Get Some Headspace: 10 minutes can make all the difference (11 page)

There was one particular monastery where I lived that was dedicated entirely to meditation. There was no study of any philosophy or psychology, it was all about the practice itself. There were no visitors, no phone calls, and very few distractions of any kind. We started meditation at 3 a.m. and then continued throughout the day (with a few breaks) until 10 p.m. in the evening. For someone wanting to devote all their time to meditation it was a dream come true. While this may sound a little extreme, it actually makes a lot of sense. The very reason I went off and became a monk was to train my mind in the most conducive environment possible, so limiting any distractions was simply the starting point for that process. And it’s surprising, when the body and mind are starved of all the usual distractions, how even the smallest things can wreak havoc in the quiet of the mind. A simple letter from a friend can stir up all kinds of thoughts and emotions that can keep the mind entertained for days at a time. So, with none of these things to distract me, it’s perhaps no surprise that my mind started to slow down and feel a little more settled. And when it did, what became immediately obvious was that the quieter the mind, the greater the clarity.

Over the years I’ve heard many ways of describing this process, but I think the analogy I’m going to share with you now works best. Imagine a very still, clear pool of water. The water is quite deep, but very, very clear. Because the water’s so clear you can see absolutely everything at the bottom, making it appear shallow, even though it’s actually very deep. Now imagine sitting by the side of this water and throwing small pebbles into the middle. Start off quite slowly, just throwing them every now and then. You’ll notice that each new pebble creates a ripple on the surface of the water, and that it takes a little while for the water to then settle again. If you then throw another stone in before the water has completely settled, you create a new set of ripples that merges with the last. Now imagine throwing one stone after the next and seeing the entire surface of the water all stirred up at the same time. When the surface of the water looks like this, it’s almost impossible to see anything in the water at all, never mind anything at the bottom.

This image reflects the surface of our minds in many ways – at least until we get round to training in some way. Each new thought, like a pebble being thrown into the water, creates ripples on the surface. We’ve got so used to throwing these pebbles, so used to the disturbance on the surface of the water, that we’ve forgotten what still water looks like. We know it’s not quite right as it is, but it’s as if the more we meddle with the mind trying to sort it out, the more ripples we create. It’s this restless quality of mind that creates the feeling of agitation when we sit down and find ourselves unable to relax. Needless to say, when the mind’s all stirred up like this, it’s almost impossible to see what’s happening and what’s hidden under the surface. Because of this we don’t have any insight into the nature of mind – of how and why we feel the way we do. So, without first calming the mind, it’s very difficult to have any clarity. That’s why there’s slightly more emphasis on the concentration component in this particular technique.

I don’t know about you, but I’d always assumed that clarity in meditation was all about lightning bolts of wisdom that would immediately transform my everyday experience. In retrospect, it is a slightly more gradual process. So maybe it’s more useful to think about clarity in terms of a steady unfolding of the mind, an increasingly direct insight into what’s happening. And this increasing clarity is vital. It’s so hard to live life with a sense of ease and purpose if we’re always in a muddle, confused and unable to direct the mind in a particular way. No matter how laid back we might be, we all have certain habitual tendencies that would benefit from a greater sense of awareness. Sometimes these seem to be hidden just under the surface, waiting to make a spectacular appearance when we’re least expecting it. In fact, it can take just the smallest thing to happen, the most innocuous comment to be made, and that feeling rushes to the surface and colours the entire pool. Sound familiar? If we’re ever going to study these feelings and emotions that both complicate and enrich our lives, then we need the surface of the water to be still enough so that we can see them.

Back in ‘Colditz’, the monastery from which I escaped over the wall, I was once asked to cut the grass. Now the grounds were quite big and there was a lot of land to cover, so naturally I went to the shed to get the lawnmower. But just as I was getting it out, one of the more senior monks came and presented me with a pair of scissors. ‘What am I supposed to do with these?’ I asked. ‘You’re supposed to cut the grass,’ he replied, with slightly more relish than necessary. ‘You’ve got to be having a laugh?’ I said, ‘That’s going to take me for ever! What’s the point in having a lawnmower if we don’t use it?’ He stared at me. ‘First of all, you don’t ever speak to me like that. And second of all, no, I’m not “having a laugh”. The abbot has asked for you to cut the grass with these scissors and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.’ I don’t mind admitting that it took every ounce of self-restraint I had not to lose it with this guy. But he’d already got me into a lot of trouble with the abbot, so I wasn’t going to push it, at least not this time. I walked away with the scissors in my hand thinking thoughts which, as a novice monk, I would most definitely not have been encouraged to think.

Cutting a lawn with a pair of scissors was a little bit like cutting hair. I took the grass between the middle finger and forefinger on my left hand, while I trimmed it with the scissors in my right. Everything had to be exactly level too, a feat that could only be achieved by pressing my cheek down into the lawn next to the part I was trimming. There were three lawns in total and this one alone was similar in size to a tennis court. Not surprisingly, after just a few minutes on the job I found myself trying to work out how long it was going to take me. I also started to think about my knees which were getting wet on the grass, my back which was hurting from bending over, and of course the monk who’d given me the scissors. In fact my mind was racing with thoughts. I had no sense of calm whatsoever and found it difficult to focus on the task at hand. And because I was still feeling so incensed, I had no clarity either.

