Mindfulness is a form of perception that is infused with more awareness than the way we typically view the world. Integrating mindfulness can be powerful and transformative, but discussions on the topic are often lofty and esoteric. Let me bring it down to earth with an uncomfortable share.
It happened one night in bed.
My husband, who was up late working/procrastinating on Reddit, crawls in and sighs. He’s just watched a video about 1-year old girl in Iowa who gets a deadly case of meningitis. Her grief-stricken parents are left with the excruciating task of “pulling the plug.” The little girl’s organs end up saving three other people’s lives.
My husband is shaken by this, and I, too, go from half asleep to heartsick. Both of us picture our own little girl and feel overcome with compassion, empathy and even fear. I start imagining other bad things that can happen. Before I know it, I’m on my laptop, Googling some of my daughter’s health challenges and starting to freak out. I’ve twisted this heroic family’s anguish into a weird personal agony, while my husband, who’s popped an Ambien, is now drifting off to sleep. This pisses me off, so I lash out.
Now, in the light of day, I’m horrified by this story. I hate what happened to that family. I hate what it stirred up in me. Yet I sheepishly bring it up because, while embarrassing, it’s also a useful illustration of precisely what mindfulness is not.
The Yoga Sutras, widely regarded as the authoritative text on yoga, says we tend to “assume the forms of the mental modifications.” It’s like we sometimes live on our “train of thoughts,” or essentially, become the train, which thrashes all over the place, creating a wild and totally unstable experience. I flew from sad to scared, then anxious to angry, all in the span of a few minutes, with zero self-control.
So what is mindfulness? It’s another option.
A mindful perspective recognizes this alluring mental trap. It involves stepping back and disentangling from the whirlwinds in our minds. Then, with a little bit of distance, we can see our thoughts (and the reactions they strive to stir up), with pure attention. This unique style of perception happens without making judgments, and at least initially, without engaging in whatever we view. From this vantage point, we’re able to consciously choose how to respond to the situation at hand. Choice is the hallmark of mindfulness.
To be clear, mindfulness doesn’t mean that we cease to feel the emotional effects of what we see, hear and think. Instead, had I been more mindful that night, I would have sat with the sadness. I would have caught myself injecting personal fears, and even allowed those emotions to enter as well. The difference is that, if I were being mindful, I wouldn’t have been overtaken by my thoughts and the reactions they automatically conjured up. I would have chosen my response, which, in an ideal world, would have included feeling the pain, taking a deep breath, and because it works for me, praying for the parents, as well as my own daughter.
Meditation is a prime venue for building this skill. It’s worth noting that meditation doesn’t have to entail long, seated, cross-legged sessions on round cushions. A formal practice can be quite helpful, but that can take many forms. I’ll share more on this angle in the future, including a three-breath meditation in next week’s column. It’s a practical tool for integrating mindfulness throughout the day.
But there’s no way to hack this thing. Mindfulness takes work. It’s not easy. Especially in the heat of the moment, short-circuiting reactions is hard. I study and practice this stuff daily and still, obviously, have a ways to go.
The skill can be continuously cultivated for a lifetime, but it is a worthwhile pathway toward suffering less and more fully experiencing our lives — seeing a richer texture and the real beauty beneath the ups and downs.
And as that dear little girl from Iowa reminds me, every day that we get to work on this, is a gift.