s2e2 the retreat

Ever wondered what happens at a mindfulness retreat? So did Abuda.

In the special episode, Abuda, the host of "The Elephant's Graveyard," shares his experiences at a mindful cooking retreat at Plum Village in France.

He discusses his long-standing admiration for Thich Nhat Han and his anxiety about attending the retreat, which he attributes to post-traumatic retreat syndrome.

He details daily activities, including meditation, exercise, and cooking, and reflects on the emotional and spiritual growth he experiences.

He highlights the importance of community, the impact of the nuns, and the transformative power of the retreat environment.

concludes by expressing gratitude for the connections made and the profound impact of the retreat on his life.

In the second season of his podcast, "The Elephant's Graveyard," host Abuda reflects on his life and the podcast's initial focus on death, which stemmed from a catastrophic incident that left him bedridden for six months.

He now realizes that the "Elephant's Graveyard" is not a place to prepare for death but to live alone, free from the influence of others for the first time in his life.

At 63, Abuda is experiencing a newfound freedom to make choices without considering others, a stark contrast to his past filled with interpersonal relationships. He plans to explore this new phase of living alone in his mind and decisions.

"Today, I received notice that a friend of mine from high school died, died of a stroke. It was somebody who I had known early in life, but until something happened, we didn't really have a connection. In 1979 my senior year in high school, six of my friends in 1979 my senior year in high school, six of my friends and classmates died. Now that might not mean much in a large city school, but in my school, that was over 6% of the class of the senior class.

It had a huge impact on us, because they didn't die at once. They actually died over a series of events. The first one expected a girl with a terminal disease, the second one shocking suicide by a young freshman who had everything to live for. Then two friends who fell mountain climbing, then another who died in a fire in his house. And with each death, we became more aware of so many things and of our fragility, but it bonded us together. At the same time, it created a bond, an attachment, a connection, which continues to date.

Every time I hear the first three notes of the song Free Bird by Leonard Skinner, I start to cry. I disappear. I am in that song. I am 16 years old, I am standing by a casket while one of my classmates plays that song on the guitar, the song that has become the anthem to our year.

"If I leave here tomorrow, will you still remember me?"

Abuda

Abouda has spent a lifetime split between a core desire for the peace that a monk's life represents and the fullness of a family life.

After spending the morning doing chores, physiotherapy and contemplating the moment, he suddenly realizes,

"I am a monk! 

I live in the elephant's graveyard, basically, as a monk does. 

I contemplate. I spend time in the moment. I do my work. I have my projects. I make these recordings. 

I am almost always completely in the moment.

It's funny how it never looks like you expected it would. But in some ways this almost exceeds expectations.

To go back to the beginning, February 15 1994 (sic) around midnight. I am in my office in downtown Hong Kong, with the cold barrel of a pistol in my mouth, one bullet in the chamber, and all intention of ending this incarnation as I was thinking at the time. 

I had convinced myself that I had tried everything and that the last person I reached out to told me to just go. That I would just restart and try and get it right next time. Just as I was about to do it, I thought of the child now 18 months old and the other one in her mother's belly. 

I thought and I really tried everything possible. I'd sat meditation; I had followed spiritual practice; I had done everything I thought possible; I had tried to change myself; I'd done therapy; I'd gone to the woods for six months. 

Yet, every time I would walk into that same wall. Every day I would wake up thinking that today would be different, follow the exact same path and hit the exact same wall. 

I was done. Reset. 

I am a criminal. Moreover, I'm an international criminal.

To survive, to be able to live on a small amount I have with the conditions I have:

- I steal power from the sun, which apparently is the property of the electric company.

- I steal water from the mountains, which is once again the property of the water company.

- I live on land that is publicly owned, free.

- I grow my own medicines. And all of this is illegal.

All of this is not allowed any more.

With my solar panels, I'm supposed to pay a fee for that power; with the water I'm supposed to pay for what I use; with the rubbish, even though I create very little because I compost almost everything, don't actually dump it in anywhere since I reuse everything, I'm supposed to pay for those services. But the one that I had to work on all weekend that truly bothers me is for my health.

My leg and my back are conditions that I created. My colon and my intestines are conditions that the medical profession created.

Most people believe that as you get older, the best place for you is a city, and that's just wrong.

Yesterday I went out into nature for the first time in 60 days. I've been basically locked inside, with the furthest I get is onto a terrace in front of my cottage. My leg, my hip and my lower back are basically useless with excruciating pain. 

But yesterday I had a good day. An old friend of mine who knows where I am passed by and saw the state I was in, threw me in her car and took me up to the top of a mountain where there's nothing but an old monastery. She let me out by a rock having brought a picnic so that we could stay up there for a while...and there I cried.

It led me to think about questions that I received as I got older. How my lifestyle of nomadic traveling and expeditions seemed too difficult to other people. I kept getting these questions of how long would I be able to continue doing this?

"Are you able to continue your lifestyle",

I realized that most people believe that as you get older, the best place for you is a city where you have hospitals and support and family and things like that. And that's just wrong. Cities are very hard.

For older people, cities are places to go and die, and suffer in between. When you're younger, it's great: there's commerce, there's social life, there's connectivity, but in the city, unless you have a huge support circle, you're alone. That loneliness and that the fact that you could die in your apartment building or die on the street, and nobody would ever notice is, it gets in your soul.

And it makes people afraid: they're afraid to walk down the street, because they might trip over a sidewalk, they're afraid of cars that don't understand that they're slower, the sidewalks or cement streets are made out of other materials that are incredibly unforgiving.

I faked my death.

I didn't know that my children would be able to watch me die without trauma. I didn't know that they would not try to change my mind. I didn't know whether doctors would force me to do things I don't believe in.

The only way for me to control all of this was to leave, essentially to die for them. I had wanted to do it in a mutually agreed fashion, but even after 15 years of me talking about, nobody I knew could could comprehend my need.I was called selfish, ego centric, insensitive.

It was the easy Is thing for them. They never would have let me have the death I required, so the entire planet thinks I'm dead.

I'm not going to die in the next few weeks. I most likely have a year. I need that year.

I want to live so that I can die.