Get Some Headspace: 10 minutes can make all the difference (10 page)

By way of contrast, I’d like to leave you with one final story before we move on to the topic of the practice itself. It involves my lack of gentle curiosity, a very strict monastery and some very hot soup.

Like many monasteries in the West, this place frequently opened its doors to visitors so that they could take part in short meditation retreats. During these periods we were expected to look after them as guests of the monastery. As part of their daily schedule they had breakfast and lunch delivered to their room. Although room service in a monastery may sound a little luxurious, it was to give the retreat participants the opportunity to practise ‘eating meditation’ (details of which you can find on page 130). So, as monks and nuns we’d take it in turns to prepare the food, put it on plates, and deliver it to the rooms. Lunch was simply a small bowl of soup and a piece of bread. The soups were all freshly made, often with ingredients from the garden, and were rotated throughout the week. We’d done quite a lot of retreats and I was getting used to just going through the motions as I prepared the soup and, if I’m honest, not really giving it my full attention. In fact, I became a little slapdash about it all – a bit of this, a bit of that, chuck it in, see what happens. I liked to think of it as creative flair, but in reality I was just too lazy to weigh everything out and create more washing-up. Besides, I figured the quicker I finished, the more time I’d have to rest.

One day I went into the kitchen and saw that mulligatawny soup was on the menu. It’s a curry-based soup and one I’d made lots of times before. I set about cooking the vegetables, blending them together and making the broth. I’d made it so many times that I didn’t bother using the recipe card any longer. I reached the point where I had to add in the herbs and the curry powder. Like many big kitchens, all the herbs and spices were stored in identical clear jars. In fact, the appearance of the contents and a simple sticky label on the front of the jar was the only way of telling them apart. Opening the cupboard, I reached in and took out the one with ‘curry powder’ labelled on the front. Noticing the reddish colour of the powder, I paused momentarily and thought how strange it looked, but then quickly pushed the thought aside. I was in far too much of a hurry to apply any gentle curiosity, I just wanted to get it finished so I could enjoy a bit more of the lunch-break. The idea that I could make the soup and enjoy myself at the same time hadn’t even occurred to me.

Now when I was first taught to make the soup, I’d been instructed to taste it as I went along, to make sure it was OK. Not really paying close attention to the measurements and not bothering to taste it, I quickly spooned in the different ingredients. Thinking I’d spice it up a little to give it some more flavour, I chucked in a couple of heaped tablespoons. I continued to stir the ingredients, until it looked as though it was just about the right consistency and ready to serve.

I leaned over and smelt the soup. My nose bristled at the spice and my eyes immediately began to water. ‘That’s odd,’ I thought, ‘I don’t remember it being like that before.’ I picked up the spoon and took a mouthful. It felt as if my head was about to explode. I mean, I like things hot, I’d spent a lot of time living in Asia eating spicy food, but this was another level. In fact, I’d never tasted anything so hot in my life. Coughing and spluttering, I tried to cool my mouth by putting anything in it that I thought might help. I looked at the clock and saw that I only had five minutes before the soup had to be served up and on its way. Unfortunately, my new-found sense of calm in my meditation practice had yet to find its way into the more stressful situations of everyday life. So rather than take it in my stride, I started to panic.

I hurriedly thought back to the curry houses I used to go to after a night on the town as a student. All I could remember was the idea of balancing out heat with something cool and sweet. I grabbed the milk and poured it in. Nothing. So I tried a bit more. Nothing. And now it was going really runny. I started talking to myself as I was doing it. ‘Yoghurt? Why not, chuck it in.’ Still nothing. ‘Apricot jam? Chuck it in.’ Now that one did seem to work a little, although it gave the soup a very strange flavour. Working on the premise that sweet preserves of any kind were most definitely the way forward, in went the marmalade, honey and even the molasses. It was still burning hot, but at least it was now vaguely edible, albeit with a rather curious taste.

I quickly filled up the bowls and placed them outside each of the rooms, knocking just lightly to let them know that their lunch was ready. By now I’d started to calm down, but I knew what it was like to be in retreat, looking forward to your last meal of the day, only to be served something horrible. On the bright side, I realised it was only the second day of a week-long silent retreat, so I figured nobody could complain for another five days. ‘Who knows . . .’ I thought, ‘maybe they’ll have forgotten by the end of the week.’ But seriously, who was going to forget that? Having an upset stomach is no fun at the best of times, but having it in a silent retreat when you’re sharing one toilet between six other people is no fun at all.

It later transpired that in filling the jars of spices, somebody had accidentally mixed up the curry and chilli powder. So, rather than putting one level tablespoon of mild curry powder in the soup, I’d put two heaped tablespoons of chilli powder. Of course, in the big scheme of things no real harm had been done, but for me it epitomises the way we can sometimes plough through life, trying to get to the end of everything and not really paying attention to the journey. By taking the time to pause, and be curious, I could have so easily avoided the entire situation. Instead, I was so caught up in the pursuit of free time that I ploughed on through. Ironically, any free time I did have was then spent worrying about what I’d done. Sound familiar?

So, as you apply the instructions to your own meditation try, whenever you can, to apply this idea of gentle curiosity to whatever you’re watching in the mind. It will make more of a difference than you could possibly imagine.

A great way of cultivating this quality of gentle curiosity is to apply it to physical sensations within the body. Put the book down again and gently close your eyes as before. Starting at the top of the head, mentally scan through your body all the way down to the tips of your toes. The first time, do it quite quickly, taking about 10 seconds to go from head to toe. The next time, take a bit longer, more like 20 seconds. And then do it one final time in a bit more detail, taking about 30 or 40 seconds to do it. As you scan down through the body, notice which parts of it feel relaxed, comfortable and at ease, and which parts feel painful, uncomfortable or restricted in some way. Try to do it without any judgment or analysis, but more with a sense of just building up a picture of how the body feels right now. Don’t worry if thoughts distract you every now and then – each time you realise the mind has wandered off you can gently bring it back to wherever you left off.