Get Some Headspace: 10 minutes can make all the difference (7 page)

So, how do you ‘not do something’, while engaged in an exercise that is designed to ‘do something’? Despite the advice I’d received, this was an idea I still struggled with from time to time. Sure, sitting on the side of the road was fine for a little while, but before long I found myself impatiently waiting for more progress. It’s hard to believe that a sense of calm was not enough to satisfy me, but I wanted more, I wanted insight. Because although the thoughts had started to settle down, I was still left with a lot of the usual emotional stuff. Whether it was feeling frustrated, worried or doubtful, these emotions seemed to cloud my experience of meditation time and time again. I also found it hard to believe that such a passive approach was really going to lead to any long-lasting change. It was one thing to experience a sense of calm in the monastery, but quite another to imagine this working among the chaos of everyday life. A good few months passed before I had the opportunity to see the senior teacher in the monastery again, but when I did I asked him if he could help me out with what was becoming an increasingly big obstacle for me.

‘Imagine a clear blue sky,’ he began. ‘Feels nice, yes? It’s very hard to feel down when the sky’s blue like that.’ He paused, as if to appreciate the space this image brought to the mind. ‘Now, imagine that your mind is like this blue sky. I’m not talking about all the thoughts, confusion and craziness,’ he said chuckling. ‘I’m talking about the underlying essence of mind, the natural state.’ I took a moment to think about it. Imagining a clear blue sky was one thing, but imagining that it somehow represented my own mind was quite another. There was nothing clear about my mind back then, it was just full of thoughts and confusing emotions. ‘It doesn’t matter whether this is your experience right now,’ he said, ‘simply “imagine” for a moment that this is how things are. In fact, think back to the last time you felt very happy and relaxed and it’s probably not so very difficult to imagine.’ He was right, when I thought about a happy time in my life at the same moment, it was actually very easy to imagine. Try it for yourself right now.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘now imagine a very cloudy day, no blue sky at all, just big, dark, heavy clouds.’ He said each word very slowly, as if to emphasise the point. ‘How does that make you feel?’ he asked, still smiling, ‘not so good, right? Now, imagine those clouds are the thoughts in your mind, how sometimes they’re fluffy and white and appear quite friendly, whereas at other times they appear dark and heavy. The colour of the clouds simply reflects your feeling or mood at the time.’ It was true – when I had lots of friendly thoughts racing around, the fluffy white clouds, I wasn’t that bothered about having a busy mind. Unless I was trying to meditate that is, and then I’d struggle with them sometimes. But when the thoughts were difficult, the heavy dark clouds, I started to feel really uncomfortable.

But it was the next bit of his story that really resonated and that I hope will stay with you too for a long time to come. ‘In order to get to this monastery you must have flown in a plane?’ he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. I agreed. ‘Was it cloudy when you left?’ he asked. ‘It’s always cloudy in England,’ I replied, smiling. ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘you’ll know that if you get in a plane and fly up through the clouds, there’s nothing but blue sky on the other side. Even when it appears as though there’s nothing but big, dark, heavy clouds, there’s always blue sky there.’ There was no denying it, I’d flown a lot over the years and he was right. ‘So,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders, ‘the sky is always blue.’ He chuckled to himself as though everything I ever needed to know was in that one sentence, and in a way it was.

I returned to my room and thought about the significance of what I’d heard. As a concept I got it: the sky is always blue. The clouds are our thoughts and when the mind is very busy with all these thoughts the blue sky is temporarily obscured. In my own case, the mind had been so busy with thoughts, and for such a long time, that I’d almost forgotten what blue sky looked like. But it was more than that. It was this idea that the underlying essence of the mind, like the blue sky, is unchanging, no matter how we feel. When we’re in a bad mood or feeling rough for some reason, then the cloud is simply more obvious, more distracting. There might be just the one thought in the entire sky, but it seems to demand every last bit of our attention.

