CHAPTER SEVEN

Drama and Simplicity

In our search for intimacy and trust with those we love, whether spouse, lover, friend, or family, there are really only two basic communication skills required of us. The first is that we are able to share information; the second is that we are able to exchange care.

When we skillfully share information, we are able to name our wants and needs; we can speak what is in our heart in a way that can be heard; we can exchange thoughts and feelings with someone else and expect to be understood; we learn to speak clearly and precisely not only about what is precious but also about what is difficult; and we share a common commitment, along with our friends and partners, to listen together for what is true and necessary.

When we exchange care, we name our love for one another without fear. We listen for what is painful or difficult, and work together with those we love to make adjustments that will bring healing and peace. We may listen to another’s heart without always feeling that our own needs are being slighted, and we may express our genuine concern and affection for another’s well-being in a way that allows them to feel that our care is trustworthy.

Yet, in our families, the exchange of both information and care was often accompanied by high drama and theatrical presentations of emotion. In families where people are not skilled in listening attentively to one another, things tend to escalate until only the biggest, loudest displays get noticed.

Consequently, meaningful attempts to genuinely communicate our thoughts or feelings were often met with great resistance, confusion, or anger. Any moment of genuine affection or simple communication could be quickly sidetracked by someone’s fragile self-esteem, their quickness to feel slighted, or their emotional hair trigger, all of which enabled a simple statement of feeling or fact to instantly escalate into betrayal, rage, isolation or depression. Our tendency toward grandiosity, our clumsiness in speaking and listening to what was simply true, and our inability to act in a simple, caring manner with one another all combined to provoke an atmosphere of high drama. Whenever we felt unheard or unloved, we resorted to theatrics, manipulations, and dramatic escalations. Instead of exchanging information, we learned to make points and win arguments; rather than exchange care, we learned to evoke sympathy for ourselves and our causes. Through dramatic outbursts, everyone tried to manipulate information and feelings in a way to come out in their favor. But in the process, real care and true feelings were obscured by our family theatrics, and we rarely felt listened to or cared for.

Anger, for example, was rarely a simple matter of a difference of opinion. More likely, it was accompanied by dramatic threats, loud arguments, flying objects, or harsh punishments. Mark told me that his father would yell at him for half an hour if he forgot to take out the garbage. Ellen remembered a time when her father, upset with something her sister said at the dinner table, turned the table upside down and stormed out of the room. When we fear we will not be heard, we invoke higher and higher levels of drama to get our point across.

Many have memories of family fights ending in violence, of children being bundled up and carried off in the night, of painful divorces, dramatic reconciliations, and grand promises about things that were never to happen.

Even love would be professed with great drama. Anna told me that her mother sat her down every night before she went to bed and said, “Anna, you are going to be the greatest dancer in the world.” It was not enough to simply support her child’s love for dance; she must be the “greatest,” the “best.” Sylvia was told by her mother that she was “much better than all the other children” in her class. These were the same mothers who could fly into a rage whenever their daughters brought home bad grades from school. Both love and criticism were inevitably delivered with inflated, disproportionate emotionality.

When these loud arguments, threatening judgments, and tearful confessions incessantly punctuate the family story, our ear becomes more attuned and receptive to high drama. Only when life escalates into outrageous proportions are we able to listen; our ear has become accustomed to attend more carefully in those moments for what is important and meaningful. Consequently, as we grow older, we find ourselves precipitating one crisis after another, perfecting our ability to sift out some meaning from the rubble of each successive emotional earthquake. We learn to provoke dramatic confrontations, postpone our tasks and responsibilities until they reach crisis proportions, and fan the flames of volatility in our love and work relationships. The most painful and dramatic episodes become our most reliable and intriguing teachers, while the still, smaller voices of our spirit are ignored and unheeded.

Our habitual fascination with drama can infect the way we experience our own unfolding. As we write the story of our lives, we litter our stage with inflated tragedies and injustices that mirror the rich, conflicted theater of our childhood. Every infatuation becomes a great and wonderful love; every disappointment becomes a horrendous and insufferable catastrophe. If all the world is a stage, those of us addicted to drama play our part with gusto and enthusiasm.

Drama and Complexity

For many of us, childhood was not only dramatic, it was also very complicated. Simple acts and phrases were often meant to conceal complex messages, and we quickly learned to decipher all the levels of meaning behind the words and gestures of those around us.

For example, if our mother said that our father was not an alcoholic, it sometimes meant, “Dad is an alcoholic and we all know it, but I am too afraid to talk about it.” When someone told us, “Don’t worry, everything is fine,” it could just as easily mean something was terribly wrong. When they said, “Let’s just have a good time,” it usually meant everyone was miserable. Everything meant something else. The truth was not found in what was said but embedded within what was said—or even what was not said. We heard the words that were spoken, but what did they really mean?

