Category: 2017

My usual practice, when I walk to work in the morning, is to plug myself in and listen to music or a podcast. But even then my focus is often distracted as I run through a to-do list for the day. Trying to determine which task to tackle first. This morning I decided to try to make my journey a practice of walking mediation.

Walking down the sidewalk I begin by feeling my feet, one by one, touch the snow-covered pavement. I begin to focus on the sounds made by each step. A gentle thunk as my heel touches down followed by the crunch of my sole on the snow. Thunk, crunch. Thunk, crunch. Early morning and the streets are dark. Illuminated by street lights. As I turn left on to a street that will take me to the river I hear the sound of a snowblower. Thunk, crunch. I see a dark figure in a cloud of snow moving a handheld machine that blows the snow into the street. Thirty steps, thunk, crunch and I walk past. A few more steps and I reach the walk that follows the river to the bridge I will cross.

Thunk, crunch. An older woman, mummified in winter gear, jogs past me. Cars, their bright lights shining in my eyes, pass a few feet away. The sound of a vehicle struggling to start. Thunk, crunch. Another 100 steps.

I reach the top of the walk way across the bridge. Another mummy. A man with a scarf wrapped across his face with only a small crack showing his eyes. On the river I can see the lights outlining a moored boat used for summer river tours.

Listening to and feeling each step I walk across the bridge. I hear steps from behind and a young woman, a fob attached to her backpack flashing green, yellow and red lights, passes me. For a second I have the urge to speed up. To engage in some strange competition. I return my focus to the sound of thunk, crunch. The feel of the ground.

Cars and buses pass by on the other side of a low concrete barrier. Their tires crunch on sand that has been spread to decrease the chance of slipping.

At the bottom of the bridge I curve to the left to follow a path which passed beneath the bridge. Under the bridge the path is free of snow. The sound of my steps becoming a slightly louder thunk without a crunch. Then the thunk, crunch returns as I come up from under the bridge.

My concentration moves away from my steps as I need to cross a street with busy traffic. Traffic that halts with the push of a button that triggers a walk light. Back on the sidewalk I find the thunk, crunch again as I walk beside a small park. Rabbit tracks run into the park. A cold breeze moves across my face.

I walk beside the park finally crossing into it to pass into darkness. The lights of the parking lot beside my workplace tell me that I am five minutes away from my destination. Accompanied by the sounds of each step I cross the parking lot to the door of my building.

Unlike my usual robotic walk this morning I arrive awake. Each sensation of my walk noted in the moment. Grounded, literally, in each step.

Rene

Being active means a constant stream of low to middling aches and pains, especially as you get older. But the body doesn’t mean those to be a signal to stop moving – it’ll tell you in unmistakable terms if things are that serious. Aches and pains are simply suggestions about the kind of activity it prefers at the moment (might not be a great day to go skiing, what with the left arm in a cast and all, so lets go for a run instead). When my mind interprets those signals as an excuse to get onto the things it’d rather be doing, I find moving meditation an excellent means of getting direct input from my body. And my body is almost always saying “Get off your butt and move”.

In fact, awareness turns many of those aches and pains turn into familiar companions, almost reassuring. The pain in the knee you tore jumping off a roof when you were twelve (an admittedly silly thing to do, but it’d have been even sillier to spend a life not trying things like that on occasion) is now just a reminder that your knee still works; you’d miss the pain of movement if you’re ever bed ridden for a long time. The tiredness after a long workout brings happy memories of pushing physical limits when young and fit – and the realization that although age means being able to do less and taking longer to recover, the body finds the same joy in as was there in childhood. The mind spins a story of loss and inevitable deterioration and death; the body knows the joy of the present moment is enough. Moving meditation lets it share that with you.

~ Olaf

I don’t find the body scan easy. It is easier if I am well rested and feel good about myself. I grew up in a world of body shaming. There wasn’t a part of my body that was not criticized and attempts made to alter the flaws. I sometimes wonder if those who were valued as children have an easier time. And of course at this time of my life, there is the aging body.

