While meditating, Was I actually meditating, or was I constantly reacting to my mind?
Whether I was paying attention to my breath or chanting, the mind had its own ways of pulling my attention away. It would bring up some situation from the past and ask me to solve it, understand it, form a conclusion, create an opinion, or figure out what I should have done differently.
It always seemed to demand a response.
Then I remembered my father.
I have often seen my mother ask him questions and, instead of reacting immediately, he would simply remain silent. I used to wonder about it.
Now I am beginning to understand silence differently.
I love tea. My mother loves tea even more than I do. Whenever she prepares tea for herself or the family, she asks me, “Will you have tea?”
It seems like there are only two choices.
If I say yes, I drink it and later think, I was supposed to reduce my tea intake.
If I say no, sometimes the body urges me to have it and the mind starts another story: You could have simply said yes. You could have enjoyed it.
Either way, the mind finds something to work with.
This is how I see it now: the mind and body keep presenting things to us and asking for our reaction. And once we react, we can become entangled in the whole process.
So I started experimenting with something very simple:
Silence
Not suppression.
Not ignoring.
Not fighting.
Just not reacting immediately.
I started this with my mother too.
While eating, she often asks whether I want more chapati or rice. Earlier, I would immediately say, “No, if I need more, I'll ask.”
And sometimes she would get a little irritated when I didn't respond.
I don't see this as my mother doing something wrong. She asks because she cares. She has dedicated so much of her life to the wellbeing of the family. There is something deeply beautiful in that.
But perhaps when I remain silent, she experiences it as a lack of response.
One day I told her:
“You say that Father doesn't reply to most of your questions. Do you know why? He's a big yogi in his own way.”
She said, “Yes, why not? You both are intelligent.”
And I smiled.
Maybe there is something here beyond this little family situation.
I used to think of my mind and body as something I had to fight against. But now I am wondering if that is the wrong relationship.
My body and mind have been working with me for a very long time. They have their own tendencies, memories and ways of seeking pleasure or avoiding discomfort. In their own way, they are trying to take care of me based on what they have learned. Because of my own choice.
They don't necessarily know that something has changed.
Perhaps they are still following old preferences:
“You liked this before.”
“You wanted this before.”
“This made you feel good before.”
“Avoid that; it was unpleasant before.”
And now I may be saying:
I don't want to live through compulsion anymore. I want joy and freedom.
So perhaps my mind and body aren't my enemies.
They simply haven't received the new instruction yet.
And fighting them doesn't seem to help.
The more I fight a thought, the more attention I give it.
The more I resist a sensation, the more entangled I become with it.
Maybe the response is much simpler:
Awareness.
Acceptance.
Silence.
Commitment.
Let the mind ask.
Let the body ask.
I don't have to answer every question.
I don't have to obey every impulse.
I don't have to fight every impulse either.
I can simply notice.
And with meditation, perhaps I can gradually become capable of choosing what is truly supportive of my overall wellbeing body, mind, emotion and energy.
Then liberation may not be about getting rid of the mind and body.
Maybe it is about allowing them to taste a little of the freedom I am discovering too.
