Mexican Meditation

Last week I found a Zen meditation group five minutes from our home that meets every week day, at 8 a.m. I had heard about it awhile ago, but had to track it down. It's in one room of a colonial-style building called the Meson San Antonio, which is a cultural center run by the university. The group is led by a ageless-looking Japanese man with the traditional shaved head and wearing the traditional black robe. He has lived here 20 years, one of the group told me. The format is we sit for about 15 minutes facing in to the room, then he rings a bell and we do veeeeerry slow walking meditation, then normal-walking in an oval formation for about 5 minutes, then another sit, a bit longer, about 20 minutes, facing the wall. (These times are approximate, of course. While meditating, I don't check my watch, though compulsive time-watcher that I am, I'm tempted to.)

We sit in a row against a wall, cushions provided. Scrupulous silence, and if you're not there by 8:00 a.m., you're out of luck... as I found out the first time I tried to go. I arrived at 8:01, and the door was shut tight and locked! It's all over by 9:00.

When meditating, the details of my surroundings--however flat and ordinary they might otherwise seem--come alive and have a surprising beauty about them. The heavy, brick-like stone columns in the center of the room look like they too are meditating, along with us. The high rectangular windows on the opposite wall offer their dusky light. I hear the occasional rumble of buses, their motors amplified against the narrow street of Alonzo. Walking, my bare toes try to curl around the slight arc in the cool natural Mexican tiles.

Akira, the teacher, gently adjusted my position the first day, and the second day told me after the meditation (in pigeon one- and two-word Spanish--I was told he doesn't speak much Spanish) that if I sat higher up, I would be more comfortable. Many folks bring blankets that they place on top of their cushions for added padding or elevation.

Folks have been friendly, coming up to me afterwards, introducing themselves and asking me my name, some with offerings of abrazos and besos (hugs and kisses). A few linger and hang out afterwards, or "convivir," as it's called in Spanish.

One afternoon, I ran into Akira in the Jardin Union, the main square. He smiled and touched my arm in a silent greeting. I wouldn't have recognized him in his street clothes if he hadn't acknowledged me. Our attempts to communicate didn't get very far, in one sense, but his warmth was unmistakable. He didn't speak Spanish or English, and I don't speak Japanese.

I'm delighted to have made some new Mexican connections. And no chance of language misunderstandings when you meet through meditation. What better a way to form a bond, in any culture, than through the hospitality of silence?