I have discovered that when practicing the body scan, if I am carried away on a wave of self criticism, I can make a couple of choices. The first is to explore where the message came from and if it is valid. It only takes seconds for me to realize that it is not true and that I am fine just the way I am. The second way I can deal with the small self-critical voice is to switch my focus. If it is a practice where I am tired and feel vulnerable and I can’t seem to let go of the messages, it is OK to move out of the body scan and interject some modified metta phrases or revert of a focusing on my breath. After all, it is my practice. Generally speaking it only takes a couple of loving phrases or a few breaths for me to come back to the body.

I am a long way from being totally free from the past and my body will continue to age. Despite that, now that I have developed some tools for managing the messages, I find the body scan easier. Some days when the practice ends, I realize I have made it from head to toe without interruption. When I recognize this, it feels like I have just given myself a big hug!

Warmly, Mars

This week’s focus on Mindfulness of the Body and today’s guided meditation by Sharon on sensation have created several dilemmas for me.

First was that I’m not overly aware my body — even though I practice mindfulness, yoga, tai chi. So why is this? Denial? Suppression? Or nothing more complicated than a lack of awareness?

Second, was that too much exertion in several yoga classes at the start of the week resulted in my being only too aware of bodily discomforts. With the resulting woe-is-me’s that I’m getting old. And, are these are symptoms of something worse? Lung cancer? Tuberculosis?

So I missed a couple of days of yoga, took a couple of ibuprofen, rested, and went to bed early last night.

Today, I awoke early enough to sit and take in the 6:30 am yoga class. Before starting, I mentioned to the teacher the aches I’d experienced and that I’d dial it back a bit today in class. She adjusted the class accordingly, as did I, and all is well. Physically. But what about mentally? Having listened to Sharon’s lesson before yoga class about sensation meditation, I tried to be aware.

Coming from where I’d been through the week so far with my enthusiasm/exertion in class and then my misgivings, doubts, and fears, perhaps I was more aware this morning’s class about my body. But none more-so than during savasana. Corpse pose. And what that means in terms of bodily sensation and awareness. So, going from lots to be aware of to trying to relax, it went further, to “What will my body be doing once breathe becomes air?” My immediate reaction was that it’s not really that a big transition in terms of time or space.

One second, you’re there.

The next? I’m not sure where. But it wasn’t with premonition or worry about what’s next.

BUT,  I was convinced that I still need to feel alive and more importantly, be more aware of the life I have, now.

“Its not stress that kills us, it is our reaction to it.” ~ Hans Selye

 ~ Rod

Sharon’s lesson for Day 8 – Walking Meditation has an image with the caption “Mindfulness makes the ordinary things interesting.”

I noticed that during tonight’s sit.

As I was progressing through a body scan, my attention zoned in on the contact between the thumb and index finger of my right hand. How ordinary is that?!

But today, I found I was intensely aware of the sensations in that tiny area – tingling, pulsing, warmth, dryness, …

This ordinary, everyday contact suddenly became vivid, like the difference between watching someone’s home video of their grandkids versus a blockbuster movie at an IMAX theater.

In week two, as we engage in practices like the body scan, we are encouraged to notice our tendencies when things are pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral. Often, when things are neutral, I zone out and start planning what to do next or rehash some past issue.

By bringing curiosity and interest to the (usually) neutral experience of thumb and finger touching, I noticed pleasantness that I would have otherwise missed. There was a quality of quietness, peace, and tranquility, if only for a moment. But how nourishing that moment was!

I look forward to exploring this practice more this week.

May your week be filled with many interesting, ordinary things!

Warm wishes,
Andrea G

Today’s concentration practice was an interesting one for me.

Actively identifying each thought and feeling that pulled me away from my breath as “not the breath” was a new practice for me. It took me a few minutes of practice to even recognize how often my attention was drawn away from the breath by either thoughts, sensations or feelings. Often times it was not until my concentration drifted back to my breath that I even noticed that it had been drawn away by fleeting “not the breath” distractions.

By defining and categorizing all thoughts other than the breath as “not the breath” my mind was better protected from being carried away by my thoughts. However, at times it felt harsh and it was difficult for me to bring the same softness to my practice that I am accustomed to.

