Inward: Vipassana Meditation & the Embodiment of the Self

Inward

Fieldwork Encounters and Discoveries

A series edited by Robert Emerson and Jack Katz

Inward

Vipassana Meditation and the Embodiment of the Self

Michal Pagis

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago and London

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 2019 by The University of Chicago

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th St., Chicago, IL 60637.

Published 2019

Printed in the United States of America

28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19    1 2 3 4 5

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-63938-3 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-36187-1 (paper)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-63941-3 (e-book)

DOI: https://doi.org/10.7208/chicago/9780226639413.001.0001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Pagis, Michal, author.

Title: Inward : vipassana meditation and the embodiment of the self / Michal Pagis.

Other titles: Fieldwork encounters and discoveries.

Description: Chicago : The University of Chicago Press, 2019. | Series: Fieldwork encounters and discoveries

Identifiers: LCCN 2018055501 | ISBN 9780226639383 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780226361871 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780226639413 (e-book)

Subjects: LCSH: Vipasyana (Buddhism) | Meditation—Buddhism—Social aspects. | Mind and body. | Self.

Classification: LCC BQ5630.V5 P325 2019 | DDC 294.3/4435—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018055501

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

Contents

Acknowledgments

Note on Terminology

1  Turning Inward

2  The Popularization of Meditation

3  Collective Solitude

4  Meditation in Daily Life

5  Negotiating Intimate Social Relations

6  Becoming a Meditator: Life-Course Orientations

7  Bodies, Selves, and the Social World

Methodological Appendix: Ethnography of Experience

Notes

References

Index

Acknowledgments

My debt of thanks runs wide and deep. First and foremost, I would like to express my gratitude to the many participants in this study, who welcomed me into their homes and their hearts. No less, I wish to thank the teachers and volunteers at the Vipassana Meditation Foundation in Israel, Illinois, and Massachusetts, whose hospitality and loving-kindness extended not only to their students but also to this researcher.

My scholarly community has long been my emotional and intellectual refuge. The focused attention of Andrew Abbott, Andreas Glaeser, John Lucy, Steven Collins, Erika Summers-Effler, and Jack Katz contributed immeasurably to this project. Specifically, Andreas Glaeser prompted me to pursue this line of research and modeled what it is to be a teacher, a scholar, and a person; Andrew Abbott’s endless flow of fresh ideas showed me what creativity and independent thinking are all about; and Jack Katz’s invaluable comments on this manuscript helped me to hone my argument and contribution. Wendy Cadge, Stephan Bargheer, Iddo Tavory, Karin Nisenbaum, and Naama Kopelman all offered sage advice at different phases of this project.

My colleagues in the sociology department at Bar Ilan University in Israel were my support network while writing. Financial support from the Schnitzer Foundation at Bar-Ilan University helped with the last stages toward publication. A special thanks to Sara Tropper, who copyedited the manuscript, for her fine editorial flair.

My final and most profound thanks go to my family. Without my parents, Rina and Alex Pagis, my sisters, Dalit and Ifat, my beloved son, Aran—who has never known life without this project—and most of all my husband, Udi, this book would never have been written. I am forever grateful for their love.

Note on Terminology

A number of Buddhist words appear in the book, all introduced in Pali, the scriptural language of Theravada Buddhism from which vipassana meditation originated. Vipassanā, the most used Pali word in the text, is pronounced by teachers and practitioners as vih-pah-san’-ah. Other Pali words include nibbāna, samādhi, satipaţţhāna, ānāpāna, sutta, dhamma, dukkha, anatta, and mettā. Many of these words are spelled with diacritical marks, as above; however, for ease of reading I have omitted those marks. I use the Pali terms and not the Sanskrit ones, as these are the terms used in the vipassana retreats I studied (e.g., nibbana and not nirvana, dhamma and not dharma, sutta and not sutra).

1

Turning Inward

Interiority has come into its own. More and more people are looking inward, toward their minds and bodies. This gaze is oriented through different channels and practices, many of which are based on religious or spiritual traditions. Inward is about one such practice: vipassana, a Buddhist meditation of mindfulness that involves a nonjudgmental or detached observation of the body and mind.

The practice of vipassana and the microsociological world that surrounds it form the core of this book. Yet the reader will be taken far beyond vipassana itself. In my inquiry, vipassana is used as a window onto the complex relations between bodies, selves, and social worlds. Through examining the phenomenological reality of vipassana practitioners, their silent interactions in meditation centers, their heightened sensitivity to the body, and their attempts to transform themselves and their social lives by monitoring bodily sensations, I supply a sociological framework for the study of the place of embodied awareness in processes of self-making. Such a framework enhances our understanding of the connection between inner self-relations and self-other relations, and of the role of the visceral body in linking the two.

