Ville

I lay cross-legged on the floor, palms spooning, fingers like a lifeless spider. My pose is like the monster of Notre Dame, Quasimodo. I can feel it. I straighten my back.

The teachers stand in the middle of the room. Their presence is solid and calm. I sit on the edge, facing the male teacher. The female teacher looks at the women. The teachers are wearing white blankets.

Less than thirty women stretches out to the left. On the right are as many men. The order is symmetrical and deliberate. Outside this hall, the separation is equally visible. Men and women eat, rest and move around in their own separate areas. The atmosphere is safe.

I am looking at the Indian male teacher. He scans the room like a terminator. Yet there is a kindness and softness that makes one feel seen. The female teacher reminds me of Sigourney Weaver in the movie Alien. Maybe she’s fighting her own monsters?

I came here to calm down and find out about myself. For years I have been busy with studies and work. I’ve been working on my muscles and logical thinking.

Now I’m turning my attention inward and sharpening my mind. I don’t jump from one idea to the next and lose myself in them. I don’t become my emotions and let them take over. Instead, I simply observe.

Observation is not about detaching one self from one’s feelings. It’s about an attitude of acceptance of what’s happening in me right now. It’s about accepting reality as it is, not as I wish it were. It is a non-judgmental, curious and open attitude.

Let me give you an example. Thoughts are the coffee and the body is the mug. The mug says “buy bitcoin”, which is a constant reminder that like the fluctuating price of bitcoin, thoughts and feelings move up and down. Buy bitcoin, boycott the central banks, empower your economic individual freedom! Now I am digressing. (On the other hand, bitcoin is always a topical subject.)

The bubbles that form in the mugs, invisible to the eye, represent the unconscious mind, thoughts and emotions. Only when they break the surface do they become visible and conscious. If you are constantly stirring your coffee or constantly moving your mug, you are disturbing your mind. Slowing, calming down, quieting down.

I focus on my breath. It is the anchor to presence. This is Ānāpāna. After a moment, I move to scan my body and observe the sensations. This is Vipassanā. Finally, Mettā, where we focus on compassion for ourselves and others.

When I breathe, I find it difficult to define anything clear from my body. Everything feels vague and dull. My heart aches. I feel as if I’m being gripped by a tight, unyielding tentacle. The more I look at it, the more it hurts. It doesn’t seem to go away, it won’t go away. Go away! I don’t like this feeling. Maybe it’s sorrow?

Last week’s fatigue and hurry are clinging to me. I’m exhausted. I hate being tired. My body refuses to calm down. Calm down! Breathing is uneven and shallow.

Maybe it’s because I was fired four months ago. June and July were a mess. Everything is in shambles. There’s no routine. There is just the endless “deathscrolling” before going to bed and waking up late. This is not going anywhere. I can’t even lift 120 kilos off the bench. Now I’m struggling with 80 kilos. I’m vexed.

My back hurts. I copy the position of the blonde-haired girl next to me: I get down on my knees, feet on the floor, buttocks on heels with a pillow between them. Huh, no more backache!

I hear the soft rustle of clothes. Doesn’t sound like anyone is comfortable.

A calm, singing voice comes from the speakers. It begins slowly and deliberately, and then it stretches relentlessly. The words are repeated? The song slows down. It feels endless. I can’t concentrate. Now the calmness in his voice irritates me. I’m vexed again. Suddenly the gong sings breakfast, which makes me incredibly happy.

The knees are completely destroyed. I don’t like my knees.
It’s hard to stand up. I’m already hungry. Did I mention I’m vexed?

The night is thick dark and I don’t bother to look. Or maybe I don’t want to look. The cold cuts through everything, and I long for warmth and sleep. Yawn. Sigh. Hoh-hoy.

We eat porridge and bread. There’s peanut butter, strawberry jam, raisin and plum sauce, seeds, butter, fruit, instant coffee, tea, honey. The porridge has no salt.

The dining room is noisy. Chairs scrape the floor. Someone stirs their instant coffee too vigorously, clinking the mug. The air is tense and restless. Everyone seems to be in a hurry, even though there is no reason to be and no place to be. I shovel down my food, but my stomach starts to rumble. I am restless.

