Lessons From (and for) The Circus of Life: Ringmaster

In the movie The Greatest Showman, Hugh Jackman cuts a dashing figure in his ringmaster's uniform, standing center stage in the full glare of the spotlight.  The chiseled visage of a classical statue, dressed in  a bright red coat and vest (both with gold accents), black pants, shiny boots, cane in hand, topped off with ... well ... a top hat -- this is what a Ringmaster looks like in the mind's eye.  And we know that he -- although there are female Ringmasters, too -- kicks things off with the jubilant shout of, "Laaaadeeeeeeeeeees and Genntlemennnn ..."

But what, really, does a Ringmaster do?  According to the article on Wikipedia:

"A ringmaster introduces the various acts in a circus show and guides the audience through the experience, directing their attention to the various areas of the circus arena and helping to link the acts together while equipment is brought into and removed from the circus ring.  A ringmaster may interact with some acts, especially the clown acts, to make the various parts of a seamless circus performance."

In the 2014 article What, exactly, does a Ringmaster Do? , David Shipman, then Ringmaster for The Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus, describes his job like this:

"I think that people have this idea of what a ringmaster is supposed to be:  loud, over-the-top, with a bombastic personality.  And it used to be that way!  It used to basically just be an announcer.  But the reason Ringling Bros. is the Greatest Show on Earth is because it keeps up with the time, and the ringmaster has now become a huge part of the show.  I sing, dance, talk with kids, and interact with the audience at all times.  There's just a lot more to the role now as a whole.  Basically my job is to keep everyone at the edge of their seat from the time they sit down to the time they get up and leave.  I want to make sure that the people who come to the show carry their memories with them for the rest of their lives, just like I do."

If part of the ringmaster's job is to help keep the chaos of the circus running smoothly, and if our lives are, at least at times, a whole lot like a three-ring circus, then we certainly need a ringmaster!  Yet if another part of what a ringmaster does is help the audience keep track of what's going on around them so that they don't miss any of the really good stuff ... then we probably need one even more!  It is so easy for us to get distracted in our day-to-day lives by minutia and trivialities (often in the guise of Something Important or Urgent) that we miss the really important things.  We fail to see the trapeze artist throwing that triple somersault because we're paying attention to the guy hawking souvenir programs.  

Scripture can serve in this role for us, redirecting our gaze to what's going on in "the center ring" of our lives.  (And by now it should be clear that within the category of "Scripture" I include not only the traditional scriptures of the great religions of the world, but also the works of poets and novelists, painters, scientists, playwrights, children, time spent in nature  ... any, and all, of the things that remind us of the "really real.")  A Spiritual Director can serve as a ringmaster, at least in this particular aspect of the role.

The greatest ringmaster, of course,  is God.

Pax tecum,

RevWik

Meditation for People Who Don't Like to Meditate (pt. 2)

Last week I began to write a bit about meditation.  I noted that there seem to be three kinds of folks when it comes to meditation -- those who've tried to meditate but ran into too many challenges, people who've never tried to start a meditation practice because they thought the would run into too many challenges, and those who have a meditation practice (no matter how spotty) and who are committed to deepening it.

When asked about the challenges people have run into, answers tend to fall into three categories:  not enough time, can't quite our restless minds, and it's hard to keep the practice alive because nothing seems to be happening (i.e., it's boring).  Having looked in the last post at the question of time, I want to address the issue of what Buddhists sometimes call "monkey mind."

Everybody knows that meditation is about sitting still and quieting the mind so that you are not distracted by the usual inner monologue(s), right?  That's the point, isn't it?  A quiet, serene mind?

Well ... I don't really think so.  In fact, I'd go so far as to say that those distractions are actually essential for meditation. Rather than a problem, they are at the heart of the practice.

I have studied a number of different meditation techniques over the years.  (I've even practiced some!)  And just like I believe that there are core elements in prayer that transcend any religious tradition's particular dressing, I believe that there are four phases in any meditative practice.

