Tommy Tiernan

goes on a 10-day Buddhist silent retreat

There’s a film about a saxophone player in New York and his life is a mess, so he reckons the best way to sort it out is hit the road and go and live in Paris. A pal of his is trying to persuade him that a relocation won’t solve anything. He says, “You know who’s going to be waiting for you when you come off the plane in France?” The saxman says, “Who?” The friend says, “You.” Its hard to get away from your humanity. I went on a 10-day Buddhist retreat recently. Ten days of silence, 10 days of meditation, 10 days of getting up at 5am and not eating after midday. Sounds like hell to some people. I couldn’t wait, and even though it didn’t work out quite the way I thought that it would, I’d do it again at the drop of a hat. I think I’d be a nicer person if I did one every fortnight.

It started on a Friday afternoon. We all met up in the dining area of a converted farmhouse. It’s a big event for some people; getting that amount of time out of a busy schedule takes a lot of organising, and you could be hoping to do one for years before the opportunity arises. There are shorter weekend retreats you can do, of course, but the 10-day one is the biggie. I walked into the kitchen and got a look off this woman as if to say, “What’s this eejit doing here?”

I absorbed it. I let her absorb it, too. They gave us a short orientation talk and then we signed up for the chores we’d do between sittings (the technical term that long-term practitioners use for meditation).

I was asked to sound the gong. This meant getting up before everybody else, walking around the farm with a large metal nipple drum, banging it with a soft hammer, and doing it again at various intervals during the day.

A Buddhist monk then told us that the retreat would be carried out in Noble Silence, which meant no talking and no eye contact, and that this would begin now. Ten days, no talking, just thinking. Ten days, no distractions, just thinking. He told us that he would not be offering any guidance in the meditations, just do it whatever way you wanted to do it. We went to the meditation hall, sat on our cushions and stared at the floor and began. From a Friday till the following Sunday week. Day after day, gong after gong.

I loved the gong. I had a sense, standing with it at five o’clock in the morning at the edge of the farmyard looking down on the surrounding fields, that I was calling the countryside to consciousness. If you hit it sweet, the sound vibrated through your body before moving out through the trees and grass. It seemed to me to be one of the only noises that we’ve come up with as a species that’s agreeable with the rest of nature. There isn’t a creature on the planet who could object to the peasant angelus of it. Thanks, humanity! You have reached the final stage of your evolution. Never mind your diesel engines, your chainsaws or explosions. We like the cotton-topped hammer banging on the big metal nipple.

Back in the hall, sitting after sitting. Just you and your thoughts. Nothing to distract you from the turmoil of yourself. No phone calls, no responsibilities. No family, no job, no entertainment. Sit still. Sit with your chaos, don’t move, keep breathing. Keep staring at the wooden floor. Whatever is inside your head gets flushed out on to the canvas in front of you. I started seeing things. There, plain as day in the whirls of the wood in front of me: a vagina. A vagina, as etched by Vincent Van Gogh. Every time I sat down, I saw it. Vagina vagina vagina.

I had four days of vagina, and then it metamorphosed into Christ. Is there no peace in this life? I could see the thorn of crowns, the blood trickling down his face and his sad eyes enduring it all. I started talking to him. I asked, “Dude! what are you doing here? This is a Buddhist retreat, you’ll get us both thrown out. There’s a convent down the road; I’m sure they’d be delighted to see you there.”

I needed a break. I looked up. The woman in front of me was wearing a thong. I could see it riding up above her tracksuit bottoms. Who in their right mind wears a thong to a retreat? Sure I’ll just get me lad out, if that’s the case. Back to the floor. Back to Jesus. He was gone, I couldn’t see him or his predecessor. Now it was just a floor.

I went through stress, neurosis, joy and anger. The stuff I usually go through there was just no escape from it. It was like drowning in yourself.

At the end, we were allowed to ask a question. The summer sun was shining in the window. The golden Buddha was perfectly still. I raised my hand. Half because I really wanted to know and half for a laugh, I couldn’t help myself. My voice sounding softer and more vulnerable than before, I asked the monk, “Did Galway bate Mayo?”

There’s no getting away from yourself. Eejit is right.