Meditating with monks: arrival day

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By Gabrielle Jackson
 
When my friend Cassi and I first thought about learning Vipassana meditation, I immediately jumped in with a hugely enthusiastic ‘yes!’ despite the facts we knew including no food after midday and 10 days of no talking.

I’m incredibly lazy so the thought of sitting around doing nothing for 10 days didn’t seem like a tall order to me. In fact, it seemed like a pretty good idea. And then, add to the mix, thinking about myself all day, every day. Hello? Heaven! What could be more interesting or entertaining, I wondered? What’s all this about ascetics? This is hedonism in its purest form, I thought.

And then I got here.

Before we started, we had to agree to follow eight precepts:

1. I undertake the rule of training to refrain from killing any beings.

2. I undertake the rule of training to refrain from taking what is not given.

3. I undertake the rule of training to refrain from sexual intercourse.

4. I undertake the rule of training to refrain from false speech.

5. I undertake the rule of training to refrain from drinks and drugs which fuddle the mind and reduce mindfulness.

6. I undertake the rule of training to refrain from taking food at improper times (after midday).

7. I undertake the rule of training to refrain from dancing, singing, music, shows, from wearing garlands, perfumes, cosmetics, adornments and ornaments.

(Oh shivers, I just killed a bug. I think it was a mosquito, or a flying ant. It landed on my computer and I squashed it. Have I failed? I thought number one would be easy to keep.)

8. I undertake the rule of training to refrain from using high and luxurious seats.

Do we have to consciously stick to these things on purpose, I wonder, or do we still get credit if it just so happens that we fulfill our duty by default? Because I’m pretty sure I can stick to 1 (apart from my little indiscretion just now) 2, and 4 and, since my iPod is broken 7 as well, and I seem to be doing pretty well at number 3, though not necessarily by choice. And since we’re on a retreat in the middle of nowhere, I can’t get food or alcohol if they don’t give it to me, so 5 and 6 should be OK. The bed in my room is literally a wooden slat, and since I’m not travelling with a Sealy Posteurpedic in my backpack, number 8 appears to be in the bag as well.

So, after very little consideration, we agreed to these precepts and were accepted into a Buddhist retreat somewhere in Thailand to learn Vipassana meditation from a Burmese monk.

Our first task was to go to our cabins and check our clothes for appropriateness. It was discovered that I had two bottoms and no tops that were appropriate for wearing here. This could be difficult given the hot, humid conditions. The lady in charge brought us back some pale lavender cotton numbers that look like hospital-issue pyjamas. But at least they look cool.

After I’d showered and changed into my mental asylum gear, we had to go to the hall for a ‘Dhamma talk’. It went for almost one-and-a-half hours. The gist of what I understood was that yogis are coming and go, coming and go, coming and go. Towards the end I picked up that they have feelings – they feel upset, angry, agitated and itchy.

Next, we had an interview with Sayadaw, the teacher (that’s a literal translation of his name). He advised us to be mindful of everything we do – to notice everything – our breathing, walking, the smells, what we touch, how we react. I noticed the hall had lovely parquet flooring and several clocks that didn’t work.

Apparently, when meditating (which is 10 hours a day here) you’re not supposed to think about anything. AT ALL. Not yourself, not the imaginary relationship you’re having with a man who knows nothing about it, not your book, not your holiday, not your home, not where you’d like to live, not – if you had to choose – whether you’d choose to write a great book or meet a great man. Nothing. Nada. Not even about the fly crawling up your leg.

This might not be as easy as I thought. 

Read the rest of the Meditating with monks diary:
Day one
Day two 
Day three
Day four
Day five
Day six
Day seven
Day eight
Day nine
Day 10  

Orphans, circuses and shoes excite this young reader

By Ellen Francis

I was describing one of my favourite childhood books to a friend the other day. It was about a pair of children who are orphaned and run off to find their long lost uncle Gus who is a circus performer. They find him, the boy becomes an elephant trainer, the girl becomes an acrobat, the reluctant uncle learns to love them (as does the whole circus) and they're allowed to stay. A quick Google reveals this is Circus Shoes by Noel Streatfeild and reminds me I also loved her books Ballet Shoes and White Boots, stories about sisters who become brilliant ballet dancers and ice skaters respectively. 

