My mother tells me being human means accepting that we are creatures of imperfection. While it varies between each person, everybody has weaknesses we mindlessly succumb to, regardless of the repercussions. For myself, it was clickbait articles. The moment I saw the words “MUST SEE” or “YOU WON’T BELIEVE” in any title, my central nervous system was compromised and I lost control of my hand as it moved the pointer atop the link and clicked. Unfortunately, many of these articles implanted malware into my computer which made simple tasks such as checking emails nearly impossible without popups being thrown in my face every few minutes. I argued that technological impairment was far less life threatening than high blood pressure or even cirrhosis, both possible symptoms of my father’s binge drinking.

Some evenings when I called my father for dinner, I found him sitting in the back patio with a Bud Light in hand and numerous empty bottles scattered around his feet. The brown colored glass offering a sharp contrast from the off-white linoleum floor below. His bloodshot eyes staring back as he told my mother and I to eat first remains an image even time has not yet shaken off. Short in both stature and temper, my father only fueled his aggressive tendencies with the alcohol. Once intoxicated, he screamed at me for such things like speaking too softly or not going outside enough since I spent my free time reading in my room. I thought, when your father carries a level of heat which makes it difficult to look at him directly, of what use is the sun?

With family interventions not yielding the desired results, my mother decided desperate measures were to be taken. Her solution? Attending a meditation retreat at the Southeast Vipassana Center. This involved what was described on their website as ten whole days of Noble Silence and an absolute disconnection from electronics. In turn, the experience would hopefully ease my father and I out of our habitual patterns. The kicker was that it was four hours away, in Jesup, Georgia, in the middle of the woods. I questioned why we had to trek that far for ten days of silence when pissing my mother off would have easily yielded the same result. My father, who insisted drinking was only a “de-stressing mechanism,” shot down the idea without hesitation. After realizing time away from my father was a necessary step towards resolving the tension between us, I agreed to the trip with my mother offering to accompany me for moral support.

The morning we departed Florida, cumulus clouds hung heavy against grey skies and there was a crispness to the air. As I loaded my bags, my mother yelled from the driver’s seat. When I got to her, she placed the GPS in front of my face and pointed at the screen. “There are no searches for the address,” she said. It was only then did I figure out the issue. Between the dimness of the skies overhead and her distaste for all things digitized, my mother had mistakenly typed “Jesus” instead of “Jesup”. I was in charge of navigating the GPS from then on. All throughout the four hour drive, I found myself thinking of things I was leaving behind. From our two cockatiels to our stubborn Roomba who often danced around dust bunnies visible to even my grandmother. More importantly, I thought about my father. What was he to do with himself for the next ten days? Who will he yell at if not me?

My mother and I were greeted upon arrival by a man named Sam who looked like the lovechild of the basketball player, Larry Bird, a samurai, and Indiana Jones. A six-foot something ponytailed giant with a camel colored safari hat that casted a shadow over most of his face, I knew he meant business. We followed him to the registration room where a woman with dreads handed us formal registration papers to fill out. The sign-in process concluded with putting our phones into little plastic bags where they were stowed away in a back room. More attendees began pouring in as my mother and I awaited orientation.

Sam was in charge and spoke passionately, employing various hand motions to convey the gist of what was to come these next ten days. Basic ground rules were set, including no talking (words and gestures), no physical contact, exercise was prohibited, and no reading or writing. I heard a couple guys behind me start scoffing. “It’s going to be a piece of cake,” they said. Sam then informed us that men and women were to be separated throughout the entire course. All it took was this great gender schism to break down their confidence, as a wave of disappointed sighs rang out from the male side. Being that I never had much luck with women and often avoided them, I welcomed this rule with a smile. A light vegan meal was offered afterwards and when the gong sounded, Noble Silence officially began.

