The last moments of sesshin

The tanto had cautioned us on the second-to-last day of sesshin to not look forward to after sesshin. She explained that often, when we do this, two things happen: what happens after sesshin is never the same as how we had planned it and, in spending our time thinking about what will happen after sesshin, we waste our actual time in sesshin.
I heeded her caution. I didn't pack my bag until the last break. I treated each zazen sesssion on that last day as if it were the first. Each time I caught myself planning for what I would do on Friday night and Saturday morning, I stopped myself and came back to my breath.
But on the last day of sesshin, during the last zazen period, I have to admit that I was looking forward to the final clap of the clackers after the meal chant. I pictured myself running from table to table in the dining hall, finally being able to express my gratitude to all of the people who had supported me during sesshin.
But just like the tanto said, what happened after sesshin did not match what I had planned.

After the last zazen period of sesshin, we chanted the Dai Hi Shin Darani- the very same chant we had chanted at my mother's memorial ceremony last fall. As I heard it and looked around the room at all of the people gathered, feelings came up; feelings that were so strong, I started to cry.
I sat with them, let myself feel them, and then inquired about them: What are these feelings? What is coming up?
Exposure. I answered. And lack of trust.
I felt them some more.
People are talking. They are talking about her.
And then it hit me. I remembered. I remembered being at my mom's funeral or memorial service or whatever it was we had where there were a lot of grownups and they were all talking about my mom. I remember this, I actually remember being there. 
And this is what I remembered. I remembered that everyone was talking about it, about her, about how wonderful she was and how much she would be missed. But no one was talking to me.
They would talk to me. They would tell me how sweet my mom was and how wonderful she was, but no one actually talked to me. No one asked me how I was doing. No one asked me if I was sad. No one acknowledged the fact that I had lost my mother- or at least, I don't remember anyone doing that. But I definitely remember them talking about it. And I think that's why I felt betrayed- they knew what had happened but they wouldn't talk about it.
This is what I felt during the Dai Hi Shin Darani. And then it was over and I thought the feeling was over, but it wasn't. Because then, we chanted the refuges in Pali and I wanted to cry again. I pictured that six year old, probably feeling really sad about all of this, and crying and I thought someone must have held me, someone must have let me cry in their lap or on their shoulder. And I decided that one of my aunts or my grandma probably did this.
The final bell rang, we bowed, and sesshin was over. I stayed behind in the zendo to offer incense for the mother of the practitioner who had been sitting right next to me for the entire sesshin. Afterward, I saw her as I walked out of the zendo. I wondered how I would express to her my feelings of shared loss and whether or not that was appropriate.
And then I was walking upstairs to the dining room. I was still feeling shaky. The feelings weren't really done. I didn't know what to do. I had to eat dinner- I just needed to. But I couldn't imagine sitting with others- talking as if none of this had just happened. I also really didn't want to sit at the silent table. I felt like such a killjoy sitting there- what a total bummer on our final meal together where we usually laugh and smile and are giddy with the relief of finally being able to speak.
I walked in to the kitchen, I didn't really have a choice in the matter, and got my food. I got my utensils and napkin and knew that the silent table was where I had to be. I walked over to it, bowed, and sat down with my back to the room. And then, there I was, with a plate of food in front of me and abolutely no desire to eat. I started to sob again, though I didn't know why. We chanted the meal chant and I finally got the words right but by the end of it, I still didn't want to eat. I listened as voices filled the room, overheard conversations about this day and that, "Is that what you meant?" and "I so wanted to tell you..."
I looked at my food again but a feeling of absolute sadness overwhelmed me. I finally pushed the plate away and realized that I was going to have to feel this one. So, I did. I leaned forward to put my head on my hands and started to cry. I sobbed, made a mess of myself, tried to wipe my face a bunch of times, but basically just kept sobbing at the table.
"You lied," was what I thought. "You said she was in heaven. You said God had taken his favorite angel back. You said she would always be there, watching over me...but she wasn't."
And then I pictured myself, my six year old self, going back to my bedroom, and having my mom not be there. And I think that's when I lost it. I knew I had to cry.
I pushed my chair away from my table, bowed to it, and headed for the roof. It took a really long time to get to the roof. As soon as I got there I headed as far across it as I could and sat down in the farthest corner and cried.
"You weren't there!" I cried. "They said you would be there and you weren't, ever. You were just gone. You weren't in heaven or watching over me or anything like that. You were just gone."
And I cried. I cried the tears of a six year old. They were full and pleading but mostly they were sad. I let them cry for a long time, fully gave in to them, until my six year old self calmed down and sighed. And then I looked at my mom.
"I really loved you. You were a really good mom and I really really loved you and you went away."
"I know," she answered. "I'm really sorry about that. I wish I could have stayed."
I don't remember what I said next but we both acknowledged this loss and I think I expressed my love for her. Because she was a really good mom. I thought I didn't remember that. I thought I never really had her but I did, I really did, and it was sad when she was gone.

