Good Appetite?

This piece, less some edits, first appeared 6 years ago.

Some hard old dry cheese, a small tart apple, a handful of peanuts in their shells, and some stale crackers - these comprised the 'lunch' I brought with me to a non-residential weekend meditation retreat at a yoga center in northern Virginia many years ago.

I had already been to two five-day retreats at the bucolic Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Marin County, California.  Nestled among copses of lush green live oak - the surrounding hills golden with ripe wild oats and other prairie grasses - the meditation hall, dormitories, and other buildings are a sight for weary pilgrim eyes.  A large Buddha statue sits near a small stream trickling past, two black lizards play chase around his belly.  A rusted bell stands on the slope near the meditation hall.  It is first sounded at 5:30 a.m.  Then again at noon, signaling lunch time.

The retreat participants and I file silently down the hill to the dining hall, where we are greeted by resplendent vegetarian fare (which may seem an oxymoron to some, but to a vegetarian of several decades, it was truly sumptuous).

The bulk of the retreat is spent in motion, it's not all silent sitting: 'walking meditation,' 'mindful eating,' and 'chore meditation' (whether helping with dishes, sous chefing, cleaning the bathrooms, etc.).  All in silence, except for the occasional murmured interrogative or whispered salutation to a retreat 'friend.'  Both of which are discouraged; the invitation is rather to come fully into the boundless present as it arises each moment, free of interpersonal distraction.  When the retreat is over, the idea is to bring this sense of wonder into our lives in the world, to our families, our places of work, our friendships - and even, perhaps especially, to our difficult relationships.  But until the silent retreat is over, this 'talking meditation' is to be avoided.

Okay, I see I'm drifting a bit from the topic, but bear with me.

At meals, one is invited to focus one's attention on the food, the sensations of chewing, swallowing, etc.  While sitting in the meditation hall, the yogi is instructed to 'follow the breath' or some other 'anchor' to help focus the mind.  At the dining table, by contrast, surrounded by the sound of sliding chairs, clinking utensils, and glasses being set down, the invitation is to open fully to these sense objects, and in particular to those which are front and center:  that is, your plate, the food upon it, the heft of your fork, the cool glass of water in your hand - how it is brought to your lips, and the passage of water into your mouth and down your throat.

This may all sound like pointless navel gazing, and of course it can remain simply that.  (I'm not referring of course to the navel oranges - a particularly sensual experience to peel, to smell the cascading, spritzing, spray and aromas as they emerge while you remove the skin.)  In fact, it was while doing just that - peeling an orange - when I first felt the moment sort of meld with the universe.  Which may sound a bit grandiose, so let me put it in more pedestrian terms:  formerly, peeling an orange had usually felt like a task to get through as quickly as possible before enjoying the fruit inside.  (Which, often as not, would be quickly dispatched while pressing ahead to the pie or cup of tea; or perhaps the next to-do list item.)  But it suddenly felt that the act of peeling was every bit 'there' already.  However, such moments of insight are rare, and as soon as they go from the immediate sense of feeling - the aah-haa experience - to a cognitive awareness, or analysis - the 'okay, x happened, therefore y followed' - the moment is gone like a passing weather system.  Which is not to say it is lost, and that the goal of full enlightenment is once again put off for some distant future.  Nay, even just this passing taste of nirvana (a state beyond clinging and aversion) - is it.  As is the clinging that may follow, if we can bring the same non-judgmental awareness to it.  It just might not feel as special.  The impermanence of all things is an insight to be discovered each moment anew.

By and large, however, the delicious food at Spirit Rock I generally experienced with the usual distractions - worries about my health, and that of my wife's (now late wife's), and all manner of mind states.  But there were also some other distractions, unique to the rarified retreat atmosphere.  To wit:  falling 'in love' with another retreatant, daydreaming of our new and beautiful lives together, etc., based solely upon occasional glimpses of the apparent love object.  Did she sit across from me on purpose?  It's all very Jane Austen.  There is even a term for this, 'vipassana romance.'  (Vipassana means 'insight' in the ancient Pali language spoken in the time of the Buddha, and is the term used to describe retreats such as this.  Pali is similar to Nepali, both languages based on Sanskrit.)  'Vipassana vendettas' on the other hand, or strong aversions one can develop toward another retreatant, are also not uncommon on retreats.

