Unwinding: A Personal Reflection

In my early 20s, more than two decades ago now, I lived in a Zen Buddhist monastery in the mountains of upstate New York. I had arrived with the intention to reside there for a month, so that I could learn how to meditate. But I ended up staying for more than two years, living the life of a monk. 

Now, you might picture a Buddhist monastery as a stress-free, easy-going place, unencumbered by the anxieties of the world. But this particular monastery was quite the opposite. 

The abbot of the monastery was influenced by the hardcore elements of the Zen tradition, and he designed the monastic environment to act as what he called a "pressure-cooker." Residents were continually placed outside their comfort zones—in pressurized situations—so that they couldn't hide from their inner "demons." 

The reasoning went like this: You can only transform your demons (your mental-emotional hang-ups, your neuroses, your attachments) if you're able to actually see them. You need to fully experience the "prison" of your mind in order to discover release. So, the purpose of the monastery was two-fold: to provoke your dark side and to help you find the light.

***

The primary catalysts for the "pressurization" were the relentless monastery schedule; the endless opportunities for friction with those around you; and the long stretches of silence and stillness, where you had no distraction from the madness of your own mind.

From well before dawn to well after dusk, all the residents were on the same timetable—sitting in meditation until our bodies ached; working; chanting; studying; and, to a limited extent, eating and sleeping. 

You couldn't choose your activities or their duration; your personal preferences no longer mattered much. Upon entering the monastic stream, you were now at the mercy of its currents, which had their own momentum. You'd better go with the flow, or get tossed out!

You ate what was set out for you, slept where you were told, worked the jobs you were given. You meditated in the prescribed way and recited the monotoned chants in unison with everyone else. You accepted the "dharma name" that the abbot bestowed upon you. 

Like a herd, the community moved from one activity to the next—from meditation to chanting, then on to breakfast, to your housekeeping tasks, to your daily job, then back to the meditation hall, to lunch, and so on. You performed these activities shoulder-to-shoulder with your fellow residents, including those inevitable few people you found deeply aggravating. And maybe there was a person or two you couldn't help but be physically or emotionally attracted to. 

This was all part of the Zen "cauldron"—we were immersed in a bubbling soup designed to provoke and trigger. 

See your reactivity, your attraction to the things you like, your aversion to the things you dislike. Pay attention! Wake up! Let go! 

***

The monastery's militant hierarchy further stoked tensions. As a member of the community, you found yourself on a distinct social rung, based on your seniority and your "attainments" in mind-training. Your assigned seat in the meditation hall reflected your position in this pecking order, as did your style of robes and their accoutrement. 

The abbot sat at the top of the hierarchy—and at the front of the room. He had his pick of a variety of colored robes and bib-like garments worn around the neck (which signaled that the wearer had formally received the Buddhist precepts). Next came the black-robed head monks, then the white-robed lay practitioners. While the abbot lived in his own house across the street, these seasoned Zen aficionados resided among us newbies. They held important jobs and served as models of adeptness to the rest of the community.

Next on the ladder came the gray-robed practitioners wearing bibs; after them came my cohort, the bib-less gray-robers; and finally came the robe-less temporary visitors. So, I found myself on a rung near the bottom of this Zen chain of command, with aspirations for ascendance.

Such a hierarchical arrangement naturally fostered competitiveness among the residents. We jockeyed for attention and affirmation from the abbot and head monks, whose decisions were often inscrutable. "Why did he get that important job?" "Why was she promoted to that level?" Resentments festered; discontentment percolated. And it was all part of the training.

Do you see your wild mind? Tame it! 

***

In line with the rest of the monastic experience, our daily jobs weren't a walk in the park. Despite being an utter technophobe, I was placed in the role of head graphic designer for the monastery's media branch. After a cursory training, I was immediately handed deadlines to create attractive catalogs and advertisements for an international audience. The pressure, from the outset, was on...perhaps even moreso in this job than others, considering the status of the abbot as a celebrated artist with a keen aesthetic sensibility.