In that moment, it was as if everything was coloured by anger. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced this, but it’s as if all the thoughts that flash through the mind have this same angry quality that changes your entire perspective of the world around you. But I was so caught up in the thoughts, all the ripples on the surface of the water, that I couldn’t see that at all. It was as if I were too close to the anger, identifying so strongly with it that I had
become
the anger, as opposed to just witnessing its presence. And without the clarity that the anger was actually coming from my own mind, I just looked for things to fuel that feeling. Sure, the attitude of the monk had not been great, but I was there of my own volition and I could have walked away if I’d wanted to. In many ways it was no different from being asked to do something unpleasant or boring in a shop, office, factory or any other place of work. In fact, you may have identified your very own ‘grass cutting’ moments already. While it’s important to acknowledge that it is absolutely not OK to be walked over, abused, bullied or taken for a ride – at work
or
at home – from a meditative point of view it is also important to acknowledge the source of the anger we can sometimes feel in life. In this instance, it was the way in which I’d been spoken to that ignited the anger. But from there on in, it was entirely my own work. That doesn’t defend the attitude of the monk, but allowed me to take responsibility for the part I played in the continuation of that anger. Focusing on the wet grass and my sore back were just ways of keeping the fire burning, rather than letting go of the anger. On another day and in a different mood, I would probably not have been too bothered about either. But on this day I’m quite sure that even if somebody had told me I’d won the Lottery (not that we played in the monastery of course), I would have still found a way to continue feeling angry. Letting go of such strong emotions is not always easy.

It took about an hour for the mind to settle down. Strangely enough it seemed to happen at the same time that I started concentrating less on the thoughts and more on the task at hand. And while I appreciate cutting the lawn with a pair of scissors will not be everyone’s cup of tea, there was actually something very soothing about the process after a while. In fact, it became a meditation of its own. I figured there was no point in rushing, it didn’t really matter how many days it took me. And in being a bit of a perfectionist, there was something actually quite nice about trying to get it ‘just right’, and the less I indulged the thoughts, the less momentum anger had. As the anger decreased, so I could see more clearly what was happening in the mind. I started to get some perspective on things, which led to the mind becoming even more calm. It became cyclical: calm leading to clarity leading to calm leading to clarity. Before long I was laughing at myself, wondering what my friends would think if they could only see me now. Not for the first time I might add. Most importantly though, the mind had now settled and I no longer felt angry.

We often underestimate the value of clarity – I know I always used to. I’d got so used to living with a confused mind that I didn’t know whether I had clarity or not (clearly I didn’t). I kept making the same mistakes – no matter how many times the same situation arose in life, I reacted to it in the same way. I’d blindly stumble into situations, not really knowing how I got there, not really knowing how to change things, and causing myself and others a lot of problems in the process. I remember discussing this with a Tibetan teacher in Nepal, very early on when I’d just started to meditate. I asked him how, given all the meditation I was doing at the time, I was still making many of the same mistakes.

‘Imagine every day you have to walk to work,’ he began. ‘You walk down the same street, see the same houses, the same people, every day.’ I pictured the scene. I’d had several jobs like that in the past, so it didn’t require much imagination. ‘Towards the end of this street there is a very big hole. Perhaps the workmen have been digging it up to repair the pipes or something, but the hole is very deep and because the workmen have been drinking too much tea, or spent too much time talking, this hole always seems to be there.’ He stopped and laughed at the image. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘even though you know this big hole is there, every day you go down the same street and walk straight into the hole. You don’t mean to do it, it’s just that you’ve got so used to following that particular path, that course of action, that you do it without even thinking.’ Although I couldn’t relate to this on an external level (why would I keep walking into the same hole every day?), it certainly chimed with my internal world. I don’t know about you, but for me it perfectly mirrored how I’d always walk into the same old emotional traps and mental confusion.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘when you start to meditate it’s like you wake up and become more aware of what’s going on around you. When you walk down the street, you see the big hole in front of you.’ ‘But that’s the thing,’ I replied, ‘I’ve been meditating a lot and although sometimes I see the hole, there’s nothing I can do to stop myself falling down it every time.’ He smiled. ‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘at first you just see the hole, but the habit of walking down that part of the street is so strong that you can’t help but walk straight into it. You know it’s madness, you know that it’s going to hurt, but you just can’t help yourself!’ By this point he was laughing out loud. Despite my anguish, I had to admit that there was something pretty funny about this image. He continued, ‘This is just how it is with your mind. You see these pitfalls, but the habit is so strong you can’t help yourself from falling. But,’ he said, pausing dramatically, ‘if you
continue
meditating, you’ll begin to see the hole much earlier and be able to take some evasive action. At first you may try to go around the edge and fall in anyway. This is part of the process. But eventually, with practice, you’ll see it with such clarity that you’ll simply walk around it and continue on your way. This way you’ll arrive at work feeling very fresh.’ He chuckled again. ‘And then one day, you might have so much clarity, you might be so awake, that you realise that there was never a hole there in the first place, but that’s a lesson for another time.’