I return to my room. It is bare and lifeless. There are two couches and beds in the corners, and a table and chair by the window. Nothing else. The walls echo silence. How ascetic.

My roommate Joel yawns just like me. I don’t really know him, and there’s no chance of that. We’re not allowed to talk, look at each other or even gesture. We’re not allowed to take notes, masturbate or stretch. On the other hand, I wouldn’t get to know him by masturbating like bonobos. These are the rules of the retreat.

Joel learned to be a yoga teacher in Bali. I follow his example when he does stretches. It’s nice to share this with him.

Joel has a calm and friendly gaze. There is something about him that feels grounded.

He seems to like pastel turquoise. He is a climber, with a broad back, moustache, long hair, a smile and bright eyes.

He is the kind of person who radiates positive energy, a constant buzz of joy. It’s effortless for him, as if he’s always in a good mood.

We go to the hall to meditate.

I start at the head and slowly work my way down, exploring, piece by piece, the sensations of each body part. My face itches and I feel like scratching. I observe how the sensation changes. This is not the first time this has happened, but this time something feels different.

I open my eyes and to my surprise I see a spider crawling on my cheeks. He’s in the middle of Mission Impossible or something. I try to offer him a hand, but he jumps away. I gently pick it up off the floor and try to take it out of the room, but he resists and refuses to leave. I leave him alone. We are not allowed to hurt living creatures during the retreat.

I feel a tightness in my throat and a pain in my chest. I have been running away from this pain for over a year. It started when I broke up and I suppressed my feelings of sadness. I didn’t want to cry anymore. I touch it gently and see its dark blue presence. This is new?

I notice my breathing. There’s something strange about that too. My breath is extremely shallow. I stay there for a moment.

Then, without warning, it rushes in like a tidal wave. My breath gradually deepens: first diaphragm, abdomen, lungs, and finally throat.
It’s like getting oxygen in space.

One deep breath releases the shackles.

The body shakes, trembles, and vibrates from the bottom up. Gravity is the only thing that gives me stability. Tears fall uncontrollably, but no one sees my storm.

I sense a quiet hint of acceptance.

It is like a soft realisation, as if I am finally seeing the truth of my own existence, the sorrow that has always been there. I let it be and don’t run away from it. I give it space.

This must be compassion for my pain. Like meeting an old friend I’ve always known, but whom I’ve never really embraced. I greet it softly: Hi, dear love.

I realise I’ve been cruel to myself. It’s me, hi. I’m the problem, it’s me (I’m the problem, it’s me).

My second cousin once asked me a question:

Are you being hard on yourself, Ville?

At the time, I couldn’t understand the question. I protected myself from my emotions with an intellectual shield. It is also difficult to touch emotions when you are busy and constantly bombarded by distractions. We don’t stop long enough to observe what is really going on deep down inside us.

When I was seven years old, my dad told me to think before you act. My mother told me repeatedly that I was naive. So naive! It’s clear why I’ve always longed to be smarter.

I have put too much emphasis on thinking. The cold and analytical stench of academia has created a gnashing tooth that roars criticism. I have prioritised intellect to understand the life through the layers of logic and reason. At the same time, however, I have ignored the soft emotional side of me—feelings I have barely acknowledged.

The world teaches us to think, not to feel. Feelings are a weakness. Crying is forbidden. Philosophy does not study emotions. Therapy is for wimps. There is no room for emotion in politics. Women are hysterical. At work, emotions are unprofessional. Leadership is rationality, not empathy.

School doesn’t teach emotion, and not all parents know how to teach emotion either. I now see how I have ignored certain emotions for most of my life. I crave joy and reject sadness.

If I can’t listen to myself and be honest, how can I listen to others and be honest with them?

The storm has subsided, and I begin to smile, for there is a quiet happiness and lightness in that moment. The tentacle-shaped pain that used to weigh me down is gone. I feel optimistic and positive, embracing this fleeting moment in peace. It’s time for lunch.

The weather is beautiful today. The last tears are drying under the warm embrace of the sun. Its rays kiss my skin.

The colours of autumn surround me, and the maple glows in shades of orange and gold.

The air is quiet and people walk more slowly, almost as if time has slowed down. We are snails. The restless seagulls have flown away.