What does it mean to look inward? What do we find when we do so? This is a challenging question, because the notion of inwardness implies an inversion of the usual direction of attention in everyday life. Generally attention is focused on the world in which one acts, that is, the world outside oneself. On a personal level, this world might be the text I am writing, the game I am playing, or the conversation I am having with a friend. In the course of such daily action, I am tacitly aware of different aspects of the embodiment of the self—adjusting my fingers on the keyboard when misspelling a word, feeling a pain in my back and moving in order to relieve it, noticing anger rising up and trying to control my desire to shout. This awareness is kept at the background of action and behavior in the world, as my focused attention is set on interaction with other people and things.

As social beings, we interact in the world with an awareness of how others perceive us. Thus in everyday interaction one diverts attention to one’s body, emotion, or behavior in order to adjust to, or influence, others’ perceptions of us. While such awareness of the embodiment of the self is key for social interaction, it is mostly under wraps, kept at the background of awareness, a base from which one attends to the world. It is the world that is at the focal point of attention, not one’s interiority.

The kind of inward looking that this book investigates turns such activity inside out. It puts interiority at the focal point of attention, as a subject of interest in and of itself. Such inward looking may have a goal or vision that is connected to action in the world—one might go to a psychotherapist and speak about one’s emotions in order to be a better mother. Or one might practice yoga in order to modulate one’s reactions to feeling frustrated or anxious over the course of the day. But the situated practice of looking inward is distinct from daily action and engagement. It entails a diversion of attention away from the world and toward the self. Moreover, when we so divert our attention, we start finding things. I, for example, discover emotions, thoughts, and sensations that are new to me and that are now becoming a part of who I am. My inner sphere expands as a whole world of interiority is revealed.

It is the diversion of attention away from daily engagement, the break in the flow of daily life that takes place during the gaze inward, that makes it such a compelling case for sociological inquiry. If we take seriously the sociological insight that the self is always embedded in social relations and interactions, then we are confronted with the question: what kinds of social worlds and social relations emerge when people adopt practices that shift their focus inward, toward the invisible dimensions of our being?

The challenge that such inward-looking practices present to sociological inquiry has led to a concern among sociologists that the subjective turn that characterizes modern culture represents a dissolution of the social fabric, with people becoming antisocial, overly individualistic, and perhaps even narcissistic.¹ However, such notions ignore the growing institutionalization of inward looking in social spheres that are becoming a central part of our society. These spheres are weaving new social fabrics and even creating new communities.

This book offers a microsociological account of one such inward-looking practice, an account that reveals that the turn inward relies on the surrounding social interactive sphere and thus cannot be characterized as antisocial or solitary. The reader will learn that the turn inward calls for the cultivation of a new relation, a new dialectic, between self and other, between self and the social world. A society of inward-looking individuals requires particular social relations, particular modes of social interaction that supply the collective base from which individuals explore their own subjectivity.

Meditation offers an extreme case of the turn inward because, more than other introspective techniques, it involves a radical turn away from the world. This is because meditation is not language based. The turn to meditation, and with it other bodily based practices, shows a shift from the previously popular talking cure (e.g., psychoanalysis) to corporeal methods that turn toward interiority.

Theories on the social base of introspection tend to stress language. Language is a shared symbolic system that is by definition social. We learn our words from other people. Our conversations with others serve as the basis of our conversations with ourselves. Indeed language is a natural candidate for the production of self-reflection, since it has an easily accessible reflexive capacity. Through language one can speak about oneself with others, produce biographical narratives, and engage in inner dialogues. G. H. Mead went so far as to claim, I know of no other form of behavior than the linguistic in which the individual is an object to himself, and so, as far as I can see, the individual is not a self in the reflexive sense unless he is an object to himself.²

The notion that language is the primary channel through which individuals explore themselves is evident in many self-reflective practices and techniques in contemporary Western culture. Foucault’s inquiry into the power of self-verbalization, originating from the practice of confession and migrating into the consulting room, offers various examples.³ The therapeutic discourse, which is based on the talking cure and with it on improving communication skills, rests on what Eva Illouz has dubbed the textualization of subjectivity.⁴ We talk about ourselves, we write in diaries, we write blogs, we go to therapists and life coaches, we engage in endless conversations about who we are.