The reason this lesson was so important for me – and I hope will be for you – was that I’d always assumed I had to somehow
create
blue sky. I was under the impression that to experience headspace I needed to make something happen. The truth is, we don’t need to create anything. The blue sky is headspace, and it’s always there – or, rather,
here
. This changed everything for me. Meditation was no longer about trying to create an artificial state of mind, which I’d imagined headspace was. Neither was it about trying to keep all the clouds at bay. It was more a case of setting up a deckchair in the garden and watching as the clouds rolled by. Sometimes the blue sky would peek through the clouds, which felt nice. And, if I was able to sit there patiently and not get too engrossed in the clouds, then even more of the blue sky would start to appear. It was as if it happened on its own, with no help from me whatsoever. Watching the clouds in this way gave me perspective, a sense of space that I’d not known in my meditation before. More than that though, it gave me the confidence to sit and rest my mind in its natural state, not trying, not doing, just being.

Of course, it’s all very well me telling you this, but until you experience it for yourself it may not sound all that significant. But take a moment to imagine what it would be like to have that kind of freedom and space in your mind. Imagine what it would be like to be unconcerned with the volume or intensity of thoughts in your mind. Most of all, imagine what it would be like to have a place within your own mind which is always calm, always still and always clear; a place that you can always return to, a sense of being at ease or at peace with whatever is happening in your life.

Put the book down for another couple of minutes and try this short exercise. We return here to the idea of being at peace with whatever is on your mind. Whereas last time you were focusing on sounds or visual objects, this time try focusing on a physical sensation. It can be the sensation of the body pressing down on the chair beneath you, the soles of the feet against the floor, or even the sensation of your hands resting on the book. The advantage of focusing on the physical sensation of touch like this is that it’s very tangible, but you may well find that the mind still wanders a lot. If you do experience a very busy mind or a strong emotion of some kind, remember the idea of the blue sky, the possibility that perhaps underneath all those thoughts and feelings there might exist a place that is still, spacious and clear. So each time you realise the mind has wandered off and you’ve become distracted, just effortlessly move the attention back to the physical sensation.

Sometime later I found myself living in a much busier monastery, which served the needs of the local community and received a lot of visitors. We were still given many hours a day to meditate in a formal way, but the emphasis at this monastery was more on the practice of awareness in everyday life – in other words, the practice of mindfulness. Having previously had the luxury of moving seamlessly from one meditation session to the next, I’d grown accustomed to my mind settling quite quickly when I sat down to meditate. But now the sessions were often sandwiched between other activities, such as gardening, cooking, cleaning and paperwork. Often this involved working with others, having conversations and discussions about all sorts of things. Some of these conversations were monastic in nature and others were, how shall I say, less monastic. What I discovered very quickly was that this type of interaction made for a very different type of meditation session afterwards. Rather than sitting down and the mind immediately settling as it had before, it was now often very busy.

Falling back into my old habits of trying to control the mind (never underestimate the strength of this tendency), if my mind hadn’t settled within five minutes or so, I started to resist the thoughts. And in resisting them I created yet more thoughts. I’d then panic about the fact that I was creating more thoughts and in doing so create even more thoughts!

I was fortunate enough to have a very experienced teacher on-hand again, and so went to ask his advice. He was known for his warm and often humorous teaching style and rarely answered a question with a straightforward answer. In fact, he would often answer a question with another question! But when he did answer, it was almost always in the form of a story, of which just like the previous teacher, he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. I explained my difficulties as he sat listening, slowly nodding his head.

‘Have you ever seen a wild stallion broken in?’ he asked. I shook my head. What had that got to do with anything? He seemed a little disappointed, but then I guess life on the Tibetan steppes as a child is somewhat different from growing up in a small English village. He continued to talk about these wild horses, which he said were very difficult to catch and even harder to tame. ‘Now, imagine you grab hold of one of these horses and try to keep it in one place,’ he continued. I imagined standing next to the horse, holding on to it tightly with a rope. ‘Impossible!’ he blurted out, ‘no man or woman can hold down a wild horse, it’s too strong. Even if you got together with all your friends you’d never be able to hold it down in one place. This is not the way to tame a wild horse. When you first catch one of these horses,’ he continued, ‘you need to remember that they are used to running free. They’re not used to standing still for a long time, or being forced against their will to stay in one place.’ I started to get a sense of where he might be going. ‘Your mind is like this wild horse when you sit to meditate,’ he said, ‘you can’t expect it to stay still in one place all of a sudden just because you’re sitting there like a statue doing something called meditation! So when you sit down with this wild horse, this wild mind, you need to give it lots of room. Rather than trying to immediately focus on the object of meditation, give your mind time to settle, to relax a little. What’s the hurry?’