This was just how things went. There was, perhaps paradoxically, no safe haven at the monastery. You were always being pushed and poked. Placed in uncomfortable positions. You couldn't hide from the mental and physical provocation.   

Day after day, on an endless treadmill, we adhered to the communal agenda, with little sleep and minimal personal time. Bags hung underneath our bloodshot eyes; our spines drooped from fatigue as we shuffled from station to station. We looked like ghouls to visitors from the "outside world." 

Yet many of us took a sort of perverse pride in wearing our bodies down. After all, attachment to the physical form is a hindrance to awakening, right? Let go!

If you were struggling, the assumption was that you simply needed to practice more diligently. You needed to try harder, be more disciplined, meditate more, get clearer, become more skillful at understanding and applying the cryptic Zen teachings. 

In case you're unaware, not all Buddhist centers are like this. There's a wide spectrum of approaches to Buddhist practice, even within the Japanese Zen tradition. The monastery's particular expression of dharma practice was molded in the image of the abbot, a charismatic, eccentric figure who demanded serious effort and zeal from all the residents. I came to see it as a spiritual bootcamp. 

Our two indulgences were coffee, which we chugged with abandon, and, perhaps surprisingly, cigarettes. This makes sense once you realize that these were favorite habits of the abbot. (He would die of lung cancer shortly after I departed.) His fingerprints coated every last aspect of monastery culture.

***

The intensity of the monastery pervaded the experience of meditation. We certainly weren't just lounging around!

It was expected that, while sitting in meditation, your body was to be completely still and silent—no adjustments, no stretches, no wiggles, no scratches, no upward glances, no yawns, no sighs. You were to place your hands on your lap, cast your gaze downward, and immobilize your body as you trained your mind.

So, I sat there, alongside everyone else. Stone-still. In extreme discomfort. With my trauma. 

I had come to the monastery with a dysregulated nervous system. Protection mode was my home. And despite my best efforts at using the Zen training to relieve my suffering, my anguish persisted. 

So, I pushed harder. I meditated for longer. I clenched the tissues of my body into stillness. As panic and terror flared in my belly and chest and neck, I sat like a rock on the floor. (There was an obvious social pressure to sit on the floor as opposed to a chair, even if floor-sitting was quite uncomfortable; sitting in a chair was reserved for the elderly and infirm.) 

Our periods of meditation intensified at the end of each month, when the monastery plunged into a week-long, silent retreat. Silence—even outside the meditation hall—became mandatory. We woke up earlier and we sat more. 

Hour after hour, day after day, I contorted myself into a seated pretzel. I withstood the explosive throbs of my knees and hips and back. I endured the relentless mental torment. I persevered, assuming I just needed to get better at "letting go." Assuming that, by learning to patiently tolerate my pain, I'd "see through" it. I'd overcome it.

I drew inspiration from the community. Everyone was practicing withstanding their suffering. Everyone was cultivating stillness. Everyone was striving for awakening.

One time, someone in the meditation hall had a runny nose. So, they sniffled. In response, a head monk abruptly exclaimed, "If your nose is running, LET IT RUN!"

***

As you can surely see by now, this was a very rigid place; adjusting your posture (even sniffling!) seemed to signal some kind of weakness. You were expected to endure any and every discomfort without reaching for a balm. 

And all of this—the turmoil and irritation, the exertion and exhaustion—was by design. The pressure-cooker was meant to turn clumps of coal into diamonds. You were supposed to use this triggering environment to understand—and let go of—your "stuff." To sand down your sharp edges, to polish the mirror of your mind until it became crystal clear.

And I was on board with it all. I gave myself to the rushing currents. The relentless, punishing nature of the monastery spoke directly to my familiar experience of protection mode. It felt like home. 

The harsh external demands appealed to my harsh inner critic, my internal drill sergeant, the "abbot" of my personal monastery. The unyielding conditions seduced the unyielding parts within me. The rigidity of the Zen practice seemed to endorse the rigidity of my traumatized body and mind. My perpetual state of sympathetic hyper-arousal seemed validated by the communal urgency for spiritual awakening.

