Conscious Choice: Practice Makes Better

August 2008 | Life, the Universe and Everything

Practice Makes Better

By Chris Malcomb

My meditation cushion and I are not spending much quality time together lately. To be honest, the cushion doesn’t have the problem. It just sits there, crouching its buckwheat haunches on a little space in the corner of my living room. It never demands, never whines. It does, however, invite. “Come,” it says as I sleepily drift by each morning. “Let’s see what’s on your mind.”

Ugh. No thanks.

My reasons vary. I woke up late. My neck hurts. I have to check my email. But the real truth is: I’m afraid of my mind. Not the playful, supportive, creative parts, of course. Those are great and welcome (when they show up, that is). It’s the less-enviable inhabitants that get me down. Sadness. Attachment. Restlessness. Regret. So I usually decline my cushion’s offer, convincing myself it’d be far more productive to clean the oven, alphabetize my bookshelves or launch into the “important” parts of my day. Like, for instance, writing this essay.

My cushion never complains.

It’s me that feels guilty all day.

Why is it so hard to just sit down? I began meditating six years ago and have since attended several retreats (even once spending ten days in total silence). Yet each time I return home I fall back into usual excuses and begin repelling the “daily practice” mosquito like citronella oil. My poor cushion. I wonder if it knows I think of its little corner of my living room as the end of a plank. Sharp splinters. Choppy waters. Gray, circling fins.

I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. After all, our culture lauds and rewards “busy-ness.” We’re industrious, efficient and productive. One of our most common inquiries is, “What are we going to do today?”

Of course there is a clear reason we’re all so afraid of stopping. Have you ever tried it? Turning off the radio, silencing the cell phone and just paying attention to that stream of thoughts running through your mind? It’s pretty scary. No wonder we’ve perfected so many avoidance techniques.

I remember meeting with a teacher several days into my first silent meditation retreat. I was a mess: rock-hard shoulders, sore butt, incessant internal monologue of judgment, fear and doubt. I kept thinking about mountain lions and rattlesnakes, and couldn’t stop Journey’s “Wheel in the Sky” from playing in my head. Each time I experienced a new physical sensation, I assumed it was terminal. I’d come for peace, serenity and wisdom. Maybe even enlightenment. Instead, I spent much of my cushion time planning my escape — would it be whisper-like and unnoticed, or would I gun the gas and peel away in a noisy cloud of dust?

My teacher was a round, balding gentleman with flushed cheeks and a soft smile. He’d been meditating for 35 years. I spilled my problems, savoring each detail, and explained why I needed to quit the retreat.

When I finished, he just smiled.

I waited.

He smiled.

After a few moments, he spoke. “Puddles,” he said.

“What?”

“Some, of course, are deeper than others.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Don’t worry. We’ve all got them.”

This didn’t seem reassuring. “Great. So I just have to suffer?”

“Oh no,” he said. “You’re lucky. You can choose: leap in and cross them, or turn around. Suffering is optional.”

Suffering is optional. I didn’t see it at the time, but my teacher was telling me how to get to the bliss part. “Puddles” are just normal hindrances to being truly present, the things that “take us away.” We all experience them: knee pain, self-doubt, stressful days, annoying co-workers. While we can’t always control these external (and internal) truths, we can choose how to receive them. Suffering, it turns out, isn’t about what happens, it’s about our response. Do we react blindly? Or do we learn to sit, observe and accept?

Simple, right?

But certainly not easy.

I can’t deny that days beginning on my cushion are better. No, my body doesn’t miraculously jettison its aches and pains, or sprout some magic protective bubble to rebuff all the “bad” things. And each time I make it through one puddle, there always seems to be another in its wake. But I have learned that sitting cultivates a spacious mind. If I sit, I feel more kindness, curiosity and happiness. I do healthier things. I like myself better.

With such benefits, it’s surprising I don’t sprint to my cushion every morning. Well, I don’t. It reminds me of that West African proverb: You see the hut, yet you ask, “Where shall I go for shelter?” Funny. Here I am — so busy, so distracted — when real peace is sitting right in the corner of my living room.

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