Alongside practices that are based on verbalization of the self, however, other self-reflexive techniques have penetrated the contemporary culture of self-introspection. In the main, these techniques stem from societies that are suspicious of language as a medium for self-knowledge. They prefer a different medium for turning inward—the medium of the body. Yoga, meditation, healing, and alternative medicine are just a few examples of practices that turn to the body in order to produce self-knowledge, self-mastery, and self-grounding.

In contrast to practices of inward looking that rely on the inherent reflexive capacity of language and symbols, bodily based introspective techniques rely on the reflexive capacity of the body. Such practices involve awareness of processes of meaning-making that are embedded within the somatic level. Somatic or embodied meaning-making processes have received much sociological attention in the past several decades.⁵ Yet embodied semiotics is usually understood as subconscious and habitual, captured by the notion of habitus, a dimension of self that is hidden from direct reflection.⁶ Taking a totally different tack, bodily based introspective techniques transform this dimension of selfhood into an overt subject of awareness. These practices, vipassana meditation among them, are cultural-specific ways that bring the tacit inner lining of experience to the forefront of attention, rendering it a subject of reflection and manipulation.

What is tacit about the inner lining of experience? Of course we routinely attend to our bodies. But this attention is recruited to action in the world. My interaction with you follows bodily cues and nonverbal responses and expressions. If I see you are having a difficult time listening, I might raise my voice or change my tone. I search your response for indications regarding my self, I attend to the me that is reflected back to me, adjusting my body accordingly. If you smile at me and I interpret this smile as a friendly gesture, I will smile back. If you smile at me and I sense an attempt to humiliate me, I will react in shame or anger.

Self-awareness in interaction requires a dialectic movement between self and other, between attending to the external social world and attending to the body as a base from which action takes place.⁷ In this dialectic movement, the inner lining of experience is tacit. I do not concentrate on my breath or on the tension in my muscles. My breath, my muscle tension, and my heartbeat act as a base for my behavior and are available for reflection, but during interaction are not the primary objects of attention.

Now, imagine starting to tilt this dialectic in a way that the body becomes more central to my attention, while others and the social world turn into aids or anchors from which I investigate my body. So when I feel my muscles contracting into a smile, instead of focusing on your response to my smile, I divert my attention to these muscles. Or when I touch you, instead of focusing on how you feel, I shift my attention to how my hand feels while touching you. Or when I talk to you, instead of focusing on your responses to my words, I focus on the sound of my voice or the movement of my tongue.

This is not an easy task. As an experiment, try touching the end of this book, or the end of tablet on which you are reading the electronic version of this book, and feel it—it is most likely smooth and straight. Now try to feel your finger touching the book or the tablet. This is quite complicated. As Merleau-Ponty writes, the moment perception comes my body effaces itself before it and never does the perception grasp the body in the act of perceiving.⁸ Instead of simply feeling the world, you are trying to feel yourself feeling the world. This requires attending to the inner lining of experience, which normally serves as a background to our actions.

Such an inversion of the usual order of attention for prolonged and condensed periods does not jibe well with mundane social life. Vipassana meditation and other such inward-looking practices originated in relatively monastic spheres and were not designed to be practiced by the masses. To borrow Weber’s typology of religion, meditative practices represent a religious flight from the world.⁹ In Buddhist terms, vipassana tries to expose ultimate reality, a reality quite distinct from the conventional one. This is why meditative practices were traditionally done either in solitude or in the company of other monks, and accompanied by renunciation, withdrawing from the everyday social order and joining an alternative one.

Recent years have seen a growing attempt to integrate meditation into conventional life. Long meditation retreats and daily practice of meditation are becoming increasingly common, with individuals keen on cultivating the ability to track the inner lining of experience, to feel themselves feeling the world.

How can we account for such allocation of time and energy to this effort? What do people find when they divert their attention to the inner lining of experience? What kind of alternative social order enables such process of cultivation? How do people utilize the practice of meditation and extend it to their daily lives? What kind of tensions and resonances then emerge? And last, what can the inversion of attention in vipassana meditation teach us about relations between self-body-other in other contexts?

