Life is this simple: We are living in a world that is absolutely transparent and the Divine is shining through it all the time. That is not just a nice story of a fable. It is true. -Thomas Merton, quoted in After the Ecstasy, The Laundry, by Jack Kornfield

When I was in counseling last year, my counselor would give me homework.

One of my assignments was to stop all the Doing in my faith walk – the Reading, Praying, all the activity, and just rest in God’s presence.

I couldn’t do it.

I did try.

I would sit, but moments later I would be up again, to write something down, put something away, fix something that was crooked, to trim my nails, anything so that I didn’t have to be alone with my thoughts.

I rarely lasted more than a minute or two. I was bad at it, and I hate being bad at things. I tend to avoid stuff I’m not good at.

During my time in counseling, I was also trying to do breathing exercises to stay present and calm down when I was feeling anxious or upset. I started practicing grounding techniques and mindfulness. I recognized all of it as being beneficial, but I just couldn’t seem to do it well enough, for long enough, for it to have a significant effect. I felt like I didn’t have the time to practice, but it was something I desperately needed in my life.

I read Micky Singer’s books on meditation, but I sort of scoffed at his ability to go off and meditate for hours. Who has time for that? But at the same time, listening to his audio book walked me through the practice of getting a little distance from my inner monologue. It planted a seed.

Then I went on my retreat and pushed the reset button on my brain.

If you had told me a month or two ago that I would be sitting, absolutely still with a clear head, “focusing on the breath” as they say, gradually weaning myself off of guided meditation and going into 30+ minutes of focusing on the way the air I’m breathing feels going in and out of my nose, I would probably have looked at you like you had two heads.

But I do it now.

As I move away from guided meditation, I’ve been experimenting with ways to make my intention a prayerful one. Before clearing my head, I might let God know I’m listening. Sometimes I will “dedicate” my meditation to a person who has been on my mind for prayer. But the main thing, I’ve found, is not to try to do anything, because that works against being present.

And staying with your breathing while the thoughts bob past in the sea of your mind is a wonderful feeling. When I was an avid runner, when I had a difficult day or a tough encounter with another human and found myself dealing with unpleasant emotions, my first urge would be to go for a run. Things always seemed better by the time I came back.

With all the kids in the house, and two bad knees, running is no longer feasible on a regular basis. But I can sit and meditate.

Recently, I had a tough conversation. The first thing I thought of when it was over was, I need to meditate.

For a long time after I stopped running regularly, I would still have that urge to go for a run when things were tough. Sometimes I went for a walk instead. But after I stopped running and before I started meditating, that the stuck feeling just increased. I don’t know if I ever had the urge during that time to do anything that felt like it would help my mood in a big way – maybe step outside and take gulps of fresh air? Somehow that doesn’t feel big enough. The stuck feeling continued to grow. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.

This recent urge to meditate was the first time I’d thought of meditation in place of that old desire to run.

It doesn’t mean I’ll never run again. Or that meditation is my only tool. But since I’ve been home, I’ve come to look for it as a way to get centered again and find the steady core in a roiling sea. And while running is typically a one-a-day cure, I can meditate as many times as I need to to stay cool.

It’s said that psilocybin shuts down your Default Mode Network, those deep, task-oriented tracks in the brain that meditation also quiets. I knew I needed to shut mine down, but it wasn’t until the plant medicine killed it dead that I realized how badly I needed to pull that plug on that thing.

The peace feels permanent, but in case it isn’t, I’m strengthening my brain so it can do the magic on its own if this is the sort of effect that wears off.

One of my guided meditations pointed out that our anxiety is a side effect of thinking too much, and that when we trying solve anxiety by reasoning with it, we’re just thinking even more and exacerbating the problem. This really resonated with me in my own experience. My best experiences moving through difficult things – anxiety, pain, tough feelings – is to let it go, not hang on for dear life. And meditation has been a way to do that.