We became quite adept at figuring out the complexity of things and seeking out hidden meanings. Reading the intricacies of a given moment, we learned to divine ulterior motives and intentions behind every act: Why did they do this, what did they really want, what did they mean by that? Our eyes scanned for what was not apparent, as nothing was ever what it appeared to be.

In these families, a misplaced toy could be interpreted as an attack on parental authority; a forgotten pail of garbage became a terrible betrayal. Feelings were couched in complex language, and painful truths were camouflaged in secret emotional family codes. Since no one spoke the truth directly, everything was shared through symbolic language: If you did A, it really meant B; if you said X, you probably meant Y. Each family developed its own code.

On her way home from school, Susan would check if the window shades were open or closed before she went in the house. If they were closed, it meant someone inside was either drunk, hung over, or fighting; if the shades were open, the coast was generally clear. Bill learned to tell by the way his dad hung up his coat whether or not he was in a bad mood. Everything could be interpreted through the family code.

This secret language often remains embedded in the family story for a long time, even after everyone is grown and moved away. Paul, a man of forty-two, went home to visit his father and stepmother for the holidays. After dinner he took his plate and put it in the sink, intending to wash it later that evening. When his stepmother found his unwashed plate in the sink, she flew into a rage. “How dare you leave that plate in there for me to clean? I’ve always known you never respected me! And apparently you never will!” Here we are not fighting about dishes. The dishes are merely a symbol pointing to something else, some unspoken, unresolved hurt that has remained buried in the family psyche for generations. And as long as we continue to communicate in complex family codes, our hurts and fears will probably remain unspoken and unhealed as they sit hidden in a dirty sink.

Another element of our complex family drama was its unpredictability. Usually, once we had learned the codes of communication, we learned to predict from Dad’s moods, Mom’s behavior, or the tone of the dinner conversation exactly what everyone was feeling and how the evening was going to go. But occasionally we would stumble upon a phrase or behavior we had never encountered before, and it would spring like a booby trap, taking us completely by surprise. Something we thought was an innocent comment would suddenly provoke tremendous anger or rebuke. We learned quickly to file away any new data, vowing never to repeat the same mistake again. Thus, we developed an encyclopedic categorization of words and gestures that seemed like one thing but actually meant something else. We came to feel that everything in the world needed to be translated, that every appearance had to be uncovered to reveal its true meaning.

We become accustomed to seeing the world as a symphony of signs and symbols that are important only to the degree that they reveal what is masked or hidden away. The act of making tea, for example, is significant only if we can discover why it is being made, who is making it, and who it is for. Is it a reward or a punishment; is it the good tea or the inexpensive tea; is it a gift or a bribe; and what will they want in return?

As our mind desperately searches out the intricate levels of intention and meaning surrounding the teamaker, we miss the cup of tea. We miss the sound of the water flowing into the cup, the image of steam gently rising, the aroma of fresh herbs steeping in hot liquid, the rich color, the soft, comfortable soothing of the throat. As we rush to probe the deeper, hidden meanings, the delicacy of these simple moments is lost.

In Search of Simplicity

When we become habituated to seeking out high drama, intrigued by the infinite complexity of things, we often overlook the simple power of a single action, a simple word, or an uncomplicated gesture. We feel that nothing of importance is ever obvious, and the value of any truth lies in how difficult it is to find. We take pride in the complexity of our minds, drawing comfort from our ability to look past appearances and seek out the real, hidden truth. We gradually adopt a hierarchy in our perception of reality: The more complex or dramatic an event, the more we believe in its intrinsic value. But as we constantly elevate the levels of drama and complexity in our lives, we become blind to the gifts and blessings that may arise when we approach the world more simply.

Once a young Anglo man wanted to share the wonders of civilization with his adopted Navajo father, who had never seen a paved road or a skyscraper. One day he showed his father a picture of the Empire State Building. As he went on and on about the building’s architectural intricacies and other exceptional qualities, his father interrupted him to ask, “How many sheep will it hold?”

The young man, caught up in the exhilarating complexity of architectural accomplishment, missed something that his Navajo father saw instantly. It is the Navajo way to gauge the value of things in the simplest terms. Neither distracted nor impressed by dramatic details, the old shepherd sought first to know how well it would hold sheep.

Raised in drama and complexity, we lose our ability to see with a simple eye. We are quickly bored with people and events that do not involve some great intrigue or spectacle. Companions that fail to provide us with grist for our melodrama soon appear dull and uninteresting. Ensnared by the tyranny of high drama, our hearts begin to lose interest in what is plain and unadorned.

