Well, if my experience at Buddhist summer camp is any indication, then Buddha had no playlist and probably had no favorite tune, except for maybe a ringing bowl sounding out time for meditation. Time for meditation: Again. I made a poor yogi I’m sure, but at least I followed the rule of complete silence. Almost.
Some people when they reach that longed-for retirement day, go off on their dream vacation to Paris or the Caribbean or maybe the all-you-can-eat buffet in Harlan, Kentucky. I went to the Insight Meditation Center in Massachusetts for a hot summer week. On entry, the staff interview you and assign a room that comes with nothing more than two very small beds and a roommate. It was high summer so I asked about air-conditioning. No dice. The 20 year old asked about any food allergies or medical condition. Also, “Adriel, do you have any mental conditions?” The spiel was that some people seek meditation as a balm for a troubled mind and I was warned that a week at INS wouldn’t do the trick. I simply said I might have been a little crazy to sign up, that’s all. No response. This guy was all about serious meditation. What ever happened to Buddhist humor?
So I did my best to follow the rules. At first I thought that the no coffee rule was the tough one, along with the monster mosquitoes–no repellent permitted and you get expelled for killing a flea or a fly. I got used to the no talking and more or less was compliant, save for sneaking off to the lakeside on the lunch break to call Paula on the verboten cell phone. But it was the music. No music permitted. No sound. It was such an aural void.
It made me realize how much music there is with radio and digital. Music excites, soothes, saddens, and generally moves us in a better direction. Helps us get a better attitude, although music has got its work cut out for it with me. With cell phones and speakers in cars and homes and stores and gas pumps and elevators it is everywhere. But not at the meditation retreat. Music transports the listener to a better place, lifts you up closer to a higher plane. But at Buddhist camp you must “be here now!” I have read that people love most the music they heard in the year before reaching 30 years of age and not so much after that. I don’t think so. I think a melody becomes a beloved from an experience. Maybe an emotional moment, or celebration. Maybe with friends singing. Or a favorite song and dance show or movie. Or sung in choir or at a time of joy or triumph or even sorrow.
Well when I was no longer “being here now”, leaving a half day short of the week, I admit I felt a renewal, a purging of emotions, a quiet soul afloat on calm waters. I drove off seeking the nearest McD’s for a diet cola and large fries. I clicked on the closest public radio station. I was hungry for trash food but more hungry for some good music. The sound of a celestial Mozart horn concerto filled up my whole self. It was the larghetto romance from the Horn Concerto No. 3 in E flat, K.447. From those little auto speakers it seemed astounding and a sound of extraordinary beauty. Like Pythagoras, I felt it was music that moves the stars and sounds the rhythm of the universe.
I now have every recorded performance I could find on Spotify in my playlist. And every time I hear those slow and sweet and simply glorious French horns the music sweeps me off to nirvana.
Two Strikes 