In spite of having been to such retreats, with the redolent meals eaten there, it wasn't until I sat down on the floor to eat the hastily assembled snack 'lunch' described at the beginning of this post, that my sensations became flooded with here and now presence.  And who'd a' thunk?  Northern Virginia?  Stale crackers?  Come on, seriously...?  Of course the moments of clarity - or 'beginner's mind' - passed after some minutes.  But with the nirvana-busting cogitation and analysis also came an appreciation that any moment, no matter how mundane, is but one small step away from the brilliant miracle.  Can we let go of the millions of other breaths we have already breathed, and be with just this one?  Or this peanut, its shell crumbling in my hand, scattering specks of dust in my lap?  Or this person - this son, wife, boss, friend, difficult person - the one who appears here and now like so many times before, but never, no never just as in this impossibly unique and fleeting snowflake moment?

Which leads me at last to posit that which inspired me to sit and blog in the first place.  My niece writes a daily food blog - supertastes.com - with recipes and epicurean tales.  Very nice, sweet, and all to the good, I encourage you to check it out.  However the slow-food, fast-food, gourmet food, modern food (see the recent New Yorker article about the intersection of food and science for a 'taste' of what can be done with liquid nitrogen, or slow cooking vacuum-packed meals at low temperature), while all mildly interesting, I feel kind of miss the point on an existential level.  It's like searching madly about for the next excellent culinary experience - or an ancient one that has recently been brought to light - that will outdo the last.  With obesity at epidemic levels in this country, I'm not sure this is what the 'world needs now.'  (You don't have to tell me that the obesity epidemic has much more to do with high-fructose corn syrup and Doritos than it does with gourmet food.  I know, but I don't think the food crazed mentality - whether gourmet or otherwise - can be a significant part of a healthy food renaissance.  Then again, perhaps it can, or even must, but that is a matter for another blogpost.)  What I believe the 'world could us right now' has everything to do with now, with present moment awareness.

Whether you dumpster dive for dinner (like eating from a rusty metal tray at the Chateau d'If), dine at the Pierre Gagnaire restaurant in France, or like most of us, something in between, there is one thing that will always help:  don't sit down to eat until you are good and hungry, then stop eating when you are full.  Feel the seat beneath you, the air on your cheeks, the love kindness emanating from those around you.  Open to the miracle that put you here in front of a bounty wrought by a vast network of human hands, including your own.  To paraphrase Ram Dass:  eat here now.

It's no wonder the French bless their meals with a simple wish:  bon appétit!

The best sauce...

Some old dry cheese, a small tart apple, a handful of peanuts in their shells, and some stale crackers - these comprised the 'lunch' I brought with me to a non-residential (one could say 'out-patient') weekend meditation retreat at a yoga center in northern Virginia several years ago.

I had already been to two five-day retreats at the bucolic Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Marin County, California.  Nestled among copses of lush green live oak - the surrounding hills golden with ripe wild oats and other prairie grasses - the meditation hall, dormitories, and other buildings are a sight for weary pilgrim eyes.  A large Buddha statue sits near a small stream trickling past, two black lizards play chase around his belly.  A rusted bell stands on the slope near the meditation hall.  It is first sounded at 5:30 a.m.  Then again at noon, signaling lunch time.

The retreat participants and I file silently down the hill to the dining hall, where we are greeted by resplendent vegetarian fare (which may seem an oxymoron to some, but to a vegetarian of several decades, it was truly sumptuous).

The bulk of the retreat is spent in motion, it's not all silent sitting: 'walking meditation,' 'mindful eating,' and 'chore meditation' (whether helping with dishes, sous chefing, cleaning the bathrooms, etc.).  All in silence, except for the occasional murmured interrogative or whispered salutation to a retreat 'friend.'  Both of which are discouraged; the invitation is rather to come fully into the boundless present as it arises each moment, free of interpersonal distraction.  When the retreat is over, the idea is to bring this sense of wonder into our lives in the world, to our families, our places of work, our friendships - and even, perhaps especially, to our difficult relationships.  But until the silent retreat is over, this 'talking meditation' is to be avoided.

Okay, I see I'm drifting a bit from the topic, but bear with me.

At meals, one is invited to focus one's attention on the food, the sensations of chewing, swallowing, etc.  While sitting in the meditation hall, the yogi is instructed to 'follow the breath' or some other 'anchor' to help focus the mind.  At the dining table, by contrast, surrounded by the sound of sliding chairs, clinking utensils, and glasses being set down, the invitation is to open fully to these sense objects, and in particular to those which are front and center:  that is, your plate, the food upon it, the heft of your fork, the cool glass of water in your hand - how it is brought to your lips, and the passage of water into your mouth and down your throat.

