So you started meditating—perhaps you completed a Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction course—and you sat there on your shiny new cushion that you just bought, convinced that practicing meditation was going to finally do what nothing else had. It just made sense: letting go of the seeming unending judgmental activity of your mind and dropping down into a more purposeful and balanced life of equanimity and loving-kindness. You were set. You found a way to carve out time in your crazy schedule to just sit and watch your breath. And off you went.
Watching the in-breath and the out-breath. Seeing thoughts arise and simply noting them arising, dropping back into the breath when you found yourself caught up in thinking. Working mindfully with difficult emotions that periodically oozed in.
Faithfully (and a little bit hopefully), you sat and watched it all unfold, and perhaps you even noticed a little more patience, or a shift in perspective on a longtime challenge. A few of the little “appetizers” that a fledgling mindfulness practice can offer up to keep you coming back to the cushion, even when it isn’t easy. Like, when you feel the magnetic pull of a warm bed at your early morning meditation time. You begin to waver and doubt creeps in. Or you “hit the wall” and question yourself, mindfulness, and everything that seemed so clear when you started.
Questions arise. Dark clouds of doubt periodically obscure the bright light that mindful clarity promises. You find that other things seem just a bit more important than your regular formal practice. Boredom arises and time on the cushion begins to feel like it will never end. Whatever the form, skepticism, distraction, boredom, or outright disdain will inevitably enter into the practice. Referred to as the “hindrances” of sensual desire, ill will, sloth and torpor, restlessness and worry, and doubt, they are to be considered phenomena like any other. To be seen as leaves on a stream or clouds on the horizon.
And sometimes we can do that. But sometimes we need a little help.
Dealing with distraction
“I sit down to meditate with good intentions, and then I hear music from my neighbor’s apartment, or my cell phone vibrating, or my leg starts hurting, and I can’t meditate because of all these distractions. I need to find a quieter place to practice or somehow shut out all these sounds and thoughts so I can actually focus on my breath.”
Consider the possibility that nothing is a distraction in the practice of mindfulness. What I mean is that no thing (no sound, thought, sensation, smell, whatever) is inherently a distraction in and of itself. They are simply phenomena that arise in meditation.
So where does distraction come in? Well, here’s where you feature prominently. When that annoying sound your roommate makes as she butters her toast becomes your own obsession, you have made toast-buttering into a distraction. When you chase the tingling in your right knee with an inner struggle about how to stop it before amputation is necessary, you have left your breath and entered the distraction zone.
The liberation of mindfulness is that we can cultivate a different relationship with these co-dependent attention suckers. We can come to simply note their arising in our awareness and remain steadily aware of the breath. It is only when we invest our energy—attention, thinking, analysis, struggle, etc.—in these phenomena that they become distractions.
But don’t take my word for it. Try it out. The next time you meditate, see if you can take this stance of “No Distractions” and observe what happens when things arise. You know they will. After all, even when we are feeling some degree of success at keeping our attention on the breath, other stuff is arising right? The hum of traffic outside, the touch of clothing on the skin, the memory of Aunt Peg’s tuna salad. It all flows by and sometimes we aren’t distracted by it. There is an awareness that it’s present, but we can stay on task too.
A little less color, a little more play-by-play
Our minds could be said to be the “sportscasters” of our direct experience. What happens to us and around us and within us just happens. And then our minds try to make something meaningful of those experiences. It’s like the play-by-play guy and the color commentator in a game of football.
For example, you are sitting and breathing, minding your own business and riding the flow of the breath in and out. Woohoo! You just managed to be mindful of one whole breath! “I did it!” you say to yourself. “I usually have more trouble than this! I think I’m getting better at meditating,” you note with no small amount of satisfaction.
And that’s when your trouble began. The play-by-play commentator reported the in-breath, the belly movement, the out-breath, all with an air of authenticity and trustworthiness. And then the color guy jumped in and “BAM! BOOM! You did it! You were RIGHT THERE IN THE FACE OF THAT BREATH!” Pride balloons, you recall a few previous experiences and you can already hear it: “Turn out the lights, the party’s over!”
Most times, we are practicing the art of “intrapersonal play-by-play” when we meditate. But there is a part of us that wants to provide context, story arc, suspense, drama, anticipation. That is our own private color commentator.
Unfortunately we don’t get to choose these commentators. They are assigned by history, experience, and random forces beyond our comprehension. They can be internalized voices of critical parents, manifestations of deep fears, or meandering intellectualized monologues. They can’t easily be silenced, the more we argue with them the louder they get, and while we are arguing we miss the game—our life. What are we to do?
Perhaps we can drop back into the play-by-play. Notice that while the color commentator yammers on and on, we can simply attend to the game itself. Notice the action, check the score, feel the familiar tension in the pit of our stomach at the critical junctures, and appreciate the beauty and brilliance of the game unfolding.
And when the color commentator does what it does, thank him or her for the observation and return to the fullness of this precious moment that blooms on its own, with or without commentary, analysis, or clever metaphors. It just is what it is.
Meditate like you walk the dog
He’s not the brightest flame in the canine candelabra but Cody, my golden retriever, has got charm, personality, and a goofy disposition that suits his goofy human quite well. And Cody taught me a lesson in mindfulness practice.