1. Choose a focus
2. Become distracted
3. Recognize that you've become distracted
4. Choose to return to the focus

1.  Choose a focus:  in some traditions you count your breath, one count for each in-breath and each out-breath -- "breathe in, one; breathe out, two; breathe in, three; breathe out, four" -- continuing until you've reached ten, and then start over.  In other traditions, the focus is a word or a phrase, a mantra.  Sometimes you're encouraged to look at a candle flame, or an icon.  Yet despite the apparent differences between traditions, nearly all at least begin by suggesting that you focus your mind on something.  Zen practitioners sometimes refer to this as, "feeding the hungry tiger," because besides being like a money (jumping from thing to thing) our minds are also like tigers which, if they don't get something to eat, become voracious.  Just emptying the mind of all thoughts, then, is a pretty advanced technique.  We novices need something on which to focus the mind, so that we can then let everything else go.  (Another metaphor could be that the focus we use is like the rodeo clown that gets the attention of the bull so that the other people in the ring can get free.)  In choosing a focus, we are choosing to engage with an exercise.

2.  Become distracted:  This is the part of the practice of meditation that causes a lot of people to quit, or not to begin in the first place.  Because we have this notion that meditation is about having a still and quiet mind, the fact that our minds seem to become even more cacophonous when we try to meditate is incredibly frustrating.  Some people believe that they just aren't able to meditate because they just can't get their minds to quiet down.  "Breathe in, one; breathe out, two; breathe in ... what am I going to cook for dinner tonight?  Did I remember to close the door?   Oh why didn't I stand up to my boss this morning?  Oh crap ... Breathe in, one; Breathe ... I'm a lousy meditator.  I can't do this.  What's the point?  Breathe in, one ..."  Some of us get further along in our counting than this, others don't even get this far, but the monkey mind always seems to reassert itself.  This isn't failure, though.  If we didn't get distracted, we'd have nothing to work with.

3.  Recognize that we've become distracted:  This is key.  If in our meditation we didn't have this opportunity to recognize when we've become distracted, there would be no practice.  It'd be like going to the gym without ever picking up a weight or getting on the stair climber.  At a certain point we realize that we've forgotten our decision to focus on one thing as a way of allowing all of our other thoughts to drop off.  We can, of course, berate ourselves when we discover that our mind has wandered, and many of us do.  This is why some of us quit trying to meditate.  On the other hand, we can see this recognition of our distractedness as a good thing.  It is a major step toward that goal of a still and quiet mind.

4.  Decide to return to your focus:  As I said, we could choose to self-flagellate when we recognize that we've strayed "from our meditation," or  we can accept this as part of the practice, each part of which is essential.  If we could choose a focus and then actually stay focused with no other thoughts intruding on our single-pointedness, we wouldn't actually be meditating.  And whether you need to return to your focus one hundred times during your practice or just once (right at the even because you hadn't even noticed that you'd been distracted the entire time!), each phase of this four-phase pattern is necessary.

Whatever the goal of meditation may be, as understood through the lens of any particular tradition's teachings, that practice itself fundamentally consists of these four steps:  choose to focus your mind on one thing so that you're fully and intentionally aware of it; lose track of that one thing in the flurry of the thousand and one things that we're usually swimming in; become aware that we've stopped being fully aware of what we've decided to do during this time; and make the conscious choice to return to our original focus.

One more thought -- there is a meta-dimension to this four-fold schema.  If you, like me, find your practice to be  ... spotty ... take hope.  The fact that you can't seem to maintain a daily meditation practice is analogous to the difficulty of maintaining focus.  Let's say you decide to meditate daily.  And you do, for a while.  But then life encroaches and you soon realize that you haven't meditated for days or weeks.  (Or, as has been true for me more than once, months.)  This is like choosing a focus and then becoming distracted.  So, just as within a particular period of meditation, notice that you've become distracted, and when you recognize that you've not meditated in a while, choose right then to return to your original decision to engage this practice.  See the parallel?  Make a conscious choice; loose sight of that decision; recognize that you've forgotten your commitment; recommit yourself.

So ... there's a way of looking at the distractions of your hyper-active minds that might just eliminate that as a hurdle to engaging in a meditation practice.  (Or that can support you in sticking to it.)  On Friday we'll tackle the last of the most frequently named challenges -- boredom, the experience that nothing seems to be happening.

Pax tecum,

RevWik

Meditation for People Who Don't Like Meditation (pt. 1)

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.

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