This may all sound like pointless navel gazing, and of course it can remain simply that.  (I'm not referring of course to the navel oranges - a particularly sensual experience to peel, to smell the cascading, spritzing, spray and aromas as they emerge while you remove the skin.)  In fact, it was while doing just that - peeling an orange - when I first felt the moment sort of meld with the universe.  Which may sound a bit grandiose, so let me put it in more pedestrian terms:  formerly, peeling an orange had usually felt like a task to get through as quickly as possible before enjoying the fruit inside.  (Which, often as not, would be quickly dispatched while pressing ahead to the pie or cup of tea; or perhaps the next to-do list item.)  But it suddenly felt that the act of peeling was every bit being 'there' already.  However, such moments of insight are rare, and as soon as they go from the immediate sense of feeling - the aah-haa experience - to a cognitive awareness, or analysis - the 'okay, x happened, therefore y followed' - the moment is gone like a passing weather system.  Which is not to say it is lost, and that the goal of full enlightenment is once again put off for some distant future.  Nay, even just this passing taste of nirvana (a state beyond clinging and aversion) - is it.  As is the clinging that may follow, if we can bring the same non-judgmental awareness to it.  It just might not feel as special.  The impermanence of all things is an insight to be discovered each moment anew.

By and large, however, the delicious food at Spirit Rock I generally experienced with the usual distractions - worries about my health, and that of my wife's, and all manner of mind states.  But there were also some other distractions, unique to the rarified retreat atmosphere.  To wit:  falling 'in love' with another retreatant, daydreaming of our new and beautiful lives together, etc., based solely upon occasional glimpses of the apparent love object.  Did she sit across from me on purpose?  It's all very Jane Austen.  There is even a term for this, 'vipassana romance.'  (Vipassana means 'insight' in the ancient Pali language spoken in the time of the Buddha, and is the term used to describe retreats such as this.  Pali is similar to Nepali, both languages based on Sanskrit.)  'Vipassana vendettas' on the other hand, or strong aversions one can develop toward another retreatant, are also not uncommon on retreats.

In spite of having been to such retreats, with the resplendent meals eaten there, it wasn't until I sat down on the floor to eat the hastily assembled snack 'lunch' described at the beginning of this post, that my sensations became flooded with here and now presence.  And who'd a' thunk?  Northern Virginia?  Stale crackers?  Come on, really....  Of course the moments of clarity - or 'beginner's mind' - passed after some minutes.  But with the nirvana-busting cogitation and analysis also came an appreciation that any moment, no matter how mundane, is but one small step away from the brilliant miracle of what we normally take for granted.  Can we let go of the millions of other breaths we have already breathed, and be with just this one?  Or this peanut, its shell crumbling in my hand, scattering specks of dust in my lap?  Or this person - this son, wife, boss, friend, difficult person - the one who appears here and now like so many times before, but never, oh never just as in this impossibly unique and fleeting snowflake moment?

Which leads me at last to posit that which inspired me to sit and ex-blogulate in the first place.  My niece writes a daily food blog - supertastes.com - with recipes and epicurean tales.  Very nice, sweet, and all to the good, I encourage you to check it out.  However the slow-food, fast-food, gourmet food, modern food (see the recent New Yorker article about the intersection of food and science for a 'taste' of what can be done with liquid nitrogen, or slow cooking vacuum-packed meals at low temperature), while all mildly interesting, I feel kind of miss the point on an existential level.  It's like searching madly about for the next excellent culinary experience - or an ancient one that has recently been brought to light - that will outdo the last.  With obesity at epidemic levels in this country, I'm not sure this is what the 'world needs now.'  (You don't have to tell me that the obesity epidemic has much more to do with high-fructose corn syrup and Doritos than it does with gourmet food.  I know, but I don't think the food crazed mentality - gourmet or otherwise - can be a significant part of a healthy food renaissance.  Then again, perhaps it can, or even must, but that is a matter for another blogpost.)  What I believe the 'world needs now' has everything to do with now, with present moment awareness.

Whether you dumpster dive for dinner (like eating from a rusty metal tray at the Chateau d'If), dine at the Pierre Gagnaire restaurant in France, or like most of us, something in between, there is one thing that will always help:  don't sit down to eat until you are good and hungry, then stop eating when you are full.  Feel the seat beneath you, the air on your cheeks, the love (or other emotions) emanating from those around you.  Open to the miracle that put you here in front of a bounty wrought by a vast network of human hands, including your own.  To paraphrase Ram Dass:  eat here now.

It's no wonder the French bless their meals with a simple wish:  bon appétit!