Meditation. It's one of those spiritual things we're supposed to like to do. It's important. Everyone tells us that it's important. Yet a lot of us don't do it. (Like flossing -- we know it's supposed to be good for us, but, well ...)
The other night I led a class at the congregation I serve which had the same title as this post -- "Meditation for People Who Don't Like to Meditate." I began by asking people to introduce themselves, including a little something about what had brought them to the class. I suggested that people seem to fall into one of three groups:
- People who've tried meditation in the past who've just found it too hard for one reason or another;
- People who've thought about trying to meditate, yet haven't, because they assume that they are going to find it too hard for one reason or another; and,
- People who've got a great meditation practice going, and who come to things like this class because they just really love talking about meditation.
Virtually no one identified as belonging in that third group.
When I asked people what the reasons were that people'd found meditation challenging (or figured that they would), there were some common responses:
- My mind wanders too much;
- I don't have time for it;
- My body hurts if I sit still for too long;
- Nothing happens.
In the next two posts this week I'm going to look at the wandering mind and the lack of "results." Today I want to address the concerns about how to make room for a meditation practice, and what to do about a complaining body.
The Vietnamese poet, peace activist, and Buddhist monk the Ven. Thich Nhat Hanh says in one of his books that if you want to engage with a meditation practice you should set aside 30 minutes morning and night. Unless you can't. If you just can't manage to carve out that much time from your day, then try 15 minutes morning and night. Unless you can't do that, either. If not, do 10 minutes in the morning. You guessed it -- unless you can't. He keeps reducing the mandatory time needed for meditation to simply smiling a real, true smile when you wake up in the morning. If that's all you can do, he says, then do that.
Other teachers would disagree, of course. Yet Nhat Hanh's point is that if the purpose of meditation is to train us to be mindful of the reality in which we're living in at this very moment, then shouldn't one true, fully aware, fully present smile each day also accomplish that? After all, being present is being present, whether it's for an hour or a moment. As he says in one of his breath prayers (or gathas), "Breathing in, relax body and mind; breathing out, I smile. Dwelling in the present moment, I realize this is the only moment." This is the only moment and, so, being present to this moment -- that moment during which you smile a deep, real smile -- is the only moment you can be present.
The longer times are recommended because, as I've noted elsewhere, spiritual practices are just that -- practices. I like the analogy to playing a musical instrument: if you only pick it up once in a while, or only for a few minutes, you can make sound, but you won't make real music. And that's true. So 30 minutes in the morning and 30 minutes at night -- with periodic times of even longer periods, such as during a retreat -- gives you more of a chance to practice. Still, one of the most exciting sax solos I've ever heard is in the Miles Davis classic, In a Silent Way, when the incomparable Wayne Shorter plays just two notes. But they are the perfect notes, in the perfect place. You don't need to play an entire symphony -- a note or two can be music. You don't need decades of dedicated meditation practice -- a moment or two of clear mindfulness is not to be sneezed at.
The Vietnamese poet, peace activist, and Buddhist monk the Ven. Thich Nhat Hanh says in one of his books that if you want to engage with a meditation practice you should set aside 30 minutes morning and night. Unless you can't. If you just can't manage to carve out that much time from your day, then try 15 minutes morning and night. Unless you can't do that, either. If not, do 10 minutes in the morning. You guessed it -- unless you can't. He keeps reducing the mandatory time needed for meditation to simply smiling a real, true smile when you wake up in the morning. If that's all you can do, he says, then do that.
Other teachers would disagree, of course. Yet Nhat Hanh's point is that if the purpose of meditation is to train us to be mindful of the reality in which we're living in at this very moment, then shouldn't one true, fully aware, fully present smile each day also accomplish that? After all, being present is being present, whether it's for an hour or a moment. As he says in one of his breath prayers (or gathas), "Breathing in, relax body and mind; breathing out, I smile. Dwelling in the present moment, I realize this is the only moment." This is the only moment and, so, being present to this moment -- that moment during which you smile a deep, real smile -- is the only moment you can be present.
The longer times are recommended because, as I've noted elsewhere, spiritual practices are just that -- practices. I like the analogy to playing a musical instrument: if you only pick it up once in a while, or only for a few minutes, you can make sound, but you won't make real music. And that's true. So 30 minutes in the morning and 30 minutes at night -- with periodic times of even longer periods, such as during a retreat -- gives you more of a chance to practice. Still, one of the most exciting sax solos I've ever heard is in the Miles Davis classic, In a Silent Way, when the incomparable Wayne Shorter plays just two notes. But they are the perfect notes, in the perfect place. You don't need to play an entire symphony -- a note or two can be music. You don't need decades of dedicated meditation practice -- a moment or two of clear mindfulness is not to be sneezed at.
Now, what about that persnickety body? After 10 minutes of sitting your lower back starts to ache, or your legs fall asleep. Almost immediately after you start your meditation your nose starts to itch. What can you do about that? The first Zen retreat I attended at Zen Mountain Monastery in New York, I was a zazen rockstar. I sat strong and still ... and I paid for it. On the last day we each went to sit knee-to-knee with the Abbot, John Daido Loori. We had the opportunity to ask him any question, but when I kneeled, I was flooded with white hot pain, so all I could say was, "I'm in too much pain to think." "Well," the Abbot responded, "why didn't you sit in a chair?" He went on to say that you should not let aches and pains distract your during your practice, yet neither should you intentionally set yourself up for pain.
It's true, there are all sorts of teachings about how one should sit, perhaps especially within the Zen tradition. And sometimes these instruction include esoteric meanings in the postures -- this represents the teaching of non-duality; this other thing represents holding the cosmos; etc. Fundamentally, though, there are some pragmatic explanations for why you do what you do.
Sitting on the front ends of a cushion, with the legs folded in full lotus, it was explained to me, is an extremely stable position. You are grounded, unlikely to move. (One monk said that it was really so that monks wouldn't fall over and knock each other down if they fell asleep during those early morning sittings!) So, whether you sit on the ground, or in a chair, do so in a way that's sold and stable. The same is true for just about every other traditional teaching about meditation posture -- taken as a whole their purpose is to help the body to remain as still as possible, since Buddhists new thousands of years ago that a restless body and a restless mind generally go together.
So when you sit, sit comfortably, yet solidly. Don't let yourself be so comfortable that you'll slouch (which is actually an uncomfortable position to hold for too long), and so that your body can remain still yet alert in the same way you'd like your mind to be. Thich Nhat Hanh even speaks to the proscription against moving while meditating with his profound gentleness. He says that if your nose itches, why not go ahead and scratch it? Just do so with intention and awareness. And if your leg falls asleep and you'd like to move it, go ahead -- just be as aware of that decision and its concomitant movement as you are of your breath.
So ... there you go. Time and body aches need no longer be a hurdle. On Wednesday let's look at that wandering mind.
Pax tecum,
RevWik
