Meditation Has to Suck

“Life s a continual choice between humiliation and humility.” – Yogananda

Sitting on a meditation cushion for the first time in my life over a decade ago, I was pretty sure I would die. First of boredom, then of restlessness, and finally of an entirely different brand of catastrophe: being human. Meditation is an ego detox, and it hurts.

I’d read about the benefits of meditation and decided it was worth a try. Other than coffee, it sounded like the only other thing I’d heard about that might be able to make my rigid, fearful mind more malleable, help me change entrenched mental patterns, slow aging a bit, support cognitive function, and possibly improve immunity.

But a few minutes after sitting down, my mind was already desperately unhappy. The meditation teacher talked about something she called “The Five Hindrances”–aversion, craving, restlessness, torpor and doubt. Then, she invited us to close our eyes. When the room went silent, I froze. How would I survive this for an hour? I peaked out between my eyelashes at the teacher’s beatific face, hoping she’d at least start talking again. But she remained silent.

Everyone in the room sat very still. Occasionally, someone coughed. I kept waiting for something interesting to happen. I shifted in my seat very slightly, back and forth, glancing down at my watch and wondering how many minutes had passed. Time felt glacial. I wished I’d brought a book. I couldn’t believe I’d paid money just to feel trapped and paralyzed. Was this enlightenment? If so, I’d take a rain check. To say it felt unpleasant was the understatement of a lifetime. My legs were meant for kicking, running, and nervous jiggling, not sitting in the criss-cross-apple-sauce position of a kindergartner.

The man next to whistled a little, each time he inhaled. I felt hot, then cold. Maybe I would throw up. A few times, I nearly fell asleep, with my head lolling forward on my neck. There was a smell in the room. Burnt broccoli? Freshly paved streets? The meditation cushion was hard. Had they put concrete inside it? And why did the man sitting next to me have his arm in my personal space? I’d arrived before him. The space was mine.

At some point–fortunately–I surrendered to the stillness, to the concrete cushion, and to the whistling breath. That was when I began to notice something new. It was an experiential nuance I hadn’t had the bandwidth to pay attention to, before. There was a difference in the quality of my presence when my mind just surrendered. When it stopped coordinating one of its full frontal attacks on reality, I felt open. Available. Peaceful, for a moment or two. This happened when my mind allowed itself–and me–to just be.

Reality, it seemed, simply was what it was. That was something I’d never truly considered. No matter what I made of it, it remained here, in all it’s immediacy, precise in all its details, for better or for worse. For a moment, before the teacher hit the brass gong, I could taste it, smell it, sense it, and feel it, almost like I’d landed at the center of my life first time.
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Photo by Afonso Coutinho at Unsplash

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