I look forward to playing with this practice. I think it will be especially useful on days that my mind is prone to wandering off to “not the breath”.

Heather R

On Saturday evening I attended a fundraising event put on by our local Unitarian community. The objective was to raise money to support refugee work by the Unitarians. A group of three musicians (in an unusual combination of piano, French horn and soprano voice) took us through a musical program ranging from classical to spiritual to show tunes to the Beatles. Money was raised and community refreshed. In addition to a range of musical genres we also being taken from emotion to emotion: sorrow, longing, laughter, joy and hope.

Because I have no musical or artistic talent whatsoever I always admire anyone who displays any talent and am usually in awe of those who display some degree of mastery.

As I listened to and watched the singer perform I suddenly thought of this week’s lessons by Sharon on connecting with the breath. For two of the performers, the horn player and the singer it is their connection with their breath and the relationship of that breath to other part of their bodies that allows them to deliver their program. I also felt like there was a connectedness between the three performers – a love of music and affection for each other.

This is the second year I have participated in Sharon’s “challenge”. This year and last I am reminded how it is important to go back to the foundation. To reflect on how I do, or do not, use my breath as the anchor. As with a singer or a horn player it can be a struggle, and it certainly is with me, to learn how to develop that intimate connection and focus on the breath to the point at which it is no longer a self conscious process but natural.

In their most sublime moments a performer seems to soar. To be connected with the moment so that they actually embody the soul of the work they are performing. The past dissolves and the future will be but in that moment all that is exists is their relationship to the music, their companion performers and the audience. Whatever feelings are there are just there. Correctly or not, thinking of myself as practicing mediation as an artist practices their craft is a rather empowering frame.

Rene

A key lesson of sport is that you get better at what you practice.

There are days practice goes extremely well; you’re motivated, everything clicks, and everything you try succeeds. And there are days when you’d rather be somewhere else, when nothing works as it should, when you’re constantly picking yourself off the ground (depending upon the sport, perhaps literally) and trying again.

One of the main differences between amateur and professional athletes is that a pro knows that while the occasional practice like the first is encouraging and of course fun, its the second kind that both mentally and physically builds champions. Its not that failure is good in itself – in fact our nervous system learns a new skill by repeated small successes. But if you’re always succeeding then you’re almost certainly not learning anything new.

Even an all time great like Michael Jordan emphasized he had to try and fail a new move a thousand times in practice before he might be able to apply it in a game. It’s a cliche in sport: to succeed, you have to be used to failing. It also happens to be true.

And perhaps even more importantly, if you’re not used to failing and retrying in practice, you’re unlikely to respond well to the inevitable failures of actual competition. Professionals search for a way to come back to win a championship even if they’re down by four goals with one period remaining, if they’re down three games to one in a best of seven final. And the advice of every coach to their players in that situation is always the same: take it one play at a time. If that play fails, let it go, and concentrate on the next fail.

Don’t waste time and energy berating yourself, failure is part of the game. Sometimes it’s bad luck, sometimes it’s bad circumstances, sometimes your opponent is just better on you that day, sometimes you’re just not playing to your normal standard. It’s irrelevant, you let it go and concentrate on the only thing you can affect – the next play. That is the lesson every professional athlete learns.

Sometimes it even works. Sometimes it doesn’t. You learn what you can from the loss, then move on to the next game. Or next season.

Masahiko Kimura, one of the greatest judo competitors of all time, said the secret of judo is simple. Fall seven times, get up eight. The extra stand-up is necessary, it’s the one that gets you out of bed and to practice in the first place. Whether you feel like it or not on that day is interesting, but largely irrelevant. If you want to do serious judo, you practice.

I was at a meditation retreat with Rowan Conrad where the question of what is practice came up. The answer that resonated with me was direct: practice is showing up and meditating. Nothing about succeeding, about enlightenment or peace or even calmness – it’s simply about being there and making the effort.

There are days when meditation flows effortlessly, and I enjoy them.

