Muddy Mindfulness

Confession 1.

This is a blog on mindfulness, but I’m no expert on the subject. The title of the blog should be interpreted as me sending a wish into the universe that I will somehow muddle my way through becoming more mindful, more aware. 

Much like the children in the state of Alabama up until earlier this year, there was no meditation in my childhood. Instead, I was taught that meditation—and yoga—was one step away from opening the gates of hell. Mindfulness=New Ageism=Satan. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that many of the greatest mindfulness teachers are actually Buddhists, following traditions that predate Christianity, and certainly do not consider themselves to be at all “New Age.” Thus far in my journey into mindfulness, I have yet to find anyone waving crystals in my face or using psychedelics. There tend to be stones, cushions and a lot of chances to journal. The level of dialogue in a room full of mindfulness practitioners reminds me more of graduate school than a cult. 

Another myth dispelled. 

Confession 2.

Meditation has always terrified me. Long before I heard of mindfulness, I learned about meditation through the backdoor of a yoga practice that began in graduate school to compensate for not having enough insurance for physical therapy. After yoga practice, there was often a chance to do a seated meditation session in silence with other practitioners. These people tended to be a bit crunchy and ethereal—as if they were on another plane from the rest of us. Or so I believed. Since I wanted to belong—an ongoing preoccupation for most of us but definitely for me—I tried to join this group a total of one time. All I remember from that excruciating experience was gritting my teeth, biting back the urge to run screaming out of the room, feeling a little bit proud of myself for sticking with it, only to peek at the clock and see a total of 2 minutes had passed.  

In anguish, I consulted my yoga teacher, who taught me about the phenomenon of “monkey mind” and, from years of knowing me, laughed a bit when I explained my experience. “For you,” she said, “it might just be that 2 minutes is what 20 is to another person.” 

What she said did not spark any clarity at the time, so I resigned myself in that moment to being a meditation failure. She was absolutely right, though, because I was diagnosed late in life with ADHD. Had I known this at the time, I would have spared myself years of living with a narrative of impossibility. It’s not that I’m incapable of meditating. I just have to do it in my own way. Strangely enough, this is exactly what mindfulness teachers tell you if you listen long enough. Some people anchor themselves in their breath, others in their hands and still others in sounds. Some people can float on astral planes for hours while some of us get in 10 minutes and call it a win.

I was not ready for this knowledge as a graduate student. At that point in time, I was still tied to the belief that there was A Way to do things. A Way to be a graduate student. A Way to be a yogi. A Way to practice meditation. As usual, my inability to meet The Way was interpreted as a personal failure. There began my difficult relationship with meditation.

Confession 3.

I am still not amazing at this mindfulness stuff. Or meditation for that matter. I use any and all assistance available to me. I use post-it notes, timers, cellphone apps (the horror!). As an obsessive lifelong learner, I signed up to take the Power of Awareness course hosted by Tara Brach and Jack Kornfield—after reading an appropriate number of reviews, of course. Rip the Band-aid, face your fear, detach from any expectation of becoming an expert meditator. Since I’m only in week two, so far I can affirm that I enjoy the tinkling bells, and I still am mostly mindless, not mindful. 

Confession 4.

I’m programmed to try to be an expert in as little time as possible. It explains the PhD, among many other life choices. What this also implies is that mindfulness as a practice is probably the least likely path one would expect to find me following. You cannot become an expert in mindfulness overnight. Nor even in a year. Patience and detachment are required, my two worst nightmares. The only part of this course that I feel fully competent to manage is the journal. They said, “Be sure to journal when you’re done practicing.” My eyes lit up, and I scurried to my pile of journals to pick the right one. For the record, it’s orange. Currently, my journaling consists of phrases like, “Why did I sign up for this?” Or, “You want me to remain present for how long?” 

In this sense, I am on the same page as LA. When sitting in a meditative posture, I find myself twitching. My mind hops to wondering if I might be hungry—even though I just had breakfast– and I am tempted to sigh with frustration even though practice is supposed to be silent. I imagine this is how LA feels in the middle of the night when, in his crib, he wakes up to discover he is not being cradled in arms. Is he hungry? Most likely not. Is his diaper wet? Also no. Is he twitchy? Absolutely. Should he howl out of his frustration, call for company? Obviously. 

One of the challenges I see in raising LA is that he also seems to struggle with patience, more than some children. Forget about detachment. It doesn’t help that he’s at the stage where he is beginning to find his voice. He’s quite sure wearing diapers is an imposition, as is putting on a shirt. He feels strongly that sitting in any form, on the floor, in the highchair or in the bathtub, is not as good as standing. He transmits this belief at high decibel levels since he’s preverbal. I would like to say to him what my friend says to me, “Breathe.” But unfortunately, he does not know the hand sign for breathing. 

Dealing with LA is teaching me a great deal about the voice inside of my head when I meditate, because somehow, most days, I muster up enough patience to be kind and gentle to him. My mommy tone says things like “I know you are twitching and want to get out of your chair right now but sometimes it’s good to be seated. Like when we need to eat. Look! Here’s some food!” 

This is a luxury I do not permit myself, even though I am also twitchy. What would it look like if I had more patience with myself as I practiced instead of allowing the inner voice to shred me for everything I feel I am doing incorrectly?