Again, he was right, I was rushing my meditation, thinking that somehow the next moment was more important than this one, still trying to get to a certain state of mind. Quite what point I was trying to reach was not entirely clear. ‘Instead,’ he suggested, ‘approach your mind in the same way that these wild horses are broken in. Imagine you’re standing in the middle of a really big space, a large open field. Now the horse is on the end of a slack rope that you’re holding on to, but it has all the space it needs. It doesn’t feel as though it’s being trapped or pinned down in any way.’ I imagined the horse running freely in the field, as I stood there keeping a watchful eye on it, holding on loosely to the end of the rope. ‘Now place one hand over the other and very gently shorten the length of the rope by bringing it in a bit. Not by much, but just a little bit.’ He held his thumb and forefinger up, just half a centimetre between them, as if to emphasise the point. ‘If you do this gently enough with a wild horse, it won’t even notice the difference – it will still feel as though it has all the space in the world. Keep doing this, slowly bringing the horse closer, all the while keeping an eye on it, but giving it enough space to feel at ease and not too nervous.’

This made a lot of sense and simply imagining the process made me feel more relaxed. ‘So,’ he said, ‘this is what you need to do with your mind when you sit down and find it’s very busy. Take it slowly, be gentle and give it all the space that it needs. Allow the horse to come to a natural place of rest, where it feels happy, confident and relaxed staying in one place. Sometimes it might struggle at first, but that’s fine, just loosen the rope again slightly, and gently repeat the process. If you meditate in this way then your mind will be very happy,’ he said.

With all this good advice, it wasn’t long before my mind really started to settle down. There were still days when the mind was busy, but I was becoming increasingly comfortable with watching the thoughts as they passed by. The thoughts were somehow easier to deal with and I’d taken the analogies of the road and the blue sky to heart. However, when strong emotions arose in the mind or I started to feel physical discomfort, I had a hard time just sitting with it. I found it almost impossible to be unbiased in these situations. When I felt happy and blissed out I wanted to hold on to that feeling for as long as possible. But when unpleasant feelings arose I couldn’t help but resist them. I’d lost count of how many times I’d been told that resistance was futile, that it only made the situation worse, but I just couldn’t help myself.

This went on for some time. I saw it as a kind of heroic battle with the ego and, being quite stubborn, refused to back down. I didn’t yet have the awareness to see that the only battle I was waging was against myself. Eventually I had to concede that I was getting nowhere and so once again I arranged to see my teacher. As I explained the situation to him, he nodded away as if he’d heard the same thing a hundred times before. ‘It’s the same for everyone,’ he began. ‘We’re attracted to the things we like and we become attached to these things. We don’t want to give them up for anything. The only problem is, the more we chase after them the further away they appear. And the more we try to hold on to these pleasant feelings, the more fearful we become of losing them.’

It was true. In fact, in my meditation practice it had even become a bit of an obstacle, because every time I had a session in which I experienced what I considered to be positive feelings it simply raised my expectations. This meant that when I came to the next session, far from sitting there
in the moment
, I was trying to recreate an experience from earlier on. ‘At the same time as trying to hold on to the good things,’ he continued, ‘we’re also busy trying to get rid of all the unpleasant things. It doesn’t matter whether we’re trying to get rid of lots of thoughts, difficult emotions, or a painful feeling in the body, it’s all the same, it’s resistance. And as long as there’s resistance, there’s no room for acceptance. And as long as we don’t have acceptance, there’s no way of having a peaceful mind.’ It sounds so obvious when it’s put like this, doesn’t it? ‘Happiness is just happiness,’ he went on, ‘no big deal. It comes and it goes. Sadness is just sadness, no big deal. It comes and it goes. If you can give up your desire to always experience pleasant things, at the same time as giving up your fear of experiencing unpleasant things, then you’ll have a quiet mind.’

