A Supposedly Zen Thing I’d Definitely Do Again
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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
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