All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [60]
Fine, but can she fix me? Now?
Sharon suggests that I begin, as I did with my eating problems, by tuning in to pure sensation. The pace of our lives is so fast, she says, that we scarcely notice what’s going on around us. We get so caught up in achieving our desires and avoiding our discomforts; we’re preoccupied with plans, distracted with wondering what other people think about us. But something as simple as concentrating on the cool, soothing sensations of washing my hands, the taste and smell of hot tea, or the rhythm of my breath could bring me back to an awareness of the present.
That all sounds lovely, but I am impatient. “What I need,” I say, “is an emergency pause button.”
Sharon smiles and contemplates that. First, she suggests, I could get into the habit of saving my e-mails as drafts before hitting “Send.” Just that, I agree, could have prevented some serious professional and romantic embarrassment. And when a strong emotion bubbles up, I could stop to check in with my physical sensations: is my stomach clenched, heart pumping, brow sweating? That inventory might delay me long enough not to swear at a traffic cop or hang up on my sister. Given a few moments and deep breaths, I might see that those physical sensations subside and realize that anger, fear, and disappointment aren’t as solid and immovable as they seem. Fierce emotions don’t always have to be shoved away; they can be like a storm that passes.
I like the idea of being still in a tempest, not always buffeted about, feeling compelled to react. Now that I have a couple of tools for emergencies, maybe I could leave. But Sharon makes it clear that developing a habit of tuning in to myself, of being mindful, is going to take some practice. That practice, she says, is called meditation.
That’s when I’m ready to bolt. The one time I tried meditating, my mind didn’t go blank; it wandered off wildly. Plus I’d done everything wrong. I was at a Zen center and accidentally put my feet where people eat and bowed the wrong way, and bald, black-cloaked monks yelled at me in fervent whispers. Sharon assured me that the “insight” or “Vipassana” meditation she practices isn’t as formal as Zen—pretty schlumpy, really, by comparison—which appeals to me. Nor am I doing everything wrong if I don’t achieve a blank mental canvas or state of bliss right away. The point of meditating, she says, isn’t to empty your thoughts but to develop an awareness of them, watch them with an almost clinical eye. You concentrate on one object, such as your breath, but you’re not messing up if you get distracted. That’s just an opportunity to notice where your mind has strayed and gently start over. The practice of letting go—of obsessions, plans, feelings, attachments—and starting over again with compassion for yourself eventually affects the way you live.
“When you’ve blurted out a comment, you don’t lose heart and get discouraged,” Sharon says. “You just start over.” Hopefully, you reach a point where you don’t make unwise comments to begin with.
Now it’s time to try it out. I am anxious, but Sharon tells me to just close my eyes and get comfortable in my chair. She leads me in three exercises that turn out to be surprisingly simple, with no secret mantras or chanting. One is a sitting meditation, watching my breathing, feeling it rise in my chest or stomach, and practicing letting go of whatever thoughts intrude without judging them, bringing my attention back to my breath. The exercise is like herding stray cats out of my brain; every time I chase one away, another is right there, yowling for attention. Then there is a walking meditation, where we slowly pace around her hotel room as if through peanut butter, focusing on subtle physical sensations, hopefully to the exclusion of nagging, neurotic thoughts.
Finally, she leads me through a “lovingkindness” meditation, where I am to silently offer good wishes to myself and others: “May you be safe, May you be happy, May you be healthy, May you live in ease.” In this