Finding Stillness in the Eye of the Storm
by Jason Guard
When I first attended a Mindful Self-Compassion workshop at the Innerwork Center, I couldn’t imagine my three kids and my demanding day job giving me time or space to break free and meditate. Once I arrived, I wondered about the wall of meditation cushions in the Center’s meeting room. My ideal pursuit of stillness or quieting the mind was minimalist and acetic and maybe a little too idealized for a sitting practice to actually find a home in my chaotic life. ‘Pillows just protect us from our harsh environment - a cushion can’t produce enlightenment.’ These are a few pieces of self-talk that fueled my doubts…My inner monologue is full of ‘shoulds’ and unattainable ideals that result in ‘Why bother?’
A quick tour of Amazon confirmed my nay-saying anti-cushion bias with a wide array of overpriced buckwheat bean bags for delicate bodhisattva behinds. No thanks. A yoga block will do just fine, or a cinder block if I’m outside. Prayer benches for kneeling also appealed to me, as Bono saying “on your knees boy” still runs through my head from back in the 90s. Surrender of any sort was off the table in my mental equation, but let’s put a pin in the tension I felt around the idea of letting go. As fate would have it, or probably just ‘the algorithm,’ I spied a green canvas textured cushion with Legend of Zelda-style pyramids on the seat. Well, okay, maybe a cool-looking accessory could find a place in my living room. My new ‘tri-force’ temple cushion arrived in all of its green and gold glory two days later.
The thud of the weighty pillow announced a new axis in the middle of my empty living room, which is full of artsy visual focal points on the walls, all of which suddenly seemed to radiate out from the circular seat at the center. I immediately started seeing the act of putting the cushion down as creating an altar, a temple, a sanctuary, a sense of the sacred in my house. The rug under my feet conceals a huge yoga mat (6x8’), so I’m used to getting down on the floor and using the room to get productive and centered.
Crouching down to sit, the cushion hit my tailbone and reverberated a sense of connection through the floor, past the musty crawl space, into the ground beneath the house, and then rebounded back up through me and out the top of my head, all in a couple of nanoseconds. Some of that may have been hyperbolic artistic license, but the point is that the act of sitting just hit me in the gut with a grounding sense of security. Home base. Start here. Return here and start over, again and again. Potential energy seemed to be on tap from this beanbag barstool. At the time, insecurity was the main issue I grappled with. Feeling safe despite suffering through alienation and isolation, not knowing who to trust or where to turn. Letting go and embracing impermanence was a long way off, but having a space to reconcile with me felt better than the fear I was carrying around.
My personal life was crumbling, but I still had my kids looking to me for their security. The keystone I’d initially started building my family with was still intact at the center of the rubble. Sitting on that cushion reminded me of my eternal capacity to rebuild. It literally lifted me up and put me on a pedestal so I could witness myself and my healing/recovery process. Zen teachings inspired me to question ‘Who is it sitting on this cushion?’ (or in the woods or by the creek or under my century-old oak tree that towers over my house). I’m seeing myself from the position of the walls of my house around me. They’re standing back from me, but they’re holding me up. A year from now, my world will look and feel different, but I can come out of the treacherous jungle of my life and return to this clearing to catch my breath and find my bearings.
How much of my suffering is a product of my own mind? The person I usually need to reconcile with is maybe the least trustworthy of all, constantly stirring up self-doubt. I need to feel alright with myself. The Jason that sits down to slow my thoughts. Slow my breath. Slow my heart rate. That guy isn’t going to feel comfortable with himself without diving deep into my unconscious and reconnecting with the unknown and the gold that is buried within me like hidden treasure. This inward adventure is far more rewarding than handing my self-worth to the usual suspects revolving around me, or worse ignoring me. At least I can reward myself with the attention I seem to need. That’s a good starting point for most of my sitting sessions.
The medicine of meditation can be a bitter pill. I dread it sometimes. It often feels like putting on a piece of clothing at the thrift store. This isn’t mine. Does it fit? Not really. Maybe I need to wear it around a bit. The fabric is itching me. What’s that smell? So many distractions. If I keep wearing it, the friction I felt at first slowly falls away. I’m still me, whatever the clothing looks or feels like, whoever the ball of nerves is who sits down to meditate. When I’ve got too many plates spinning to possibly maintain, I love and hate the chance to let go and accept that many of them will fall and break and I’ll accept it and still be okay. This world doesn’t perfectly fit anyone. I can’t possibly do everything being asked of me. I’m going to serve one big meal for all three finicky kids and they’ll adjust, probably consoling their taste buds with extra dessert and candy.
Realistic expectations help me tremendously. Often, meditating is just another thing on my to-do list, weighing on my mind. I know it’s not a panacea for all of my attachments and desires. At first, following the breath starts ticking me off too when I first start. Putting my fingers on my neck and feeling my pulse helps me realize that my engine is overheated and needs to chill. If I can’t follow my breath, I can follow my heart. A few 4-7-8 breaths slow my pulse and feel like I’ve taken ‘the ice bucket challenge,’ plucked out of the hectic workload that daily has me running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Then I can loosen my grip on doing all the things that single dadding requires just for a little while and pick the cushion up and put it back on the shelf of my own personal Innerwork Center in the heart of my house.