THE MINDFUL LIFE
The numerous benefits of meditation are not in the realm of the equivocal. They include decreased reactivity, reduced anxiety and depression, even increased telomere length in our DNA that might have been shortened by stress and trauma.
Recently, I started feeling the benefits of a somewhat regular, though not daily, meditation practice at the Dharma Center. I have attended the weekly insight meditation for a few months as an attempt to access an inner calm in the midst of massive heartbreak and fracture in my life trajectory. I was motivated to put some meditation mileage in despite the impression that I was struggling in a battle with my mind to attain that calm while everyone in the room seemed to do it “right.”
But one quickly realizes that like anything else, going from doing to being requires practice. So I signed up for a “meditation binge” on a Saturday.
A bald man with a black robe and grey pants instructed us to walk by inhaling with each elevation of the foot, and then exhaling when putting it down. I tried to remain equidistant from the person before me and the one following, as we were told to. But in order to do so, I not only had to significantly slow down my pace, but I had to reduce my stride, basically moving forward half a foot at a time. This was a hard exercise for me, someone who typically walks at a fast pace.
I noted that some of my fellow meditators walked with their eyes closed. I couldn’t envision successfully doing that, even though my sense of balance is usually good. This segment, repeated five times throughout the day, is called kinhin, and it means sutra walk in Japanese. At first, I was clueless about which direction to go, but another man with a black robe and what looked like a navy blue bib on his chest came to my rescue by silently indicating the way. As he did, it struck me that this grown man looked like an altar boy.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that the two actions involved could not be performed in perfect synchrony (for instance, my inhale seemed to happen with my foot touching the ground, or as I lifted foot and put it down). Thankfully and paradoxically, the 10 minutes went by relatively fast.
Kinhin alternated with zazen, or seated meditation. I was familiar with zazen; the Dharma Center, a Buddhist temple in Sacramento’s suburbs, is a peaceful place I go to for these weekly meditations. Originally a bank, this interesting stage for duality and evolution (from the material world to the Divine) provides a sense of community. A spacious carpeted room is witness to the insight meditation while cushions and chairs face an altar with a statue of the Buddha and fresh flowers. After a tea break, during which I get my turmeric fix to reduce inflammation, we re-enter the meditation room for the “dharma talk.” These mini-lectures on topics such as “de-selfing” (clinging to nothing to experience freedom) or “enlightenment” (how to determine if a person is awakened) inhabit me after they generate stimulating discussions within the group. I also appreciate the feeling of acceptance by the group and the freedom I have from worrying about what I look like (the most important thing for me is to be dressed comfortably and warmly, because sitting still tends to lower my body temperature).
Determined to continue to work towards enlightenment, and still clinging onto the fond memory of a two-day silent retreat I did years ago during which I had experienced a powerful de-selfing moment, I embarked on my Saturday adventure as if I was joining a monastery. It reminded of a phase of romanticization about entering a convent I had as a late teen. (For a while, I naively nurtured this as my plan B if the ideal companion was nowhere to be found).
We were directed to join hands and bow every time we entered the meditation room, when standing up following zazen, after the dharma talk, and in a bunch of other moments. I was notorious for being out of sync on many occasions for that ritual. There was also an unexpected moment of chanting; unfortunately, I didn’t know any of the verses.
Towards the end of the morning, feeling a bit intimidated by the more ritualistic aspects of this Zen Buddhist gathering, I was becoming restless, unable to still my mind (I don’t think I ever could, nor will I probably ever experience a “pause” between thoughts like one of the Center-goers said, via Zoom, that he can). The writer with a vivid imagination in me started viewing the people around me doing the very slow walking meditation as ghosts or specters. In moments of complete silence, I feel a frequent urge to swallow my saliva, the noise seemingly so loud that it filled the entire room. I also have this strange urge — or maybe a tic — to extend my left ankle, which causes a sudden pop! that sounds like exploding bubble wrap.
I had started to give up on the idea of ever viewing myself as “the awareness that is aware,” this abstract yet apparently fundamental state of humankind that I’ve heard about and sounds really profound. I wanted it to be more than just a concept for me at this time of my life. I wanted to feel it.
Before the silent lunch, a service was on the schedule. Here I was, brought back to my mass-attending days growing up in Catholicism. The younger version of me wanted to rebel. I tried to follow the group’s fast paced reading of “The Song of the Jewel Mirror of Samadhi” but the poet in me got interested in each word and image they invoked, and I realized with some frustration that it was quite antithetical to mindfulness to read scriptures fast like that, to recite words without feeling each one landing on your heart. I caught glimpse of the word sutra, or Buddhist scripture and was yearning for gaining more insights about another type of sutra (the Kama Sutra, which makes you think I would have been quite a tormented nun). On the verge of mental claustrophobia, I was counting the remaining number of zazen and kinhin scheduled after lunch when my rather melodramatic mind asked, “What kind of person would have such an idea to spend a Saturday like this? I could be hiking, or going to the theater…”
But somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, I decided to make peace with my own process and my tendency at times to be prompt to judge. Don’t judge the judging... Many in the room had more meditation mileage than I did. Also, since focusing on my breath usually exacerbates my anxiety, I decided to not worry about it and instead practice self-compassion mixed with a bit of humor, the guaranteed alchemy from my native French Canadian culture of self-deprecation that can be decoded as the art of not taking oneself too seriously.
Like our mind and thinking, the respiratory system does its own thing. So, I decided to focus only on creating small footsteps (and try to not feel too self-conscious as my ankle was crackling at almost every step) and my breathing would be automatic, like it has always been. Plus, it‘s not like there would be breathing police telling me that I did something wrong, right?
Meditation is fragile like the soul, like the quiet child who doesn’t get attention. I would have loved for my medical training to have included meditation for our wellbeing. But this concept had been foreign to me until I joined a conference on mindfulness by Marsha Linehan, the developer of dialectical behavioral therapy, over a dozen years ago. This training was eye-opening, making me realize that we can choose to be in the moment and experience the resulting relaxation and self-regulation. I became motivated to incorporate that in my own life (not easy) and also at work during group therapy for survivors of trauma.
I encourage you, with all your senses alert and receptive, whenever you can, to access that default state of awareness and observe all aspects of our experience with curiosity, without clinging onto it, without rejecting any of it, and without labeling it. Awareness is wordless, wisdom is formless.
Your resulting wellbeing will spread to others via a ripple effect. The heightened sensitivity to pain (yours and the world’s) that comes from dropping our armor is a good sign because, as Pema Chödrön said, if you can connect with your pain, you can connect with the pain and beauty of others. Therefore, the courage of being vulnerable can only make you a more fulfilled, conscious human being and compassionate physician.
