Most humans I know, including me, struggle to meditate. Despite one million influencers — even very reliable ones like the Dalai Lama — hyping meditation as the portal into the deepest levels of our beloved being, I still treat the practice like condiments at Chick-Fil-A.
"Would you like sauce for your nuggies?"
"Um Sure. I'll take some ranch. Thanks."
"My pleasure."
But anybody who's ever been shocked awake by the all-consuming, lightning-strike love of God, knows that the drive-thru is rarely where that happens. Those who know God in their bones usually got that in the desert, during long stretches of silence and solitude where they wrestled down their desire to run, fixing their attention on now, as the stone of their awareness sank ever deeper.
I very much want to swim in the bottomless pool that is God's love for me, but if that's what it costs, I'll usually settle for one ranch and one honey mustard.
And that makes me crazy.
Meditating is hard. So what?
My personal favorite excuse for skipping sitting is: "I can't meditate, my mind's too busy," which is like saying: "I can't eat, I'm just too hungry." It's all shorthand for, "this is confronting me and I want to bail. Also, I don't like doing things I'm not good at — like sitting still."
But the mystics know that meditation is not a condiment for an already tasty life, it's a trusted path through hunger itself.
American author and Buddhist nun, Pema Chödrön is helping me build some discipline via her perennial bestseller When Things Fall Apart. Right on her heels is Christian author Ruth Haley Barton's Invitation to Solitude and Silence.
Different songs, same chord: Sitting in stillness and silence is the path to accepting ourselves as deeply loved by God.
River in a jar
All I want is to dwell in the love of God and be changed by it. But am I willing to wait in silence, to observe the freeway in my mind without jumping in a single car and speeding off?
Can I learn compassion for myself, as Chödrön suggests, and let God transform me with his presence, as Barton does? That process could take years, the rest of my life perhaps.
Who cares how long it takes? What could possibly be more important?
Barton uses a jar of water as a metaphor for her process. Scooped from a river, the water is likely full of mud and pebbles — maybe even gold. But we're all so frantic, rushing about, stuffing our minds with solutions for our mostly-invented disasters without committing to any of it.
It's jostling the jar.
Only when we set it down and let it be, does it finally settle enough that we can see clearly through it. We don't lack information, we lack the clarity found in stillness.
My mind lies to me all the time about my ability to meditate. It swears I just have too much to do. How silly.
Chödrön offers the following guidance for squirmy sitters like me. For five minutes, sit and put some light attention on your out-breath — don't concentrate on it, don't change it — just use the out-breath as a reminder to keep coming home to yourself.
Isn't that nice?
And when you notice you've been thinking, which for me is every 2.3 seconds, mentally say "thinking," in a way that sounds like the ting on a triangle. Then go back to noticing the out-breath.
Now, is that really so hard?
Yes. Yes, it is.
But I believe people like Barton and Chödrön when they say it's worth it.
Dan Harris a notable meditator and bestselling author of 10% Happier wrote, "lying in bed late at night, I first realized that the voice in my head — the running commentary that had dominated my field of consciousness since I could remember — was kind of an asshole."
Maybe your mind is too. Meditation is a great way to help it. So go read all these books, or don't. Maybe just sit down and watch your breath for five minutes. Let your riverwater settle.
Let me know how it goes.
ps. I'm opening my calendar to a few new 1:1 clients. My clients are typically burnt-out high achievers, freaked-out by midlife and desperate to start something fresh and meaningful. We go deep and move fast. If that's sounds like your jam, book a free chat here.
Responses