There are days when mindfulness comes easily, when I remember it in many of the little things that make up life. And there are days when my mind continuously wanders in meditation, when mindfulness is completely forgotten during the day. On such days I tell myself, “Good, you have a chance to improve”, remember Kimura, pick myself off the floor (figuratively of course) and return to the next breath. Because its the one that needs my immediate attention.

~ Olaf

Five weeks ago today I underwent a total knee replacement.

Just prior to the surgery, the anesthetist gave me the choice between having a general anesthetic (being put to sleep) or regional anesthetic (being frozen from the waist down). He said that “they” get better results with a regional. As I wanted the best result possible, I chose the regional.

When I was wheeled into the operating room I felt quite anxious. I knew that I would be hearing all the sounds of the surgery – the whirling of the saw, the pounding of the hammer but thought to myself, if there ever was a place to practice mindfulness of the breath it would be right now.

Once I was positioned on the operating room table, the anesthetist asked me if I wanted something (a drug) to help me relax. I told him not right away but if I felt I needed something I would let him know.

The surgeon spoke to me and said that he was optimistic everything would go well but to not hesitate to have drugs if I needed them. The surgery began – I took a deep breath and started to focus on my breath. I choice to focus my practice by feeling the breath in my abdomen. Throughout the surgery, I could hear the sound of the drill, hammer, and saws. I could hear the nursing staff and the surgeon talking but whenever I felt carried away by sound I brought myself back to the breath.

Sometimes I needed to use a word (in – out) to stay centered but for the most part, I was able to return to the breath over and over again. I don’t know how long the surgery lasted but before I knew it, I was wheeled into the Post Anesthetic Care Unit (Recovery Room).

What is remarkable to me is that I was able to undergo this relatively major surgery with no medications. My vital signs (blood pressure, pulse and respiration) stayed within the normal range throughout the surgery.

Could I have done this without mindful meditation and focusing on the breath? I don’t think so as 5 years previously I had my other knee replaced. That operation was quite a different experience – I needed medications to quell the anxiety. My blood pressure and pulse were elevated and the surgery seemed to last forever.

It is with gratitude to the practice of mindful meditation and focusing on the breath that I write this post today.

With warm wishes,

Mars

From a teaching I experienced (embodied, actually) while on retreat last summer in a birch grove by Anglin Lake, I placed my ear against an aspen while on retreat last week in the city.

The dharma talks at this retreat by our teacher, Adrianne Ross, were on the five faculties (faith, effort, concentration, wisdom, and mindfulness), so listening through a tree to the wind coming off the South Saskatchewan River in the heart of Saskatoon seemed a good test of me for Adrianne’s teachings of momentary concentration and the jhana factors.

The first factor in my concentration test, viveka (seclusion turning inwards; turning energy inwards; sitting under a tree) was simply a walking meditation in the trees during this silent retreat.

Each factor lead to the next, without planning or even my clear understanding of the steps – it just happened.

The second factor, vitaka (be here, be awake; initial connecting; bring energy here, now) was choosing a suitable tree with a smooth spot where I could place my ear against the trunk.

The third, vicara (stabilizing and sustaining; exploring with just enough energy), was my connection with the tree, being curious, and staying there.

Piti, or rapture, is the fourth factor. This was the settling into the tree and keeping a rapt attention to the sounds transmitted down the truck from the branches as they were blowing in the wind. Adrianne described piti as the whole body being filled with presence and awareness – just being here and now.

And a feeling of ease, or sukha, is the fifth factor. Again, as Adrianne taught, it was a unification with the tree, the wind, and my senses, which filled my body, creating ease and balance, with no need to be elsewhere.

Then the bell rang, calling me back…

But, in those brief moments, it was a very real and embodied experience of concentration. Just a moment. In the city. With lunch calling. But it was real.

I wondered on other walks during the retreat if the city wind had a colour, but I wasn’t there yet.

I look forward to being at Anglin Lake again to learn more, including trying to sense:

What Color Is The Wind?

… to the bee, the wind is the warm color of the sun; the old dog, who perceives the world through smell, experiences it as “pink, flowery, pale white”; to the wolf, it smells of the forest; for the mountain, the wind is a bird; for the window, it is the color of time.

with mettā, Rod