And yet, despite this, thoughts wander again. I find myself thinking about my career: what I’m going to be when I grow up. Well, we shall think about that. (Let’s not.)

Thoughts are constantly on task-mode: deadlines, meetings, to-do lists and schedules. But as I stand here surrounded by the stillness of an autumn day, I wonder: Is this really what life is all about? To be effective?

I reckon life is hardly about being efficient nor definitely being competitive.

After lunch, I walk back to the room. I hear Joel’s soft footsteps in the distance. It reminds me of my dad when he picked me up from the care centre after school when I was seven. Joel is grinning again…

We both have a nap. The blanket and pillow feel so soft.

I wake up with an orgasm.

Shame takes over my body and confusion takes over my mind. Did Joel see that? The dream was clearly pornographic. A feeling of unease settles deeper inside me.

Perhaps it’s no surprise that the dream has wandered like this. For half of my life, I’ve used porn as a way to numb feelings I can’t face. It’s easier to retreat into that hollow space where nothing can hurt, where I don’t have to feel. Anhedonia. Like antidepressants.

Porn is an addiction, a familiar place that promises relief but leaves me unable to truly live. I am afraid of my own feelings, of the raw essence of life itself. In the silence of this moment, all I feel is disgust with myself. My jaw aches as I clench my teeth.

It’s as if the Inside Out characters are trapped behind foggy glass, mute and detached, trying to reach the control panel.

When my psychologist asks me how I’m feeling, at that very moment I can’t seem to connect with my emotions. It frustrates me so.

I once got free from porn. I stopped when I started meditating many, many years ago. That’s when reality became clear and I became sensitive to everything. It felt like a superpower.

But it didn’t last long. I stopped meditating when work started. Everything was again shrouded in darkness, dark shades and blurred outlines. I saw the world through thick fog. It’s not depressing, but just grey.

It’s hard to be in myself right now. Then I remember my second cousin’s advice:

Give yourself time to arrive and settle into the retreat, even if it takes you until the last day of the retreat 🙏🏻💛

I am moved and grateful. I feel sensitivity and softness. Thank you.

The meditation continues.

A sneeze echoes from the back of the hall and I flinch, albeit quietly, as if it were a gentle ripple in my silence. The door opens and the wind snaps it shut with a sharp bang. The sound surprises me, and for a moment I feel irritation. But then the hall gradually calms down. The rustling of the clothes disappears, the movement stops.

I carefully examine my body. My back hurts. There is a dull ache, a reminder of something heavy.

My legs are numb and my neck is tense, for they are all working hard to keep me upright.

As the worst pain fades, another pain moves in. It’s as if another ache is waiting ready to take its turn. So one pain disappears and another takes its place? It seems like an endless cycle. Quite interesting!

I realize that from my own pain I can create compassion.

I can tune into my pain with a soft voice: poor you. Sensitivity appears and I can continue to explore my body despite the pain.

Now something is happening. My face melts, as if it has emerged in the Matrix. I can feel the roots of the moustache, the tiny cracks in the scalp and nose, the weight of the eyes, and the tension in the jaw that holds the mouth shut. The growth of the beard tickles.

I feel pressure in my ears, and a faint air current brushes against my ear canals in a constant whisper. My nostrils undulate, pushing the vibrating air in and out. I can feel the sun’s shifting heat from behind the clouds and curtains.

I become aware of the upper neck musclew and I relax. Now my head feels like it’s floating freely on my shoulders, adrift at sea, gently swaying to the rhythm of my breath.

The heartbeat lingers faintly, but as I concentrate, I feel it guiding the body, moving in unpredictable harmony with the breath. My heart and breath dance together, my body swaying with them.

I continue down my spine and find that I can send shivers down my spine if I want to, just like my little brother. Surprising.

My brother and I have had an uneasy relationship, and the thought of it makes me sombre. I wish things could be better between us.

I move to the shoulders. They feel wide, strong and stable. They protect me, but they also weigh me down, as though an invisible burden drags me down. For years I have trained my body to be stronger, as if to mask and distract the pain I carry inside.

My biceps are firm and I can feel the blood rushing to my palms. My fingers tingle like fireworks, evoking memories both cruel and beautiful.

Memories bring tears: I have been a cruel brother, and it hurts.