The session that evening was particularly grueling. I shifted constantly and itched to check the time, only to realize my phone was locked up in a plastic baggie elsewhere much to my dismay. To combat these urges, I directed all attention to my stomach which had not yet grown accustomed to the plant-based diet and was growling. Each time it cried out I’m hungry, someone else’s across the room would reply, Me too, and there was comfort in knowing that as hard as current circumstances were, at least I wasn’t going through them alone. The melancholy bellow from our bodies filled the meditation hall with a strange tranquility that equalized all of us.

When the gong finally sounded, I tried getting up and my left ankle buckled faster than a poor man driving past a “Click It or Ticket” sign. Due to a no contact policy, the men around me just stared as I stumbled back onto my seating cushion. I wondered what went through their minds. Would they have sympathized for a first timer or would they have told me to suck it up and get used to the suffering? After all, isn’t that what life is? I cycled through these questions throughout the walk back. As I lay in bed, both it and my lower body creaking, more thoughts began pouring in. What did I get myself into? Why am I even here? I don’t belong at this place. I missed my normal meals, my normal bed, my normal everything. I want to go home. I just want to go home.

Following our morning session the next day, I exited the meditation hall to my roommate, Aakash, skipping merrily towards our living quarters with a banana in his hand, glowing bright yellow in the sunlight like a stick of gold. I thought, how on Earth is he so happy while I’m miserable and what the hell is he doing with a banana? Then it clicked. No running was allowed so I accelerated my steps to a quick shuffle as I followed him to our residence. Opening the door, I saw Aakash leaning against the bunk bed, a bewildered expression on his face with the banana still in hand. A simple “Hey, you really shouldn’t bring food back” would have sufficed, however, because we weren’t allowed to talk, I had to find another way to effectively get my message across.

​After maintaining eye contact for thirty seconds or so, I tried directing his attention to the no eating or drinking reminder taped on the wall of each room by making sharp jerking head motions in its direction. I was unsure whether my plan did anything but I’m pretty sure he thought I was having a seizure. My efforts evidently proved fruitless because as I began getting borderline whiplash, Aakash started peeling the banana and eating it, giving not one damn about me nor the sign behind him saying that his behavior was prohibited. After finishing, he dropped the mangled yellow skin into the door side trash bin and exited the room. As I stood there, hovering over the banana peel below, only one thought crossed my mind. This is going to be harder than I expected.

​And it was. The next two days welcomed frequent anxiety attacks, muscle soreness, and skipped meals. Even during the off chance that I did feel hungry, I found myself only taking a couple bites before having the urge to throw up. My body, weary from lack of proper sleep and long hours of meditation, had run its course. I could no longer function at optimal capacity, let alone muster up strength to fully commit myself during mandatory group sits. The process I fought so hard against had finally gotten the best of me. And to be completely honest, I was okay with it.

​The fourth day brought with it a new meditation technique, Vipassana. Prior to this, students were taught only Anapana, a practice which involved using the breath as a centering mechanism for spiritual awareness. Vipassana took things a step further and asked students to shift their attention towards various sensations felt throughout the body. All while maintaining steady breathing. About thirty minutes into the afternoon session, we were called up in groups of five and asked about our experience with this new technique. Since first timers were placed in the back, my group was last to go. As the assistant teacher went along, my group mates began naming all different kinds of sensations they felt. Ants crawling. Tingly sensation on nose. Warm neck. Breeze grazing lower back. All oddly specific sensations, I thought. Then it was my turn.

​ “Have you been noticing any sensations?” he asked.
​ “Yes, I have.”
​ “That’s great, mind telling me which ones?”

​And without a sliver of hesitation, I answered, “Hunger!” A reply which elicited a chain of laughter from both my fellow group mates and assistant teacher. He then asked if I had trouble focusing my mind while meditating. I nodded and explained the sharp migraine-like pain felt most frequently during evening sits. The assistant teacher reminded me how intense bodily sensations are often physical manifestations of deeply rooted trauma. Deeply rooted trauma. Three words which ingrained themselves into my mind as I walked back. Sitting there, head hung low and heart heavy, I realized I could no longer brush off the truth. As much as I denied it, on more than one occasion, I found myself thinking about my father.

