I paused for a few seconds in front of the empty space on the condiment table, and drew back my hand which had already reached out in habit. “Strange,” I thought, “it’s always been here for the past week”. I went back and scanned all the condiment containers, once, then once more, then conceded to myself on the third time that, yes, everything was in its place. But what I was looking for — miso to put in my morning oatmeal — was not here. I wandered around the dining hall, not entirely sure what to do with myself or my incomplete bowl of oatmeal.
To understand why a lack of miso could send me into a confused haze, it may help you to know that this incident took place during a 10-day silent meditation retreat. In the past week, I have been following the retreat schedule, filing with others into the meditation hall for silent sits and Dharma talks, breaking for meals (breakfast and lunch — only a light meal of fruits was permitted for dinner) and sleep. Talking and eye contact with fellow retreatants were not allowed. Neither were electronics or writing and reading materials — I handed in my phone and journal to be locked in a safe on the first day.
My past self who booked the retreat could not have imagined how timely it would be. In the few months between retreat booking and attendance, my life was fractured by a heartbreak. Soaring hopes were shot down by a man’s unreturned affection, and I flitted between hopefulness, powerlessness, and despair, trying to either fix the situation or make peace with it. When the day for the retreat came, I had gotten tired of crying or staring into space almost everyday. I was looking forward to escaping from the familiar walls of my room, and from the familiar walls of my mind, too.
The teacher spoke of the process as a “surgery” — in the awareness of one’s bodily sensations, one can uncover deep wounds from the past. I flung myself zealously into the work. Sitting in the dark, among the shifting and coughing of fellow retreatants, I brought attention back to the body again and again. One day, I broke down and sobbed through the whole meditation period. The retreat manager came, put her hand on my shoulder, gave me tissues. The teacher called me to her office, listened to me, and encouraged me to take some rest. In the hall’s darkness and silence, the warmth of compassion still permeated.
Without sensory and mental stimulation from books and devices, food became a source of both excitement and comfort. The nutritious and delicious vegetarian meals awaiting us each day were not just bodily nourishment, but also sparks of relief after prolonged periods of inner work. I have gotten into the habit of putting a dab of miso into my morning oatmeal, relishing in the savory and fermented taste it brought to an otherwise plain breakfast. Before I knew it, the miso-oatmeal combo has become a source of constancy and cheer in the retreat schedule.
Back to the miso-less bowl of oatmeal that morning. After a few minutes of unsuccessfully searching for a substitute (mostly because I was still grumpy about miso running out), I decided to sit down and eat plain oatmeal. After all, it was a source of annoyance but wasn’t an earth-shattering event. I spooned the miso-less oatmeal into my mouth, leaned back, and rested my eyes on the bowl in front of me while chewing.
I kept chewing.
For the first time in that retreat, I actually tasted the “plain” oatmeal, and the richness of its flavor was shocking. There were sweetness and a hint of nuttiness, all of which I had not noticed since they were overwhelmed by the savory miso previously. I took more time with a bite, enjoying the flavors and the grainy texture. The more I chewed, the more complex the taste became. It was the most delicious bowl of oatmeal I’d had!
This simple incident woke me up to the “oatmeal moments”: the hidden spots of joy and beauty that reveal themselves when you (willingly or unwillingly) open up to life-as-it-is, even without the thing you thought was essential to happiness. What the mind labels as “plain” and “unpleasant” holds unexpected riches that only a wakeful and attentive heart can perceive.
I went on to notice more and more “oatmeal moments” after the retreat: one day I was walking in my neighborhood, enjoying the trees and the sunshine, when I realized that I had not thought about the guy who broke my heart at all. Contrary to the story told by my desire, here I was, mind resting on the rays of sunshine filtering through the leaves, contented and cheerful without that coveted relationship.
Another “oatmeal moment” came after I got news the loss of a relative whom I deeply loved. I called an Uber home, and tears rolled down my cheeks as soon as I got into the car. It was autumn in Boston. I looked out of the window mid-cry and for a moment was stunned into silence. The foliage, shining like jewels in the morning sun, was calling out to me, singing its eternal song.