As I listened to his explanation, I couldn’t help thinking that there was something missing. Sure, ‘let go of attachment’ and ‘let go of resistance’, but how? ‘Simple. By becoming more aware,’ he said. This seemed to be the answer for everything, and although I could see that my perspective was changing as my awareness grew, it didn’t feel as though it was happening fast enough. I shared my thoughts with the teacher and he laughed, ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I think you’re talking about
impatience
.’ I shrugged my shoulders and nodded. ‘I’d just like to know how to deal with these things until my awareness becomes a bit stronger,’ I said. ‘Perhaps there’s another technique which could help?’ I asked hopefully. He seemed to study me before answering. ‘I want you to continue to focus on the breath, just practising how to rest in the natural awareness of your mind. However, there is
one
thing you could add to that exercise which might help in the meantime.’ I raised my eyebrows in anticipation. He went on to explain, and you may well want to try this in your own meditation.

‘When you experience pleasant sensations in your practice, I want you to imagine sharing those feelings with other people,’ he began. ‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s the pleasant sensation of a quiet mind, of a relaxed body or a comforting emotion; simply imagine you are giving it away, sharing it with your friends and family, the people you care about.’ He continued. ‘It doesn’t require lots of thought and I still want you to focus on the breath, just counting the breaths as they pass. But, if you find yourself sitting there and you feel very good, then maintain this attitude of wanting to share it with others.’ I couldn’t really see how this was going to help, but it sounded harmless enough and the sentiment was well meaning. ‘This next bit might be a little more challenging,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘When you experience discomfort in your meditation, whether it’s the restlessness of a busy mind, physical tension in the body, or a challenging emotion, I want you to imagine it’s the discomfort of the people you care about. It’s as if in an act of extraordinary generosity, you are sitting with their discomfort so they don’t have to.’

It sounded bizarre. How could that help? Why would I want to give away the nice feelings and imagine sitting with the discomfort of others? ‘Relax,’ he said, ‘it’s not actually happening. But if you think about it, it’s a very skilful way of working with the mind. When we try hard to hold on to pleasant states of mind that creates tension. By imagining you’re giving away those feelings, and sharing them, you lose that tension and become less judgmental.’ OK, that made sense, but what about the other part? ‘When it comes to unpleasant feelings we’re always trying to get rid of them, right? This also creates tension. This way we’re doing the opposite of what we normally do, which means there’s no resistance. And no resistance means no tension.’ I thought about it, it made a certain amount of sense. In fact, it sounded like an elaborate version of reverse psychology. I guess the interesting thing was that it trained the mind to be more altruistic at the same time.

I went away and put the instructions into practice. I didn’t need to change the exercise in any way, it was more about the approach to the technique and remembering to maintain the attitude of being less judgmental about the experience of meditation. Despite my doubts, my teacher had been right. When I had the attitude of sharing pleasant sensations they seemed to last longer, and the meditation became more enjoyable. It’s hard to say what changed exactly, but I guess it became a little less self-serving. The other aspect was equally effective. I can’t say that unpleasant emotions or tension immediately disappeared when I applied this method, but the intention had been to find a way to sit with those feelings with a greater sense of confidence and acceptance. And it was true, by imagining that I was doing something beneficial for others, it seemed to make the whole thing easier. This approach to the practice made a considerable difference to my ability and willingness to understand all aspects of the mind. Before that time I’d only wanted to get to know the pleasant sensations and had always feared unpleasant ones. But this changed everything; it was like seeing and understanding a part of my mind that I’d never seen before – and of course I’d never seen it because I was always so busy running away from it.