The Journey

Sitting at his office at a major American university, Peter, a professor of computer science, recalls what attracted him to vipassana.¹⁰ Several years ago he sought something that could help him, or as he puts it, provide answers to the questions that he had about life. Having a Quaker father, he had encountered meditation in the past: I wasn’t raised with that directly but that was present, that was part of my secondhand experience, and I have gone to that a couple of times. Yet he was not interested in religious belief or a religious community and felt quite remote from Christianity. He read some Buddhist texts and tried learning meditation from books, but he found that reading about it doesn’t do anything. . . . Even if you try it once then you have doubts—‘wow, this doesn’t look as amazing as they said it would be’—and then you don’t do it again. When he heard about a ten-day vipassana retreat from a friend, who described the course as a meditation boot camp, he decided to give it a try: The moment I heard this description I knew I really needed it, since it forces you to try the teaching now. So other teachings pointed towards it, but without the structure to make it happen, it is extremely difficult, I think, for people to get very far in it, to really understand it, to really confront it.

A chilly spring day several weeks hence finds me entering the meditation hall at the vipassana meditation center in Illinois, near the city of Rockford. The center used to be a small countryside farm, and the meditation hall was originally a residential house, whose inner walls were torn down to create a large open space. Besides the meditation hall, the center includes a kitchen and dining hall, dorms for retreat participants, and dorms for the volunteer staff and teachers, each facility located in a separate building and connected by walking trails.

I remove my shoes at the entrance to the meditation hall, then slowly and quietly take my seat on a small meditation cushion and mattress. The lights are dim as I peer around at the unadorned white walls. Less than two feet away other meditators sit on similar mattresses and cushions. The hall, which could hold fifty people, is not full. I recognize Peter from afar, on the male side of the hall, but conforming to the norm of silence, I do not gesture to him. A moment later the meditation teacher enters and sits down on a higher seat at the front of the hall. Facing the meditators and without a word, he presses a button. The sound of recorded chanting begins, followed by the familiar voice of the head teacher S. N. Goenka instructing me to concentrate on my breath. I close my eyes and enter meditation.

A year later, on the other side of the Atlantic, I am again sitting, this time in the comfortable living room of a house located in an upscale Israeli suburb, interviewing Sharon, mother of two and successful self-employed graphic designer. I had met Sharon several months earlier at the Israeli vipassana meditation center in Hazeva, a small village in the desert. We shared a room at a ten-day meditation retreat with two other students, yet we had exchanged not a single word. In the meditation hall I could see Sharon in the row in front of me, meditating silently. Our eyes would meet in the room while we waited for the shower or in the dining hall as we stood in line for food, but all I knew about her was her name and that this was her fourth meditation retreat. Only on the last day, when the participants were allowed to speak, did we find ourselves in deep conversation.

Sharon offers me tea along with a retrospective of her encounter with vipassana.¹¹ Three years ago, when she and her husband had been at a coffee shop with friends, one friend, who is totally not a spiritual person, a very material person, works in marketing, who was very stressed at that time, told them that he had decided to do something for relaxation, to go to a ten-day silent vipassana retreat in the desert. This was the first time she had ever heard the word vipassana, but something about this ten-day silence attracted her, and she found herself saying, You know what, that suits me too—I also want to go. The timing was perfect in terms of work, she recounts, and she felt lucky that a space suddenly opened up in the already-full registration. Sharon recalls that she had no sense of what awaited her: When I got there, I realized I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. I did not know vipassana was a type of meditation; it was a complete surprise that you sit silently with yourself—and that is it. When she went to the first retreat, she did not think she would ever attend another, yet something in the experience captivated her. She tried meditating at home alone, but finding that her focus diminished with time, she decided to join a weekly group vipassana sitting. Family- and work-related pressures shot up over the year, and eventually she decided to return to the meditation center for another vipassana retreat.

Sharon and Peter are two among many vipassana practitioners I met during my fieldwork. For three years I conducted extensive participant observation in the two vipassana centers described above and in weekly vipassana groups in the vicinity of Chicago and Tel Aviv. Together with the Massachusetts vipassana center (visited briefly) and myself as an autoethnographical field site, these people and spaces form the backbone of this book. The fieldwork continued sporadically for another five years as I periodically contacted practitioners for informal follow-up conversations.

The choice for research in Israel and the United States stems from my own biography. In 2002, three years before I embarked on this research, I participated in a ten-day vipassana course in Israel, my home country, at the same meditation center where a few years later I met Sharon. I had long been interested in trying meditation, and a friend recommended vipassana. I had some background in yoga and tai chi, both of which are practiced in circles where meditation is highly regarded. This prior taste of vipassana sparked my sociological curiosity, mainly because I perceived a resonance between the meditative attitude and phenomenological/constructivist sociological perspectives. Yet at that time I had no intention of turning vipassana into an object of sociological investigation, and I continued to practice it sporadically without returning to meditation retreats.

