A Supposedly Zen Thing I’d Definitely Do Again
There are few reasons to visit Pecatonica, Illinois. The only time I’d been to the agricultural village 15 miles west of Rockford was for a Metallica concert when I was 14. Now, two decades later, I’m headed there for the extreme opposite of a heavy metal show: to live in monk-like silence while attending a 10-day meditation course. No speaking. No phone. No Wi-Fi. When I enrolled, the experience sounded like a healthy escape, a chance to be reacquainted with the unmediated me. To get perspective on why I can’t use the bathroom or get to sleep without the soothing glow of the internet. Instead, I would binge-watch myself, browse the infinite scroll of my own mind.
Suddenly I’m wondering what in the hippie-dippie hell I’d been smoking. Barreling west on I-90 toward the Dhamma Pakasa Illinois Vipassana Meditation Center in a car driven by a meditator I connected with on the retreat’s ride-share board, I’m feeling a million miles from Zen. The prospect of confronting the aspects of myself I’ve staved off with the help of my Netflix queue makes me jittery. I cop a final digital fix as suburban sprawl gives way to dense cornfields. I thumb through Twitter. Shoot off work emails. Peruse my bookmarked news sites. Then, as the car
