Secret confessions of a struggling meditator

How my early Zen experiences showed me it’s not a failure to start over and begin counting the breath at one – it’s actually a triumph.

My leg keeps falling asleep. My back hurts. I can’t stifle my cough. I can’t turn off my brain.

Why am I not enlightened yet?

Sitting on my meditation cushion in a silent room full of Zen priests and serious practitioners, I feel so conspicuous. My body won’t settle, and every little sigh and shift seems rudely audible in the cool solemnity of the early morning. I try hard not to swallow again. I hold my breath.

I’m waiting for something – a sign? A feeling? I don’t really know, except I know that whatever *it* is, enlightenment won’t come soon enough. After all, that’s the whole point of getting up before dawn to come to these meditation meetups, right? There’s got to be a payoff. Why else would these people keep showing up week after week?

Okay, this must be a test. A marathon. I have to hang in here and prove I’m not an impostor. I have to stay awake.

25 minutes pass, and the head priest strikes a small metal bowl, its clear metallic tone piercing the silence from across the room. I feel it vibrate on my cheeks and practically gasp for air. Time to move, finally!

Everyone puts their hands together in gassho and bows deeply. It’s time to get off our cushions and slowly shuffle outside for walking meditation – except my legs have lost feeling below the knees. It should be a treat to go out for fresh air, but I’m in pain. This is so awkward. I hope nobody sees me kneading my calves for dear life. I hope I don’t fall down.

I fake it ‘til I make it. The feeling comes back. I get in line and follow the person in front of me, each step in time -- right foot, left foot, right foot. I focus on that.

For a few blessed moments, I’m free of worry. I’m in the zone. The grass makes a soft whisper with each step. The sunlight blankets me like a long hug. Birds whistle from the trees, as if in support. Bees buzz past indifferently, too preoccupied with the flowering bushes. My heart swells with love for this moment.

And before I know it, we’re back on our cushions for round two of zazen. It’s more of the same, really, but I don’t fight it as much. My breathing grows slow and heavy. Every time my mind bounces around, I start counting my breaths from one to ten again. Every time I start over, I beat myself up a little bit.

I have to get better at this!

*****

I kept going to group meditations and doing solo sessions for years. I kept waiting for that eureka moment of enlightenment – a reward for my efforts. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop the monkey mind.

But something did shift, eventually: I forgave myself.

I looked at my “monkey mind” with compassion, like a little needy jester that dances across the brainscape. The jester wants to be seen, but once I acknowledge it, I can send it on its merry way.

I realized it’s okay to think and feel, because the whole point wasn’t to stop thinking or feeling anyway. All of those times I kept starting over to count my breaths – that was entirely the purpose of my meditation practice.

The emphasis really should be on “practice.” It’s not a failure to start over and begin counting the breath at one – it’s actually a triumph. To be able to recognize when your mind wanders and stories creep in to distract you – and then to consciously redirect your attention back to the breath, to the here and now – is truly powerful.

For me, the repetition of practice eventually empowered me to go for longer and longer stretches of meditation. I even did a 300-hour teacher training that included hours of sitting each day and culminated in a silent retreat. Allowing change and conquering fear of failure was like a muscle I kept building — and you can, too.

You can start over anytime you want.

And if thoughts become actions that create your reality, then you can see what a difference even a simple, short meditation can make.

It might even be the first step in changing your life.