07/04/2026
The staff broke our silence one night to tell us the teacher had died.
I was days into a ten day vipassana retreat in Chestertown, Maryland. September of 2013. No phones, no books, no speaking. The outside world set down at the door like a coat.
Then someone stood before us and said S.N. Goenka was gone.
The next morning his recorded voice played as scheduled. There he was on the screen, teaching a room full of people who now knew something he did not say. Anicca, he kept telling us. Impermanence. Everything that arises passes away.
He spent his life teaching it. Then he demonstrated it. And his voice kept teaching anyway.
I have carried that night for thirteen years, and I finally wrote about it. The essay travels from a Loyola classroom in 1999, where I thought meditation was the dumbest thing I had ever done, through one of the most violent prisons in Asia, to the moment on day two when I asked to leave the retreat and a teacher showed me an open door instead of an argument.
It is about what presence actually asks of us, why it stays so elusive despite sounding so simple, and the truth I least wanted to hear from a man named Krishnamurti: there is no one to guide you.
That turned out not to be bad news.
Read it here: https://open.substack.com/pub/jamesoneilllcpc/p/the-is-no-one-to-guide-you
May you be well
S.N. Goenka died in the middle of my Vipassana retreat. His recorded voice kept teaching us anyway