I've surprised myself by managing to maintain a regular daily meditation practice now for nearly two week. I would even go so far as to say that I look forward to it. The cats get me up by 5:00 anyway, and it's a much more psychologically healthy way to start the day than by arguing on Facebook or the Advocate Opinion pages.
My first insight is that this is hard! It's hard physically; my feet go to sleep, my back aches. It's hard emotionally -- it's hard to just sit for 20 or 30 minutes, "doing nothing." I sometimes feel guilty. My American upbringing tells me that I should be "doing things," accomplishing something, even if it's only to use the time to plan my day. It's hard mentally -- it's hard to clear the mind and keep it clear. I think I probably manage a total of 2-3 minutes of real mindfulness in any half hour. And, of course, trying to maintain mindfulness is the surest way to lose it. It is a precarious balance.
The abbott is back and led last week's practice. It was a different experience; a bit more structured and coherent. He was much more willing to be critical -- he noted that "one of the brothers has his head bent too far; it will interfere with his breathing" -- and walked around during the practice to correct posture (I assume it was he -- might have been one of the other two monks).
There's one insight there, by the way. It's practice, not worship. And that's why we go -- to practice mindfulness in a setting that is specifically designed to support it. Practice at home is certainly worthwhile and has its own benefits -- I am learning to ignore meows and whisker tickles and face rubs, as well as the sound of garbage trucks and Mike turning over in bed -- which are supported by a weekly guided practice without such distractions.
So, last week, as we were sitting, I realized that I had lost track of the number of bells; I knew we'd been sitting for at least 15 minutes, but I wasn't sure whether it had been 20 or 25. I wished that they would ring a bell, so that I would know how much time was left, and where I was in the practice. And that's when I arrived at my first understanding -- I was "now." That's where I was -- "now." We are always "now." In the West, we are so programmed to situate ourselves according to the clock and relative to time and events that we are seldom "now." We are almost always "nearly lunch," "half an hour before quitting time," "about to go on break," "late for that meeting." We lose "now" by defining ourselves relative to the past and the future, but especially the future. Our culture is always looking forward, planning for the future, setting goals and working on achieving them . . . and yet, the reality is that we are never anywhere except "now."
Am I more in the "now" as a result? Ummmm -- well -- old habits are hard to break. It will take more than two weeks.
During the practice, we are instructed to become aware of our minds and aware of our thoughts, to acknowledge them and let them go -- not to ignore them, but to let them go, or, as the abbott said this week, not to follow them as they connect with more and more thoughts. Ignoring them means making an effort to block them, which, of course, means focusing on them. Letting them go -- I imagine a scarf floating on the wind or wisps of steam dissipating -- means returning focus to the breath. And they do go. Some of them return later, but most of them are just random firings of neurons.
As I noted earlier, there is dharma talk after sitting. According to one of the books I read (I read about half an hour in some modern book about Buddhism after sitting in the morning), Buddhism is taught through discussion -- so it is "dharma talk," not "a dharma talk." The teacher guides the discussion, which is how the learning takes place; people are led to their own insights. How very pedagogically modern -- and ancient. Now that I understand this, I will be more tolerant. Nor necessarily more interested, but more tolerant.
Finally, this morning as I was reading a different author explaining mindfulness, it struck me that, in many ways, mindfulness is what the West calls "introversion." And, of course, rejects as a personality defect. Some of the teachings about mindfulness feel perfectly natural to me; they are the way I have always been. Needing time for myself away from others; being aware of my surroundings (Mike complains that I "never miss anything," which is an exaggeration); being aware of the complexity of situations and needing time to consider alternatives before arriving at a decision; having to focus on one thing at a time, rather than "mult-tasking." As Charles Emerson Winchester III said, "I do one thing. I do it very well. Then I move on."
Those, of course, are innate characteristics. I can hardly take credit for them. I certainly do not begin to have the mental discipline that is necessary for complete and constant mindfulness. It is more an interesting observation on different factors and aspects of cultural development. The West prizes extroversion and its major religions incorporate public spectacle and drama and public worship. Western religion is, as an Asian friend said, "out here." Prayers and worship are directed outward, toward another being. Meditation, contemplation -- these are reserved for the few, for the mystics and saints and cloistered religious orders, and their goal is union with the divine, which is outside of themselves.
Whereas, with Buddhism, the focus is inward for everyone. Meditation is standard practice. Tibetan Buddhism does incorporate some of the rituals of the Hindus -- and the Hindus certainly have a pantheon of gods "out there" -- but its primary focus is still on achieving mindful enlightenment.
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