​My father and I shared a very strange relationship. For the first three years of my life, I learned to find normalcy in my father’s sporadic presence after he moved with his family to America in search of better job prospects. Not knowing the absence would catalyze a heap of anxiety which I, being too young at the time, was left ill-prepared for. A combination of alcoholic inclinations and heavy-handedness placed tremendous stress on the entire family. It was not until I got older did I understand the circumstances. We talked less and less until text messages became the preferred method of communication. When conversations were absolutely needed, they involved a lot of How are you’s and I’m fine’s with very little substance in between. Attempts made to mend things were all to no avail so I grew tired of trying and eventually stopped altogether. I taught myself to live like nothing changed, swallowing the reality that it was just how things had to be.

​I found myself struggling more than usual on the fifth day. Knowing that I had already made it this far but there were still five arduous days ahead, my body mindlessly went through the motions for the sake of getting them done. Aside from the usual leg cramps and muscle spasms, my migraines were becoming more prominent. Especially during mandatory hour long evening sits because it was then that I thought most about my father. The topic of discourse that evening was The Four Noble Truths: suffering, the cause of suffering, the eradication of suffering, and the way to eradicate suffering. Since I was dealing with troubles both there and in my personal life, I paid extra attention.

​Most of the discourse was absorbed in a hunched over position, both knees pressed firmly against my chest and my head low, hidden from fellow meditators. About midway into the talk, our teacher, S. N. Goenka, said something which caught my attention. “Unwanted things happen, wanted things do not happen, and one feels miserable. But now, instead of reacting to a sensation, you are learning to observe equanimously, understanding that this will also change. It is then that one stops turning the wheel of suffering and starts rotating it in the opposite direction, towards liberation.” I thought to myself, that was it! That was the answer I had been searching for all this time!

​So much of my adult life was spent living in spite of my father because he wasn’t the man I wanted him to be. My belief that there was no hope rendered me blind to the reality that, like the breath and sensations we had been observing, all things were ever changing. My father included. How simple! How apparent! How had I missed this for all these years?

​Following the post-discourse session, I strayed off the normal path and headed towards the walking trail. The moon shone bright through clear skies with the steady hum of cicadas providing a calmness which rang through the pines. I found a small wooden bench near the entrance and sat down, replaying Goenka’s words in my mind. This will also change. A shroud of guilt consumed me and I started crying for the first time since arriving. I thought, had I not given up on my father so easily then maybe things between us wouldn’t have gotten this way. Perhaps he would have changed eventually were I to have been just a bit more patient. I was unsure how long I cried for but when I returned, Aakash was already snoring, fast asleep.

​There were some notable changes when I woke up the next morning. My breath, which had been heavy and erratic since day one, was now steady. I found myself eating on time and with each meal, my body took in more food than ever. The sharp migraine sensation started to subside and I was able to maintain an upright posture throughout the entire group sits. Even opting to remain in the meditation hall when new students were offered the option to continue in their rooms. For the first time since embarking on this retreat, the process was finally working. Both my mental and physical well-being continued to improve for the remainder of the course, and before I knew it, it had come to an end.

​The day my mother and I departed Jesup, skies were clear and the sun illuminated the greenery below, still fresh with morning dew. As I stood there talking to Aakash, who was never again seen with bananas since our little scuffle, my mother’s voice rang out from the parking lot. “Honey, your phone is going off!” she cried. Having grown accustomed to an electronic-free lifestyle, I told her I would check it later in the car and continued chatting.

Only when we were on the road did I start sifting through the various notifications which had accumulated over the last ten days. When I hovered to my text messages, at the very top was a name I never thought I’d be happy to see. Dad. The message read, “Hello son, I hope your retreat went well. I missed you.” I texted back, “It went great, Dad. I missed you too. I’ll be home in four hours” and his reply was almost instantaneous. “See you soon, son. I love you.” As I sat there in the backseat of my mother’s Camry, I let out a smile—not a forced smile like the one I carried for so many years but a real, genuine smile. For once in a very long time, I was looking forward to seeing my dad and for him to see me, his son, returning home to him as a changed man.