Zen Minutes

I have been trying to meditate. Don’t laugh.

For me, meditating currently means sitting in one place in not-too-terrible posture for ten minutes, emptying my mind. It’s a struggle.

I need more calm in my life; being so raw and uneven all the time gets old. I’m looking for ways to build ballast in my head so that when a big wind blows through me, I’m not flattened. I would like to sway with the wind instead, and it seems like learning how to sit quietly will lead to greater swayability.

The increased flexibility that I’m after is really just for my well-being and perhaps the well-being of those around me. Because the larger body of life is indifferent to all of us; whether we have good days or bad, experience pleasure or stress, order chicken or fish, it remains constant and unchanging.

I can manufacture all kinds of things with my little brain. I can author any number of machinations and ensnarl you in them, too. I can cry if I want, drink if I want, have a grand time if I want. But ultimately I am one tiny being in a corner talking to myself while the rest of life goes about its business.

In addition to helping me learn to sway better and to subdue the little brain, meditation offers me a chance to respect existence. It’s going to do what it wants, anyway—I can’t manipulate it. I’m not like Yoda in a swamp, lifting a galactic fighter from murky depths. (“Ready, you are not,” that foamy little puppet probably would have told me, a long, long time ago.)

Meditation means stepping into a larger space and acquiring something I’ve never had before: context.

I just need to get through the ten minutes. My train of thought generally runs like this:

Am I doing it? Is this it? This must be it. I’m doing it. Listen to the bird. I never would have heard it if I hadn’t decided to sit here like this. How much time has gone by? Can I stop now? A garbage truck. I have to connect with the truck. I have to connect with everything. Maybe I should check my email. I have a lot I have to do today. I never folded that laundry. I have to forget the laundry right now. I have to just be. Am I doing it? Is this it? How long has it been?

And so on. Little mind is tenacious.

Recently, I was meditating on the daybed in my office. My back was against the wall, and my palms faced up. The timer that I use to mark my ten minutes rested on the quilt next to me.

I had been sitting for a little bit. I was tired. I surrendered to the restlessness of my consciousness and grew preoccupied with how many minutes had passed. Was time almost up? I really, really wanted to look at the timer.

No, I resolved sternly. I can’t look. This time is over when it is over.

I agonized for a few more minutes, and then I looked.

Two ones and two zeroes glowed up neutrally at me. Instead of hitting start, I had inadvertently added an extra minute.