But instead of squeezing me into a sparkling diamond, it only further splintered me. 

***

Now, I fully acknowledge that this austere approach to training the mind can be effective. But here's the thing: It can be effective for those who already have regulated nervous systems. 

Feeling resourced and resilient are luxuries that are available to those who have connection mode as their home base. People with regulated nervous systems can nurture themselves when environmental sources of nourishment are sparse. They can flexibly navigate stressors. They can skillfully handle adversity.

In the monastery, many regulated residents, drawing on their easy access to safe connection, were able to use the monastic austerities to their benefit. They were able to smooth their jagged edges with the Zen sandpaper. They were able to evaporate their attachments in the fires of the Zen cauldron. 

But for those who were trapped in protection mode, those who were divorced from their inner resources—people like me—this ruthless approach proved to be further destabilizing: The sandpaper only grated; the cauldron only burned; the pressure-cooker only constrained. 

In enduring the monastery's demands, my feelings of helplessness and confusion and agitation intensified. My body became increasingly sick and weak as the walls of my survival-state prison were reinforced.

***

And so, I look back on that time of my life with compassion for that younger me. I was struggling, and I was giving my all to a way of life that left me feeling even more dysregulated. I understand now that I was partaking in "spiritual bypass"—using spirituality to avoid and repress my wounded parts in a misguided attempt at healing.  

What I needed at that time was gentleness, not harshness. Flexibility, not rigidity. I needed warmth, softness, spaciousness, spontaneity, movement. I needed to learn how to listen to myself, how to honor my intuition, instead of blindly handing my autonomy over to external authorities.

The traumatized parts of me craved easy and supportive engagement with others. I needed clear communication and steady encouragement, not enigmatic koans and week-long periods devoid of speech and eye contact. 

***

The semi-legendary Buddhist master Bodhidharma famously sliced off his eyelids to prevent himself from falling asleep during meditation, so that he could meditate throughout the night. When his eyelids dropped to the earth, the first tea leaves sprouted forth; they'd provide stimulation for generations of meditators seeking awakening.

But instead of sharpening my attentiveness, what I needed most was to feel safe enough to close my eyes. I longed to be able to relax, to let the world melt away, to rest my hyper-vigilance, to stop trying so hard, to soften my senses, to sleep deeply.

Instead of channeling my hyper-arousal into spiritual striving, I needed to learn about the hyper-arousal itself. What was this survival energy? Why was I feeling so unsafe? Where did this survival response come from and what could I do about it?

What I really needed was to feel safe enough to start to tenderly relate to my trauma; safe enough to allow my body to gradually release its pent-up energy. Rather than pretzelling myself into stillness, I needed to learn to let my nervous system unwind. 

***

After a couple years as a monastery resident, you're faced with the decision of entering the formal monastic track—the long and intense process that culminates in taking the "life vows" of a monk—or ending your stay. Having recognized that something wasn't quite right about my time there, I chose to leave.

After my departure, I began exploring how to listen to my nervous system and how to allow it to regulate itself. I started to understand how to give my body permission to return to connection mode, just like a wild animal does. How to let my body "shake off" its protective responses, instead of clamping down around them. How to unwind and release, instead of merely enduring. How to tenderize my heart and trust my instincts.

These are skills we can learn, even as adults. We can reshape our nervous systems. 

I'm so grateful for the polyvagal perspective, and for the ways we can guide our nervous systems from protection to connection. I'm especially grateful for this practice of unwinding that we've been exploring. This practice of listening and allowing. So simple, so profound. 

If your nervous system is prone to dysregulation, to trauma, if you struggle to access stability, if you feel stuck in protection mode, I hope you're able to find support that feels safe and nurturing. Maybe that includes these videos. And I encourage you to continue to explore this practice of unwinding. 

A body stuck in protection mode wants to release and return to connection. See if you can give yourself this gift, even in the smallest of ways: A gentle rocking of the torso; a wiggling of the toes; a softening of the jaw; a yawn; a sigh. Your body remembers how to unwind. In easy, manageable ways, see if you can play with letting it happen.