Some further thoughts about stillness, culled from my personal experience as a failed meditator:
You can put your attention on your breath, and notice how the breath comes in and out, without your doing anything. Just leave your attention on the breath, and without trying to change it, simply follow it in and out.
During a walking meditation, notice the people and objects you pass and give them simple names—dog, flower, bench, airplane, bus. Don’t go to descriptive names, like beautiful flower or stinky bus. Just simple one-word names. I suppose this would work if you were sitting, as well, and looking around your room.
Sometimes, I will repeat a line from a poem to myself over and over, my homegrown, English language version of a “mantra.” Here are couple of examples I use:
From Rumi: “When the ocean comes to you as a lover, marry it!” From the Tao te Ching: “Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles and the water is clear?” When I’m walking, I might repeat, “wait till the water is clear,” over and over. From Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem”: “Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
Some days, I simply can’t do any of it, no matter what technique I use. I daydream, over and over. I bring myself back, only to daydream again, within nanoseconds. But I find that just the 15 minutes or so away from busyness, phones, emails, other people, is refreshing, even if I’m not achieving much in the way of “doing Nothing.”
On those days, I remind myself of a profound piece of advice given to me by a number of brilliant mentors—“I am willing to suck at this.” That’s how the light gets in.
What do I want right now? What does my heart desire?
I want to take a trip to someplace exotic, all by myself. And to feel comfortable and enjoy myself, even though I am alone.
I want to do creative art projects, like watercolors and photography, regularly.
I want to read all of the fabulous books piled on the floor by my bed. Well, what I really want is all of the knowledge and inspiration in those books, instantly. Like wisdom in a pill.
I want to give up the time I spend reading the political news every day.
But not until after the elections.
I want to take a hot bath.
I want to create a brilliant, inspiring telecourse to address the fears people are feeling about the economy and money.
I want the amazing red leather purse I saw in a shop last week.
I want to remain calm and be a good role model when my daughter speaks with upset in her voice.
I want to find a hairstyle that always looks good without spending any time styling it.
I want to never eat past satiety again, no matter how delicious the food is.
I want to go to New York in November for my son’s birthday.
I want to swim in warm, crystal clear water and snorkel with tiny iridescent blue fish and eat fresh lobster from the sea.
I want life to feel easy all the time, like I’m floating on a bamboo raft down a stream in Jamaica, eating a ripe mango in the warm sun.
Can we catch the low spirits of those close to us the way we can catch chicken pox? The bad news: we definitely can. But do we have to? The good news is an emphatic “NO.” Truth seekers have abundant immunity from this common illness of spirit.
What am I feeling? A bit uneasy and upset.
What hurts? Agitation and vibration in my belly.
What is the painful story I am telling myself? Someone close to me is caught in a story and in pain, and much of it is dirty pain. He shouldn’t do this. He should realize the truth, and cheer up.
Can I be sure this painful story is true? Well, no.
Is my painful story working? No.
Can I think of another story that might work better? Yes. I am responsible for myself, my mood, and my actions. If I stay in my own business, I can be loving and compassionate and supportive, yet not get infected with his story and his mood. My advice for him really pertains to me: I should realize the truth, and cheer up.
When I was in the mountains weekend before last, my friend and I talked extensively about how to avoid picking up the negative energy of our loved ones. One of her mentors gave her this advice: realize that you are bigger than the other person’s emotion—so big that you can hold their emotion without it impacting you. It can simply pass through you.
So, try it–next time you think your mood is attached to someone else’s and spiraling downward, realize that you are so large that you can hold their feelings, without your own mood and joy becoming infected. That, and a large serving of truth will provide you with natural immunity.
What am I feeling? Excited, happy, with a tinge of dread.
What hurts? A heavy place on the left side of my heart.
What is the painful story I am telling myself? Don’t get too excited. Don’t count on it. Don’t believe it until you see it. People change their minds. This might not happen. Don’t get your hopes up.
Can I be sure this painful story is true? No. Quite the opposite. This painful story is completely unverifiable and speculative.
Is my painful story working? Nope. In fact, it is dampening my excitement and joy.
Can I think of another story that might work better? Yep. Something fantastic happened and I am going to enjoy it to the max. I am going to let myself get really excited and feel my happiness. It is safe to be happy.
Compassion: I understand these thoughts are trying to protect me from disappointment, trying to keep me safer. So I’m going to understand, with tenderness and compassion, that they are the thoughts of little girl disappointment, trying to protect me now, and inadvertently creating unnecessary joy-robbing disappointment when everything is going wonderfully well.
Some of the comments earlier this week reminded me of a time when my fear seemed both relentless and no longer tolerable. One night, on Byron Katie’s website, the line, “Who would you be without your story?” leapt of the screen and smacked me right between the eyes. On the spot, I registered for her nine-day school, even though I knew virtually nothing about it.
The school began one week later, which was fortunate, because if I’d had longer to think about it, I wouldn’t have gone. All that week, that question haunted me. Who would you be without your story? “Nothing,” the voice inside answered. Who would I be without my story? “Nothing,” was the only answer that came, over and over. I’ll be nothing.
There would be no me left–just a boring, plain vanilla, hollow shell of a person. With nothing to say. No desire, no opinion, no humor. No fun. Uninteresting. Empty. Lifeless. Nothing.
I told this to a friend and fellow coach a few weeks ago. Peals of laughter erupted from her. “Yeah, boring!’ she howled, “you are really plain vanilla and boring.”
But at the time, I could not separate myself from my stressful thoughts. Without them, there was nothing left.