I can’t stop the tears. Inside me is cruelty, cold and dark, full of fear. It pulls me into a black hole of rage. It’s dark in here. I’m scared. My body freezes, and all I can hear is my heartbeat. I’ve never been here before and I don’t know what to do.

Gradually, the feeling subsides. As the tears dry, I begin to see the beauty in my hands: I have hugged tightly, rubbed and stroked backs, touched another’s tender cheeks, given warmth, and held hands.

I am both cruel and compassionate. People make mistakes, after all. We are children in the boots of adults.

Parents make mistakes too. They do the best they can with the information they have. A child’s needs can be so intense and demanding that they can never be fully met. But when the time is right, both parent and child can come together with understanding and compassion and begin to heal what they did wrong to the other. To forgive.

I continue to observe the sensations. I find myself crying more. It is not a cry of sadness, but of gratitude. I am grateful for the people who have shared me their love.

I thank my parents for the safe home they gave me as a child.

_{My parents. Elina Kauranen.}

I forgive them for their ignorance.

I see how the weight of their past struggles have passed down from generation to generation. I see how much grief they carry. I long to leave behind an even better world, one where violence does not resonate. Our actions echo for eternity.

I love my parents and my brother. I love myself. The feeling is so strong that it sweeps me away, so I leave the hall and step outside. The flood of emotions continues relentlessly.

I find a tree at the edge of the field and sit under it. I lean on its the rigid surface and I feel secure. Tears flow freely as I gaze at the lake. Its calm presence soothes me and offers quiet comfort.

Someone walks by. Will he notice that I’m crying? Then I realise I don’t have to be anything but myself. I don’t have to worry about what they think about my crying. I can simply be.

The gong sings again: it’s time to meditate.

Half the leaves have fallen from the maple tree.

I move closer to the tree, and a soft chuckle escapes my lips. I gently pick one leaf from the branch and gently place it on the ground. Hihihihi. I giggle quietly, not wanting anyone else to notice my little moment, even though I secretly wish they would. I feel a lightness inside me. I’m hilarious, I think. At least sometimes.

I look at the lake. It’s so cool that I came here. Not everyone dares to do this. Like a child, I look at the ground, looking for cloves. I find bugs, mushrooms, and trampled grass. I pick up the pace, for meditation awaits.

I meditate.

The inner child is gently awakened. Its curiosity is raw and nonjudgmental. Sensations begin to emerge into consciousness. But still thoughts take over. That’s all right. My mind is full of creative energy, full of ideas and passions that I want to explore later. You’ll never guess what? Bitcoin. Well, no, just kidding: I also hope to do therapy work one day. All in good time.

It’s time for an evening lesson.

I settle into a comfortable position, like in the Titanic, “draw me like one of your French girls”.

My butt tickles: it feels as if someone is watching me. Am I doing something wrong?

I can’t stop looking. I see a short-haired volunteer tutor staring with a “bombastic side-eye”. With one bold gesture, she asks me to stand up. Her hands move up, as if holding tits in the air.

With a quick and clumsy acrobatic movement, my legs and torso rise up. A rush of shame sweeps over me. The primitive reptilian brain has awakened and tells me to escape. That was scary. (At the end of the retreat, he tells me it was the highlight of her retreat.)

It’s time for the final meditation.

I begin with Ānāpāna, moving on to Vipassanāā and ending with Mettān-the loving-kindness meditation that weaves it all together. I practice compassion for myself and others: loving myself and all of my loved ones. A wave of gratitude and warmth fills my body. My jawbone hurts nicely.

I leave the hall, and I see that the spider is lifeless. Poor thing.

Outside, in the crisp moonlight, the maple stands bare, its leaves scattered on the ground.

Everything changes. Anicca.

A cold breeze brushes my face and makes rippling sensation. I feel the crisp air settles in my forehead wrinkles. The wind whispers through my long, curly hair.

Life carries me forward. I can feel it. It’s bittersweet to leave. The atmosphere is as warm and welcoming as the embrace of the world itself.

Even the sweetest moments pass. Moments come and go. All we can do is watch, be honest with ourselves and be present to those around us. Let’s share the love within us and do what we can right here and now.

Towards greater love.

ville.