We’ve been
hearing a lot in mainstream culture recently about the virtues of meditation;
its health benefits, calming effects, as a means of centering ourselves. I began “sitting” at the end of 2003 not only
in response to a mind that had gone completely “monkey,” but to a spirit that
felt broken. Despite my psychic pain, I
knew deep down that I was my medicine.
When I began
meditating, I sat on a couple of pillows, focusing on a lit candle. It felt like a complete joke. I could not keep my eyes focused on the
flame, they were fluttering about so rapidly.
It was all so very uncomfortable.
Looking back, I now recognize that the observation of my discomfort, the
awareness of my eyes, was an essentially progressive aspect of the meditative
experience. Back then, I had to operate
on faith (and no small hint of desperation) that practicing meditation
consistently would lessen the discomfort over time. And for the time being, any aspiration of
enlightenment had to be shelved (LOL).
So, guided
only by myself, I simply sat every morning for 15 minutes on the pillows in
front of the candle. Well, maybe not
every morning. And, well, maybe not
always for 15 minutes. But I kept at
it. For a while, I continued to observe
my feelings of discomfort. Thoughts of
all kinds came and went, fast and furious, and I would react to the “heavy
traffic” with frustration. But I did not
– and this is important – allow the discomfort and frustration stop me from
sitting. From something I had heard or
read somewhere, I know breath was important, so I began more and more to focus
on my breath.
As time went
on, I gradually noticed a shift. I
actually started becoming more comfortable with the discomfort. I accepted it. Sort of surrendered to it, I guess you could
say. Essentially, I stopped judging
it…and I’ll bet you can guess what started to happen, Grasshopper…my
meditations became more relaxed; more peaceful.
The “content” didn’t necessarily change at first, but as my response to
the content changed, the content then DID begin to change. Thoughts came less frequently (though, of
course, they still came), they were more fleeting, and I was able to maintain
my focus on my breath for longer periods of time. Side effects of my meditation practice began
to make themselves known. I was more
relaxed in my daily life, and less reactive to negative events and situations
in general.
In the
spring of 2004, I decided to reward myself with a dedicated meditation cushion,
so I headed down to the San Francisco Zen Center to purchase one. Upon entering the doors of the Zen Center,
yet another world opened up to me. In
the process of acquiring my zafu (the Buddhist term for a meditation cushion),
I spent an hour in the bookstore, intrigued by all of the titles related to Zen
Buddhism, Zen, meditation, spirituality, etc.
I acquired a schedule of public sitting at the Zen Center and decided
that I would take my meditation “up a notch.”
My first
sitting in the Zendo (a Zen Buddhist temple of meditation) was surreal,
mind-blowing, and somewhat brutal. I sat
for 40 minutes facing a wall. After
about the first 15 minutes, I was in full-blown observation of my monkey mind
and increasing physical discomfort. But
there I sat. Despite feeling thrashed
and my foot going completely numb from sitting cross-legged, at the end, I felt
triumphant, as though I had persevered through a major rite of initiation. So interspersed with my sitting at home, when
my schedule allowed, I would occasionally sit at the Zendo. The energy of collective sitting with
seasoned meditators is quite sublime. There is a wondrous, pure silence and ethereal power when minds
collectively go “within.”
I have not
sought out meditation “how-to’s.” I keep
it to observing my thoughts without judgment and mindfully returning to my
breath. I have adhered to my intention
of keeping it simple and making it mine, and this has served me well, as it did
when my father was diagnosed with a blood condition of idiopathic origin in the
late summer of 2004.
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