I also recognize this isn’t necessarily a course that can be taught. You have to have some personal experience with this stuff to get how it works. I’ve been reading up the wazoo all last year for personal growth, and I got it – as through a veil. Now, it feels like most of the wrapping has been torn off and I’m just about down to the gift, in one of those scenarios where the gift is wrapped like a nesting doll with boxes within boxes.

As I’ve transitioned to more independent practice (a timed instrumental track with a bell at the end to let me know I’m done, etc.), it feels less imperative that I do anything. I have something that I didn’t have before that quiets me enough that I can just listen. If God and I just hang out and neither of us says anything the whole time, that’s OK.

One morning in late December, I woke up before the Chaplain, and started my morning meditation. In his sleep, he kept moving and jostling me. In the beginning weeks of meditation, I was regularly having out-of-body, blissful experiences, or experiences of floating. Most of my meditative practice was amazing. But this particular morning, every time I got jostled, I was getting knocked out of bliss back to the ground. And I was getting more and more frustrated about it.

I knew it wasn’t the Chaplain’s fault. He was sleeping! But I finished the meditation feeling out of sorts. We had what I imagine is a typical married- people conversation. I told him I’d had a crappy meditation because he kept bumping me, and I realized it wasn’t his fault, but I was still mad about it. And whatever he said in response, what I heard was: “Why do you have to be so fragile?”

Being accused of being fragile (which the Chaplain didn’t really do) is a huge trigger for me. And I knew, whatever he actually said, that my meditation practice being contingent on not being touched or bothered in any way, did make me kind of a fragile meditator.

After that conversation, I stopped having magical meditation experiences. In fact, recognizing the truth of my practice being fragile, I stopped trying to have magical experiences for a while. But I kept meditating. When I started trying for magic again a couple of weeks later, nothing happened.

I theorized that God had made meditation all special and glittery at the beginning to get me sucked in. Knowing my personality, God knew if I thought it was possible to have an amazing experience, that I would keep trying, come hell or high water, till I got to the mountaintop again.

What followed were weeks of mediocre experiences. All the tricks I’d taught myself to “drop in” quickly to the meditation, to open up my heart and mind, stopped working. I would float on the surface like a swimmer covered in life preservers, desperately trying to sink but frustratingly bobbing on the surface.

I stuck with it. And increased the time I was spending. I went to a gong bath (more on that later this week), and the next day, I had three what I would call bangin’ meditation sessions. It felt like a bit of a breakthrough.

I suspect there will be more crappy meditations than amazing ones in my future.

That doesn’t put me off the practice. On good days, I’ve felt incredible quiet, rest, and acceptance. I’ve found myself sobbing through meditations, sometimes in grief, sometimes in relief at being “seen” in God’s presence. It’s been a fantastic way to start and end my day, and “reset” at midday.

In talking to the Chaplain, we referred to it as spending time with the Root, or the Source. It feels essential now. It isn’t something you would say you “don’t have time for.”

What does it actually look like? Sitting cross-legged with my hands on my lap, or lying on my back on a flat surface with my arms at my sides. Sometimes an eye mask. Wireless headphones with music – something quiet and ethereal. I’ve really enjoyed the instrumental tracks on the paid version of the Breethe app the Chaplain got a ways back. Or, I’ll use an edited version of the soundtrack we listened to on the trip, with the songs I didn’t like removed (I took out ones with vocals or songs that sound very dark). I’ve tried silence (one day when I was having technical difficulties) and I was able to do it, but for now I prefer a little something that cues my brain to power down and relax.

Meditation is my silent prayer. These days, words don’t seem adequate for my understanding of God, and meditative prayer seems the perfect answer to that. In that regard, the Merton quote I began the post with really spoke to me – so often, we’re all walking around as if God isn’t right there all the time, and meditation allows us to slow down long enough to see what we’ve been missing.

I’m still a fragile meditator, which I have decided to be OK with. I hope I’ll get better at ignoring distractions, but if I don’t, that just means it’s my job to find a quiet place to do it so I can have a better experience.

Is meditation something you’ve ever tried? Does it seem compatible with faith as you understand it? If it’s something you’re interested in but haven’t started, what do you think is holding you back?