As sun was climbing up its sky,
it hit me once in morning light:
that it is not the sun that climbs,
but us who roll toward its might.

And as they, quiet, pass me by,
oh do they know, the birds in flight?
That they are tilting, just like me,
all rolling, gently, out of night.

…

It was my first Vipassana. It was also Senegal’s first Vipassana; what a privilege to attend.

Attending this course was the reason I had my stay permit extended, was the reason I spent two weeks in the Gambia in order for the new permit not to end in the middle of the course. Many reasons, weaving plans to make this work.

Ten days. Ten hours of meditation per day. No speaking. No books, no phones, no escape.

Yes, it was rough. Every minute of it: work. I lost focus, was in pain, wanted it to end. But I sat there. And I would again.

In the darkness before dawn, before any real time had started, the little gong would ring. A bright blinnnngg from the shadows, feet brushing by.

And I would wake.

The other shapes woke, too.

And we would head to the meditation hall together and apart, silent ghost bodies at silent ghost hour. Everything always a little surreal at this time, a little outside of the world. The dense magic pressing in from the sides, from the dark where the lights wouldn’t reach; body dragging heavy bones over the sand track.

Awaiting sitting, sitting. More sitting. Work.

The lagoon saved me over and over.

The sun rising over it, bright midday strokes or rainy-gray. The water moving, the birds not observing Noble Silence. Fat big lizards laying on the deck. Fish holding meetings in the see-through water, cats on soft paws, ears perked. Small fishing boats, hunched humans. The trees and town on the other side, sometimes obscured by rain-mist, sometimes clear: small white dots as houses far away.

We all looked at the water, quiet and distant, together and not. Solitary shapes in a line.

Then on the tenth day:
as if by a gunshot, everyone returned to normal. There was suddenly sun and they were all talking loudly on the pier. It was deafening. The laughter cackling dents into my head, hurting a part of my inner body I have yet to name.
“…so where are you from…?”
“…ha-ha-ha, and the smell of socks in the hall…!”
“…and when he said that on the recording, I felt like noooooo…”

I didn’t want to be touched.

But then that passed too and I softened and I hardened. The shell grew back and the core forgave. I chatted with my roommate and her mother; they were quiet and careful like me. I slowly eased in with occasional comments, questions. The sun made the colors sharp as we ate our last lunch at the pier. Finally down by that water-body, surrounded by it, allowed to touch.

We had the last sittings, the last morning. We cleaned everything. I loaded my bike carriage, gave away my backpack. Gave dana. Four days to make it to the border of the Gambia; back to weaving plans and counting. Exchanged numbers, said good-byes. Turned on my phone and took the photos.

And then I left.

I was sure my muscles would wither away from the ten days of sitting, but on that first day I blew past 60 km in four hours, my daily goal fulfilled and still in a good mood.

I stopped to have a swim by a roadside lake, floated in the lukewarm water; was held and rocked and touched all over the body I had worked so hard to feel for ten days.

And suddenly I noticed that the calls of “toubab” hadn’t bothered me.

…

Many insights, many struggles, much release.
A new person? Very alert? Very attentive?
Naaah. Still the same shit.

(Maybe a little more insightful shit.)

…

(This story told in pictures.)