I also loved the Secret Garden, with its precocious child prodigy; I enjoyed Anne of Green Gables, who made a happy life from a difficult beginning; I ploughed through the adventurous Swallows and Amazons. It does appear I preferred books with strong female characters, although I hadn't realised this before. Perhaps it is also telling to look at what we didn't enjoy in comparison to our peers. I never liked any of the Enid Blyton type books: all too wholesome. And I couldn't get to grips with school-set fiction like Mallory Towers: too obviously idealized.

I'm not quite sure what all this says about me. I’d love to be brilliant at something but at 36 I've yet to discover an untapped talent (to my great chagrin). I haven't run away to join the circus but I probably am a bit of an escapist/fantastist; the positive spin would be that I am an adventurous, unconventional type. One analysis is clear to me: these favourite characters were all fiercely independent and individualistic often with fairly dysfunctional/absent families; and that I could (and still can) definitely identify with.
 

If I were a child today I'd be reading heaps about orphaned child prodigy Harry Potter, no surprises there.

Published as part of Not The Style Page's SpeedBlog series

Cross dressing and gender repudiation - the stories I loved as a kid

Speedblog, by Katherine Burgdorf.

Girls are silly, weak and annoying. Not even subconsciously this has always been my standard worldview. Or am I wrong about ‘always been’? Until about three months ago I just thought I was just born angry, but suddenly it suddenly occurred to me that all the ‘series’ books I’d loved as a kid were all dominated by girls who didn’t want to be girls or, at the very least, girls who gave two fingers up to frills and knitting. Was this the reason I’ve turned out the way I have? Is it why I get annoyed when people announce their pregnancies and engagements, or why women tottering around on too-high heel irritates me so much?

I specialised in post-war British and American fiction...from the 40s up to the 70s. The most important book series in my life was The Famous Five (first published in 1942). I read so many Enid Blyton books I have forgotten most of them but the character George (Georgina as her parents named her) in this series is the ultimate tomboy hero. I didn’t particularly care for Timmy, her dog (I thought he was badly behaved and responsible for most of the group’s life threatening situations) but George and her swimming, rowing, camping and rescue skills, was an idol. She refused to be called by her girl name, and delighted in dressing, talking and behaving like a boy to the extent people thought she was.

The other huge influence on my life was Trixie Belden, a dungaree-wearing girl detective. Trixie was smarter, braver and tougher than any of her brothers or ‘Bob-Whites of the Glen’ club friends. She was selected to be a positive influence on girly girl neighbour Honey, and even with her short sandy curls, freckles and mannish ways she attracted Jim Frayne’s devotion. She also solved all crimes committed in the greater Westchester area from antique theft to fraud and family imposters. In a strange community of prissy millionaire ladies, Trixie was a lion.

In the same vein my other heroines were go getters like Jill Crewe, who rode horses in the fictitious Chatton area, had the respect of military men like Captain Cholly-Sawcutt and set up her own pony club, Nancy Drew (more crime busting) and Ginny, who lived in wild Scotland with her mystical Arab mare Shantih...and hated her frilly sister Petra.

These were the grrrllls of my childhood. If I had to write the sequels to their lives I suspect they all moved to Manhattan and ate their twin-set wearing counterparts for second breakfast (they were all good eaters). I don’t know if they still write characters like this – I’m sure they do – and I’m not saying these women were perfect but when I think about the risk to our lives from hideous boredom, the confines of having kids and all the dreary suburban lives of others, I have no fear for these friends.

Shock confession rocks NTSP: 'Dim' bloke was my literary hero

I have a confession, and it’s not going to be pretty. In fact, good feminists and literary types might want to look away now.