Fast-forward three years: I was studying at the University of Chicago when the first vipassana meditation center opened near Chicago, using the teaching method I had learned in Israel—vipassana meditation as taught by S. N. Goenka. This captured my attention, and I discovered meditation groups dotting the university campus, including a vipassana group. Mindfulness was on the rise, becoming a visible social phenomenon. No longer confined to alternative circles, it called out for sociological inquiry.

In Israel I saw that a similar process was taking place: meditation was entering the mainstream. At this point I felt the time was ripe for me to embark on this study.¹² Thereafter I traveled back and forth between the US and Israel, conducting fieldwork in both sites. These two locations, Israel and the United States, represent two non-Buddhist Western social contexts in which meditation practice in general, and vipassana in particular, has become extraordinarily popular.

Vipassana meditation, also known by the terms insight and mindfulness, involves silent and still, nonjudgmental observation of the body-mind phenomenon. In a nutshell, this means paying full attention to thoughts, feelings, and sensations without holding onto them or acting on them. In contrast to other meditations, vipassana does not require a mantra or an external object such as a candle or a picture to focus on. Instead it uses the universally accessible body and mind as objects of attention. Therefore one can practice some level of vipassana when engaged in other activities—when eating, driving, washing dishes, or even in conversation. Still, the main practice is compartmentalized into specific temporal and spatial frames, either in solitude or with others, usually in a sitting position. Some schools also teach vipassana while walking slowly.¹³

Vipassana has long been practiced in Southeast Asia in Theravada Buddhist countries (e.g., Burma, Thailand, Sri Lanka), penetrating the West only recently. The presence of nonmonastic vipassana meditation centers in both Buddhist and non-Buddhist locations is considered a modern phenomenon.¹⁴ Traditionally vipassana has been practiced mainly by monks, but the twentieth century saw the emergence of Buddhist reformation movements that advocate meditation practice to the laity. The opening of vipassana to the laity eventually led to its exportation to the West.

Around the world, one finds different vipassana schools that follow slightly different versions of the practice.¹⁵ Vipassana Meditation as Taught by S. N. Goenka has been at the forefront of pushing the popularization of vipassana meditation among non-Buddhists. This school emphasizes the tracking of bodily sensations through a technique called body scan, which has won many practitioners in other vipassana and mindfulness schools.

Centers that follow Goenka’s teachings—two hundred worldwide and eleven in the US—use almost identical teachings, with some variations oriented to Hindu and Buddhist audiences. Like other vipassana teaching schools, such as the popular Insight Meditation Society (IMS), the centers offer meditation retreats ranging from one to sixty days, conducted in almost complete silence, and besides vipassana, teach breathing meditation (anapana) and metta meditation (loving-kindness). This structure of teaching was imported from SouteEast Asia with some adaptations to a non-Buddhist Western audience.

When I began my research, I was planning to add a comparative view between Israel and the United States. Since the teachings in this specific vipassana school are standardized, I was interested to see what happens to this standardization when it encounters different audiences. I soon found out that the audience in the two locations is extremely similar. In fact, I realized that if I were to erase the language and specific cultural and social identifications, it would probably be impossible to differentiate between the Israeli and American interviews. In both locations I met doctoral students, lawyers, psychotherapists, financial advisers, teachers, and physicians—the full gamut of professions from the upper-middle socioeconomic class. Their religious identification also overlapped, as most neither self-identified as Buddhists nor considered themselves religious in any other tradition. (Self-definitions varied from secular to agnostic to atheist to spiritual.)

In addition, their motivations, goals, and interests seemed to reflect a distinctly global trend. Doron, age forty, an Israeli engineer, turned to vipassana after his divorce in the hopes of finding happiness, while Rachel, forty, an American graphic designer, began vipassana after she and her husband split up and her mother died. Jessica, fifty-two, an American who is employed by an NGO, was hoping that vipassana would help her manage her alcoholism. Dana, thirty, an Israeli scientist, tried TM for a while and then moved to vipassana to deal with her chronic depression. Tony, thirty-three, an Israeli financial adviser, sought out vipassana in the process of reevaluating his career choice, while Daniel, twenty-six, an American aspiring artist, began when his professional accomplishments seemed too distant from his professional dreams.

Doron, Rachel, and the other vipassana practitioners I met in Israel and the US shared with me life stories which, when juxtaposed, reveal joint patterns.