
The sending
Short story | 02.10.2017
I put my head down in shame, my thumb hesitantly lingering above the ‘send’ button.
There I am, sitting on my couch, for lack of a desk to work at. It’s 3 in the afternoon, and I just created a generic message to send to a bunch of friends. The thought of sending it to the wrong person sends shivers down my spine…the thought of sending to anyone makes my heart race.
What will people think? Will they judge me? Will they read the message, scoff, head directly to the unfriend button, and then never talk to me again, ever?! Will the next time I see them be filled with the familiar sound of awkward silence. I mean, I’m probably overthinking it, but you know…
I sit there, balanced in the middle of the couch, with my cat to the left of me sleeping peacefully. She doesn’t have to deal with these things, the only judgment she’ll ever receive is from the mice gods after they tally up how many of the killings were hers.
I happily drift off into a daydream about mice gods, and then mice police, and then a mouse army, but a bang outside brings me back. What was that? Probably nothing…and then it hits me, I still haven’t sent this message, and I need to do it now, if I don’t, I’ll probably never do it.
I pick up my, now sleeping, phone. I wake it, and unlock it, failing on the first try, I never quite know how to place my thumb so it can read my fingerprint. And there it is, the message, that frightfully generic message that I can easily copy paste.
Before I even realise my thumb has taken to the natural instinct, and it’s heading to the send button at a frightful speed. Everything went in slow motion. Is this it? Is this the end of friendship as I know it, are people going to prosecute me and cast me out of society?
It’s too late to stop it, my thumb hit’s the trusty digital button, and the text that was so safe, hidden in my little editable box get’s swiped into the conversation. Forever out of reach, left out on its own, only ‘friends’ can judge it now.
I sit there, staring at the screen, re-reading the text, reading:
“Hi there, Hope you’re well! As you know, I have a blog, but have been struggling to actually post anything…I’m finding it hard to figure out what I should blog about…have you got any suggestions? Thank you! X Sanne”
I suppose I’ll probably survive…
Monologue; Soldier K | 10.04.2017
This is a tale of a soldier. A brave man he was, always stood up for his friends, his colleagues, his boss, even the odd man on the street, he would find respect for. Soldier K we shall call him.
Monologue
10.04.2017
"This is a tale of a soldier. A brave man he was, always stood up for his friends, his colleagues, his boss, even the odd man on the street, he would find respect for. Soldier K we shall call him."
I want to dedicate Mondays to creative writing. In a script, short story, monologue type of way. So to start that off, I'd like to share a monologue I wrote, about a soldier. It's best to read this in a voice of 'that one mysterious old cowboy sitting in a misty bar'.
This is a tale of a soldier. A brave man he was, always stood up for his friends, his colleagues, his boss, even the odd man on the street, he would find respect for. Soldier K we shall call him. He’s a soldier of the people, a man, a woman, a human fucking being. He’s a soldier that wouldn’t stop at the hand of the government, but wouldn’t go at the hand of himself. He was troubled you could say. K had been a great inspiration to me, the importance he lead in my life, the importance he lead in anybodies life he touched, he was a special man, woman or human.
He was a troubled person, battled many battles with himself with others and with the world. Forced to perceive the world in a censored way, only others would want him to see it. Never truly free, yet let to believe he was a bird, free as the wind blows. He was a smart camper though, he knew he wasn’t truly free, but he didn’t care, he just kept on chugging along as life flew him by.
One day, K ran into a boy, girl or young human being. This child looked at him with eyes so wide they could absorb the world. He stood there mesmerised, looking into these curious eyes, seeing what these eyes have seen, in the way they had seen them. No censors, no judgement, no barriers what so ever, just pure and raw curiosity. K could not help but stare, stare at the world through those eyes see new things, be more curious than he had ever been. It was a burning that no suppression, censoring or judgement could kill. A fire lit in K’s soul.
Trees were no longer just trees, they were roots leaves, growth, veins a symbol of the sheer ability of life in this universe. A plastic bottle was no longer just a plastic bottle it was an opportunity to obscure the world around, bend, frame and look at life in a purely unapologetically different way.
Fear of questioning was burnt up by the flame of curiosity. Everything needed questioning, everything demanded an answer. Why? What? Who? Where? Everything K had done in life turned around and stared blankly into his eyes. Why did he do the things that he had done? The questions weren’t asked with judgement, the questions weren’t asked to darken K, they were asked to enlighten him. He didn’t just question himself. He questioned others. What’s the purpose of that human holding a pen? Why is that person looking up? Where is that human being going?
Every answer answered was wood to the fire, continuing the burning sensation to know more. Slowly but surely K realised he was not a bird, he was not free like the wind. He was a human Being. Free as the questions he had.
The realisation that he was being censored was his biggest weapon towards the box built around him in his life. Knowledge really is power. I’m not talking about book knowledge, I’m talking about world knowledge, and appreciation. The ability to not judge, the ability to not look at the world in a one dimensional way.
K was not brave. K was a human being. K questioned the world, K questioned life, questioned other humans, other animals, even nature and even the god damn universe. This does not make K profound, this does not make K an intellectual, this does not make K special. This makes K a human fucking being.