Obelix, of Asterix and Obelix fame, was my childhood literary hero. Yes, you know the one: the stonemason with a taste for xenophobic violence and who, looking back, was perennially dim. His BMI was probably at the ‘morbidly obese’ end of the scale and he had a girl’s haircut. And he wore his trousers too high. And he was French.

Hmmm. I’m not sure I can actually fill the remaining 114 words of this speed blog after that clanger.

But there you have it: I’m a feminist and my childhood literary icon was a man, and not a very inspiring one at that.

I could put it down to my childhood reading list - for reasons I cannot recollect – being short on the classics. No Anne of Green Gables for me. Nor The Railway Children. Or Little Women. Of course, Pippy Longstocking (whose eponymous heroine had a similar haircut to Obelix) was very, very, very cool indeed. She was confident, independent and, best of all, irreverent. But the fact is, for some reason, she didn’t have as much impact on me as that wild boar-scarfing, Roman legionnaire-thumping Gaul. But then I was also quite keen on Pigsy from Monkey, described on Wiki as “a pig monster”, so perhaps I always set the bar low.

Wendy Saunt is a interior designer, writer and art consultant. She lives in London. You can follow her on Twitter @Wendy__Saunt

What might psychology teach us about ourselves and the books we read as children?

Dr Pauline Rennie-Peyton writes in response to our SpeedBlog series on childhood reading....

'There are lots of psychology professionals who support the theory that the stories we read in childhood and the characters we identify with help to form our life pattern in later life.  I invite your contributors to look at their own life pattern and see if they can see links with who they were as children.

'One woman identified with Heidi, the story of a little girl who befriends a little boy with a physical disability that affected his walking.  She was later shocked to find that she was the carer of a husband who was wheelchair bound and resenting it.  

'Another woman had been hooked on adventure stories and wanted to be married to a hero, she did find her outdoor hero in the form of a wildlife photographer and complained that she was stuck at home being the domestic and raising children alone while he went off exploring and having fun.

'What is also difficult to come to terms with is that real grown up life is rarely as exciting as our childhood fantasies.  The male heroes in picture books don't have smelly feet and watch football and the heroines don't suffer from PMT and complain when they don't get enough attention.'

Dr Pauline Rennie-Peyton

Dr Pauline Rennie-Peyton is a Chartered Psychologist specialising in relationships www.renniepeyton.com

*** We would be fascinated to read people's stories or thoughts on these kinds of links, and interested to know what your children are reading now.' ***

Anne and Elizabeth: My headstrong heroes

By Gabrielle Jackson

There were two adventurous young girls I was obsessed with as a young girl myself and I read about them with rapacious enthusiasm.

They were Elizabeth Allen from Enid Blyton’s The Naughtiest Girl in the School series and Anne (with a e) Shirley from Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables epic. They were both headstrong but smart, troublesome but kind. I idolised and identified with them both.

Every birthday or Christmas brought the next book in the series and every time I finished one was a time of intense mourning . When Elizabeth finally graduated from the school in which she was the naughtiest, it was time for Anne to come into my life. I was older when I read about Anne and perhaps that’s why – or where – the line blurred between me reading about Anne and thinking I was Anne. Back when being called Gaye was still acceptable, I even insisted on being Gaye with an e.

I gave that up at about the time I began looking for my own Gilbert Blythe. Perhaps it’s time to re-read the Anne series and draw a line  - finally - under me as Anne since I am neither a teacher, nor married (to a doctor), but still as inspired now by her imagination and wit as I was then. 

This post was published as part of Not the Style Pages' SpeedBlog series

Speed blog #4: You are what you read

Speed blog #4: You are what you read.
At a car boot sale on the weekend I found a crate full of books I read as a child...books I'm sure are no longer published and, quite possibly, no longer read. Nevertheless they were books I loved. A few days later it hit me how similar the books I loved as a child were to each other, and how they had quite possibly turned me into the person I am today, good and bad. Is this the same for you?

Does what we read as children have much influence on the sort of people we become? Are our personalities and life decisions shaped by the heros and heroines of childhood fiction? What did you love to read a child and who, in particular, were your female fiction heros?