A Sri Lankan journaey

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The first time I visited Nilambe Meditation Centre I was in college, a sophomore.

Nilambe is nestled between ancient peaks in the Central Highlands just outside of Kandy, Sri Lanka.

I knew that I would return one day.

I can distinctly remember my teacher, Godwin Samararatne, standing beside me in the mist, asking, “Will you come to Sri Lanka again?” It was more a gesture than a question.

It has taken me more than a decade to save enough money and find the heart to come back. I walk the long, winding, mountain path with a young “seeker” who befriended me along the way.

Eddy has piercing blue eyes and a wild topknot made of dreadlocks. He is so earnest in warmth and capacity that I keep thinking I have somehow met Maitreya (Future Buddha). Somebody with pure intention is so hard to find these days.

So I make myself happy with the thought and with his stories and simple truth.

We walk higher and higher through the tea plantations. A tiny Tamil boy comes out of the trees. He is carrying a green bundle of herbs or spices. Neither Eddy nor I speak a word of Tamil so we gesture and smile a lot and the tiny creature springs forward, tirelessly uphill, like some black mountain-monkey. I take his visit as a good omen. He is like Hanuman to us, the Hindu monkey-god who came to Sri Lanka thousands of years ago from South India.

It is evening when we finally arrive at the center.

Hanuman has taken his mysterious greens home and presumably made someone happy. In my mind’s eye I can see the boy squatting on the dirt floor of his house scooping red rice from a banana leaf. His mother scolds him for being late, but she loves him all the same.

We are shown by an effervescent Sinhalese man – our contemporary in age – the “cells” we are going to stay in.

And they really are just “cells.” If I sit on the tired mattress, my knees touch the wall. I can hear the other guests cough, sneeze, wheeze throughout. My mosquito net is shredded, and I rest briefly under its canopy wondering if Lord Buddha will protect me from malaria while I am doing his meditation. I laugh aloud at my predicament, at the absurdity of all my petty needs and desires.

Then I think briefly of the Tamil plantation workers who live on this mountain like slaves. They will toil under a scorching sun for many years and have nothing. They have nothing now except perhaps the worship of Ganesha the “elephant-headed,” Shiva the Destroyer and Creator, or the god Kataragama. The consolation that rises in the dead of night like smoke from coconut oil, like incense in the torrid wind.

Tonight, after meditation, I join some students for a Dharma talk. It is given, ironically, by a Belgian who has committed his life to Buddhism.

I feel exhausted. The subject of the lesson is “annihilation.” It’s about the human propensity for self-annihilation even in the midst of spiritual practice, the weird desire we often have to obliterate ourselves either through sex, drugs or drink. His thick Belgian accent hits me over the head repeatedly like a wave or a hammer. He keeps saying annihilation over and over, and I wonder if I can sneak out. After an excruciating hour I am released, my ears still ringing with Dharma. As I pass the altar and bow to the Buddha, I lift my eyes and see a picture of Godwin smiling. “I came back, Godwin,” I say to him, “but you have gone away.”

I am roused from my turmoil at 4:45 a.m. with the monks batting a large wooden gong. Thanks anyway, bhikkhus! But I have been kept awake all night by both the mosquitoes and my fellow penitents coughing and snoring loudly. I am definitely feeling annihilated now. But I have come all this way to practice, so I douse my face with cold water beneath a quartering moon and some strange constellation.

I sit in the darkness. There are some monks with us on retreat and also a number of western Buddhists. The sitting makes me wild. My brain races and I sink into a profound stupor – like a computer with some amazing virus.

I get up to walk it off. While I am walking the length of the hall practicing “mindfulness,” a monk slaps my leg. Apparently he’s disturbed by my stretching and the snapping of my bones in the dawn.

“Are you kidding me?” I think with all the crazy bitterness I can summon.

I continue up and down a few more times feeling silly, selfish and absolutely offended. Not only is my mind “corrupt” and crazy, but my body can’t handle discipline for fifteen minutes while Eddy sits there, silent without moving for two hours.

I leave the hall in a state and go directly to the sleeping quarters of the teacher Upul Gamage.

“Hey, why isn’t he in the hall meditating with us?” I think.

I explain to him rather frantically that I seem to be having an episode, and he tells me to “slow down” and focus attention on all these streaming thoughts. The guru is wrapped in white robes with a big happy lion-face, and he has, like Godwin, suffused penetrating eyes. I can’t be angry at him. His stilted English and sweet demeanor are comforting. He tells me to “watch” the memories and thoughts without judgment. I tell him I can’t sit still without great pain in my legs, and he recommends a seiza bench, a recommendation for which I am extremely grateful. I bow, hands clasped in front of my nose, and return to meditation.

As the day progresses, my sitting becomes still and I notice a lump in my heart. I do as I am told and mindfully watch both the thoughts and the strange ache in my chest. I sink into the experience itself and try not to judge it. I begin to let go – however difficult the actual process.

And then it happens. It happens like the breaking of a branch in the jungle. Like steam rising in the purple foothills. Or a wild blue crow circling close by me and crying out. It happens like peace. Not “enlightenment” or some beatnik satori. I am still painfully aware of my shortcomings, aware of my “crazy mind” and the long road ahead.

I rush to my cell and begin throwing things in a rucksack. “Take delight in heedfulness.” These are the words of the Buddha.

I mindfully remove the bed linens. Guard your thoughts. Guard your thoughts. Lion-hearted Buddha, your wisdom is like the diamond reflected in all diamonds!

I cinch my pack and leave Mark Twain on the nightstand where I found him. Raise yourself from the wrong way like an elephant sunk in mud.

I rush out the door and up the stone staircase. Eddy is standing in my way in flowing pants and embroidered shirt. I don’t know what to expect. But he puts his hands together and bows, knowingly.

Justin Maseychik teaches at Thomas College in Waterville. He teaches courses on Buddhism and comparative religion. He may be reached at

maseychik@thomas.edu. Voices is a weekly commentary by Maine people who explore issues affecting spirituality and religious life.