Sometimes, the idea of living joyfully, content and fully alive, may be scarier than staying where we are, because we fear the loss of something essential to our identity. And that’s just another part of our story. Another thought, another untruth.
As we separate from our stressful stories, we become our own observers. As Eckhart Tolle reminds us, “The only way you can gradually go beyond the conditioned thought process is to simply be there as the witness.”
This week, can you separate a little more, and begin to witness yourself in the process of having your stressful thought?
This must be what ADD is like. I jumped from thought to thought, started something, skipped to something else, mindlessly peered into the fridge, wandered over to the washer to begin some laundry, started working again, only to stop everything to check email, hoping I could avoid the whole to-do list and have something new to turn my attention to.
Clearly, it was time to do nothing and have a daily meeting with truth.
1. What am I feeling? Racing inside, racing attention, thoughts skipping like a stone across the surface of a lake.
2. What hurts? Nothing, really. It’s paperwork and phone call day.
3. What is the painful story I’m telling myself? Oh, that. Well, I have too much to do. I can’t possibly do it all today, or even in a lifetime.
4. Is this painful story true? Well….no.
5. Is my painful story working? Actually, it’s preventing me from getting anything done. I was so distracted this morning that I programmed the number for Quest Diagnostics (the medical lab) into my phone, rather than Quest, the phone company, as I hurriedly thought I would call them while I was out walking, instead of doing nothing.
6. Can I think of a story that might work better? Yep. I am so lucky to do work I love with people I love. I have a lot of fantastic ideas, and it is amazing that I want to do them all at once. And, I’ll just do one thing at a time, and do it well, because that works a lot better for me. And what doesn’t get done can wait. I’ll just jot down my ideas on a list and look at them later. And I’m so happy I could do 15 minutes of nothing in the middle of a day chock full of stuff, because it slowed me down enough to be able to see what was happening, and what wasn’t happening.
Ahhh, may you be well, may you be safe, may you be free from suffering, you sweet little place inside me that generates thoughts so quickly that the rest of me can’t keep up.
What am I feeling today? Excitement with fear. What hurts today? Nothing hurts. But the little alarm bell of feeling is active inside my trunk, a shaky, vibrating feeling. What is the painful story I am telling? I have a fantastic opportunity to do something very cool, something I would love to do. It is something new for me, and I am telling myself that I don’t know how to do it and I won’t do it well. Is this painful story true? No. Is my painful story working? No. It limits my ability to enjoy my good fortune. It limits my faith in myself. It separates me from my joy. I am shrinking from my own good fortune and from my abilities. Can I think of another story that might work better? Yes. I am completely capable of doing what I have been asked to do. It is going to be amazing and fun.
This is a crystalline example of Marianne Williamson’s words about our fear of our greatness and strength. Here are her words “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? . . . . Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. . . . And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
As you journey towards your truth, notice where your discomfort arises around your fear of your light. Can you let it shine, as children do?
My truth today was confusion, question marks randomly interrupting my concentration. Here are the facts: my new assistant didn’t show up for work yesterday, didn’t call, didn’t answer her phone. Today, I called her husband to see if she was okay. Without explanation, he said, “She is fine. I’ll have her call you.” She hasn’t.
Here are the questions that pop up and distract me: Did I choose the wrong person? Did her references lie to me? Am I a poor judge of character, unable to spot an irresponsible person? Did she dislike me? Why didn’t she at least call? The truth is that these questions cannot be answered.
An interpretation that works better: I may never know the answers. It’s interesting to see how my questions shift the responsibility for her actions to me, as if it’s my fault. In this way, she has been my teacher. Luckily, she only worked for me for a few weeks, so I didn’t spend a lot of time training her. I will find someone more suitable in some way I can’t see right now. This feels much more clear. I can let it go now, the same way I let go of thoughts during my daily dose of “nothing.”
After my daily dose of nothing, today’s truth exploration:
1. What am I feeling? A little anxiety.
2. What hurts? It is a fluttering sensation in my belly. I crave a snack even though I am not hungry. I want food to bury this sensation.
3. What is the painful story I’m telling? This afternoon is going to be miserable because I have to finalize paperwork for my appointment with the accountant tomorrow morning to finish my 2007 income taxes. I hate doing this. It’s not fair. It’s not creative. I shouldn’t have to do this.
4. Is this painful story true? Well.., no, this story is full of dirty pain.
5. Is this story working? No. I feel upset and I want to avoid this afternoon’s task, which is why I missed the April 15 deadline.
6. Can I think of another story that might work better? Yes. Actually, my disorganization was much less in 2007 than it has been in the past. I’m improving. This year, I hired an assistant instead. She organized everything. My involvement has been minimal this year. I only have about two hours of work to do today. After tomorrow’s appointment, I will be totally finished with this. I plan to have the assistant organize 2008 now, and keep at it monthly, so next year will be easy.
I see that I’ve had a lot of dirty pain around this. I did the loving kindness meditation for a few seconds. My assistant should arrive in a few minutes, and by this time tomorrow, the whole project will be over.
This truth exercise took less than five minutes. Pretty good. I’m going to reward myself with some silliness. Enjoy.
A full week of doing nothing every single day. I look forward to it now–a respite from a busy life. Today, after hours of talking and listening, silence was delicious. I’ve discovered that I like doing nothing best when walking.
Yesterday, I referred to the John Lennon song, “Across the Universe.” Today, I realized the main line of the song, repeated a dozen times, is this: “Nothing’s gonna change my world.”