After that I calmed down. I rocked myself back and forth a bit, but didn't know what to do next. What I really wanted, was for someone to come to the roof, see me, put their arms around me and tell me that it was okay. I wondered who would do this- wondered who would fit this role but realized there wasn't really anyone who could do this, not appropriately so. I wasn't six anymore. Yes I wanted to be held and cared for but in this case, there wasn't really anyone who played that role in my life.
But I also knew that I couldn't just sit there, on the roof, waiting for someone to notice me. I knew I had to go back downstairs, to find company of my own accord. At first, I considered returning to the silent table, but that felt isolating and what I was wanting was the company of others. So then I considered going to the talking table.
"NO way!" I initially reacted, "That is not a good idea."
But then I remembered two things I had learned during sesshin: when you feel yourself tightening up, notice this and try to step back and loosen instead and, when you feel like you can't do what's skillful, try at least to not do what you habitually do.
I could see that I was trying to protect myself from intimacy by refusing to sit at the talking table. I also knew that it was a little too much to ask me to sit at the talking table after I had, basically, just acted out the loss of my mother. So I decided to do both things: not do my habit and loosen up.
"Maybe you could sit at the talking table and just listen. Maybe you could just come up and sit down and people would kind of pick up on what you're going through or you could even tell them that you're feeling kind of quiet. Just try the talking table."
So I did. I walked back to the dining room. But by the time I got there, everyone had gone. There was one small table of people but that felt a little too intimate for me, so I walked back out.
And then I still didn't know what to do. I knew I wanted company- knew that was the right thing to do, but everyone had left, or was leaving, or was kind of moving on from the whole sesshin thing. It was Friday night after all.
I finally decided to go up to my friend's room- to just walk in and ask for a hug and let it go at that. I got there, knocked lightly, but heard no answer. I considered leaving but saw their shoes were there and saw that I was drawing away from intimacy, not really trying, letting it just be that I hadn't knocked loudly enough. I gave myself one more try, knocked firmly and listened for any sound of life, but there was none so I left.
As I walked back down to my room to get my things I ran into two people from sesshin. Both of them greeted me with such warmth but all I could do was bow, deeply to them. I just didn't have the words just then.
Just outside my room I ran into one of the people whom I had spilled on when I was serving oryoki.
"I am so sorry!" I said to her as soon as I saw her. "I think I spilled amaranth on your hand and I didn't know what to do..."
"I know!" she said. "I saw you go for the towel and I wanted to say 'It's okay- I'm totally fine!"
We laughed about this, discussed the forms for towels and how she was able to finally get the amaranth off her hand.

As I packed up my things and left the building I realized that it was mostly over. Yes, I had gone through a pretty big thing that night but now it was over. That was all. It just happened. And yes, I had tried to make contact again. I had considered isolation but chose against it. It's true that no one was in the dining room and my friend wasn't in their room and now I really was all alone. At first I thought this was a lesson, that I was learning how to deal with this all by myself, that that was why we had places like the silent table. But then I decided that this was just the way things happened tonight. I think it just was, it just was.
I went home, dropped off my stuff, texted my friend one more time but got no answer. I considered going out for a burger but really didn't want meat. That night, meat really felt like suffering. So I got blueberry pancakes instead.
The pancakes were really good but after about a third of the way through, I was full. I considered eating anyway, to feel all "reckless abandon" after eating "just enough" all week but I took a breath instead and felt my stomach. I didn't want to feel over stuffed and I knew that the only reason I was eating the rest was to not make the server feel bad or waste food. I started to get up and leave and then I thought about whether or not I had breakfast at home for tomorrow morning.
"Perfect!" I thought. "I can bring this home as leftovers and actually have breakfast in the morning."
I asked the server for a doggie bag, packed it up, and left.

On my way home, I kept starting to write a blogpost in my head about what had happened, about how I had actually felt what I never got to when I was six. I cautioned myself to be patient, to not write the post until I could get home and actually write it. I also told myself that I was writing a blogpost for connection, that I was hoping that my friends would read it, so that they would know what I was going through. I pointed out to myself that what I should do is call my friends or go to their house or just go be with someone and talk about it.
But it kept coming up, this need to write this post, this need to express what happened, so I gave in to it. I wrote this post.
I considered holding on to it, writing it just for myself and waiting to publish it until I could make it neat or until I could write other stuff about sesshin. But I think I really am writing it to tell you what happened. Maybe I couldn't tell you in person. Maybe if I had seen you I would have thought it was too heavy or maybe it would have come up, I don't know. I just know that something in me wanted you to know that this happened, wanted you to be a part of it.