Sit, Rhonda, sit.

Clearly, I’ve been away. No excuses. Life. But I’m back, and here’s my latest mindfulness news. My beloved husband got me the Muse for Christmas. The Muse is promoted as a “meditation aid,” and for tightly-wound Type A folk like me, it is. I’ll let you read about the Muse here: https://choosemuse.com/

 

My take on the Muse is this…when I sit down to meditate, I spend a LOT of time thinking about not thinking. That is, I focus on my breath, then I think about focusing on my breath, then I think about breathing, then I think about the difficulties of focus, then I think about the respiration of trees, then I think about focusing one eye at a time on something, and on and on and on. You see how productive (bwahaha) my practice can be. I’m like a puppy distracted by my own tail. 

But with the Muse, in moments of calm (measured in biofeedback terms by reduced brain activity), I hear gentle rain. In moments when my mind wanders and brain activity increases, the rain picks up and can even become a loud downpour. And, in moments of particular calm, the rain stops, and I hear birds. Maybe it’s my love of all flying things, but I cannot stress enough how effective it’s been for me, this “training” myself to bring out the birds.

I’m back to very short daily sessions – 12 to 15 minutes once or twice a day with the Muse. For beginners (me again), short, successful sessions are much more motivating than 20-30-minute sessions that feel like failures (although there really IS NO SUCH THING as a meditation “failure,” except not trying at all or giving up).

 

Once my brain and body get the “habit” back, I will try random Muse and non-Muse sessions. I think of it as training my inner puppy: I’ll start by rewarding the puppy with a treat EACH TIME she sits. Then, I’ll start randomizing treat/no treat after a successful sit. Eventually, my inner puppy (I call her Rhonda) will learn to sit on command, with no treats needed.

 

Progress is SLOOOOOW and often impeded by, well, LIFE: schoolwork, family stuff, knitting, writing, etc. But you remember the tortoise and the hare, right? ;)

My Bach-ish Brain

Okay, I got a little sidetracked. I had a small ischemic stroke last October, and it’s taken me a bit to let my brain and body settle. But I was reminded again recently of the numerous benefits of mindfulness meditation (http://www.apa.org/monitor/2012/07-08/ce-corner.aspx), so gratefully, I went back to my cushion.

 

Before the stroke, meditation was a challenge for my hyper-busy brain (Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche compares one’s thoughts while sitting in meditation to a wild horse that has to be gently reined in. I would compare my post-stroke thoughts to a HERD of wild horses, all running in different directions and attempting to trample me in the process). Since the stroke, I sometimes feel like Sisyphus—rolling my meditation cushion up the mountain, only to have it roll back down, over and over and over and over, ad infinitum. This is probably because, while the stroke didn’t affect my ability to think, it did affect my ability to focus and concentrate. But this is a common challenge for meditators at all stages of their practice, stroke or not, so up the mountain we go!

 

In hindsight, sitting this morning reminds me of a Bach cantata, with its constantly moving, staccato chords. My inner dialogue, that little incessant voice that no amount of duct-tape will silence, went something like this:

 

Breath.

Don’t think about your breath.

Breath.

Incense smoke is like breath.

Incense smoke is like a dragon’s breath.

Trees blowing are like breath.

Breath.

Breath.

My foot is cramping.

Breath.

Why was I taught to keep my eyes open?

Breath.

So I don’t fall asleep.

Breath.

Relax your jaw.

Relax your foot.

Stop thinking about relaxing and just relax.

Breath.

You're thinking about the way you breathe.

Don't count inhales and exhales.

Breath.

Seriously? Are you waiting for the timer to chime?

Breath.

I should wash that dog blanket.

Breath.

 

It was a lightning round, I tell you…20 whirring minutes of this internal chatter, gently bringing my attention back to my breath (without thinking about my breath), chatter, gently re-directing my attention, chatter, etc.

 

For now at least, this is the story of my daily practice with my new, loosely re-wired brain. But I’m not discouraged, because in the Big Picture, I know we’re all just babies learning and re-learning the same lessons. I FEEL better (physically, emotionally, spiritually) when I practice, and that’s enough for me. And a little Bach-brained is not a bad way to BE…

Spring Vascillations

It always amazes me how the Universe works to weave threads together into just the tapestry we need.

I’ve been re-reading some poetry by W. B. Yeats lately, and once again, I came across my favorite Yeats’ poem, “Vascillation.” It’s a long poem, but there are two stanzas I especially love:

My fiftieth year had come and gone,

I sat, a solitary man,

In a crowded London shop,

An open book and empty cup

On the marble table-top.

While on the shop and street I gazed

My body of a sudden blazed;

And twenty minutes more or less

It seemed, so great my happiness,

That I was blesséd and could bless.

For me, these stanzas suggest a sudden awareness of how solitude, humanity, and compassion intersect, which results in an illuminated moment of joy. So the poem is the warp.

And here’s the weft. In addition to my daily practice, I’ve been contemplating a different lojong saying each day (lojong is a system of Tibetan mind training based on 59 sayings). I have the sayings on a set of cards with the saying on one side, and commentary by Pema Chodron on the other. So what does the card I drew (randomly) from the deck today say? “Do not vascillate.” Pema’s commentary says this means to be steadfast in one’s practice.

I like to think the Universe wove these vascillation threads into today’s delightful spring tapestry in order to remind me that I should pay attention to surprising moments of illumination but not to get hung up on them—notice, enjoy, be grateful, then move on in steadfast daily practice.