Yet the things that are simple—the touch of a child’s hand on our cheek, the color of the sky at sunset, the smell of rain in the summer, the taste of a fresh piece of fruit—in a moment of awareness, these things can vibrate with something deep and true in our hearts. Many spiritual practices are grounded in the wisdom and beauty of this simplicity. In Buddhism, for example, students of meditation are taught to become aware of the rising and falling of the breath. Nothing more dramatic or complex than this is necessary to begin cultivating deep mindfulness. Watching the breath, attending to the sensations as it rises and falls within our body, we may experience tremendous peace and serenity. Similarly, in Christianity, the very center of practice is the act of Communion, which consists of sharing with others a small piece of bread and a sip of wine. Many of the highest sacraments are acts of extraordinary simplicity.

Yet our hearts mistrust simplicity. When love is given only with secret conditions, the mind of the child learns to analyze every gift for its hidden meaning. Every act is a Trojan horse, every word wears a disguise. As our eye seeks to expose the hidden complexity of every moment, how can we learn to see with an eye that is simple and clear?

The Difficulty of Simplicity

Even if we decide to let go of complexity and high drama, we may find we have become quite attached to how complicated we are. Not only have we learned to see the world as complicated, but we take some pride in our own complexity. Our self-esteem is bolstered by how difficult we are to understand, how complex and subtle our problems are, how our particular lives are exceptionally intricate and difficult to unravel.

We take comfort in our complexity, seeing ourselves as especially broken, exceptionally wounded, unfathomably troubled. We use our high levels of internal complexity to grant ourselves permission to take a great deal of time with our own healing—for how can we be expected to change or get well when our problems are so complicated and difficult to understand? The practices and solutions that work for others will certainly fail in our case, because our dilemmas are far more complex than everyone else’s. Theirs are simple; ours are intricate, delicate, and in need of special attention.

Frances’s parents divorced when she was quite young. She lived with her mother, but her father would regularly visit, often taking her to the park for the afternoon. Since her dad suffered from a variety of mental distresses, the visits often ended badly; inevitably there would be something that would anger or upset him. Then, he would order Frances back into the car and drive her straight home, leave her on the front porch, and drive away without a word. Frances, who loved him very much, would be left feeling hurt and confused.

As an adult, Frances felt uneasy about who she was deep inside, and said she was afraid she would never be able to figure herself out. Love, safety, affection, trust—it was all so complicated. The exchange of care seemed so complex, it was almost impossible. In despair, she would often just give up trying and retreat to her apartment, feeling sad and lonely for days at a time.

We worked for several months on the painful residue of her childhood, analyzing the messages she received from her father, and trying to listen for the ways she thought about love. There came a point in our work where I suggested she might begin to meditate. I suggested she use the practice of mindful breathing to begin to let go of some of these old, complicated stories and to start to make a loving home for herself in her own body. To my surprise, tears came to her eyes at the suggestion, and she said she felt terribly hurt.

“When you ask me to try to meditate, it feels like you aren’t seeing me, that you don’t see how painful and delicate my problems are. How can I make you understand that these aren’t normal problems, they are much more subtle than that? I thought you could see how complicated and difficult my feelings are, but when you tell me to just meditate, it sounds too simple. It feels like you don’t see me at all.”

Frances had learned to find some comfort and solace in the difficulty and complexity of her life. Even though she felt lonely and isolated in her pain, the complex nature of her distress had become an ally, a companion on her journey. Things as simple as a caring touch, a safe family, or a father’s love were unimaginable to her; things were more complicated than that. She did not believe anything so simple could heal her, and she mistrusted anyone who suggested that it could.

So we wait for a healing that, if it comes, will be dramatic and complex, one that matches the complicated nature of our distress. A single word or touch, a healing breath, the simple honesty of a loving moment—these feel impotent and inadequate. In the face of our inner complexity, we feel powerless; things about us are just too complicated. We cannot be held responsible for our distress; try as we may, it is just too large to be healed. Thus we wash our hands of our own destiny.

“Perhaps if you just gave me a lobotomy,” Joseph said to me, “it would be so much easier.” Whenever we would reach a tender place in our work together, Joseph would kiddingly suggest a lobotomy. His life felt so complicated and difficult to figure out, it seemed like an excellent solution to his problems. One cut of the knife and all would be well.

Ironically, this was not an unusual request. Many others besides Joseph had jokingly requested a “lobotomy” over the years, particularly when the process of their healing seemed slow or painful. What strikes me about the “lobotomy” approach is that it is inherently theatrical, using high drama as the ultimate cure. “What I have,” each seems to say, “is not merely pain and discomfort. What I have is a powerful, incurable, rampantly complex, and invincible toxic emotional malfunction that is totally out of control. It will require special surgery, powerful magic, all the skill of Western medicine, and a few miracles to put me back together, because what I have is especially, terribly complicated.”

At some point we must ask ourselves, are we willing to be healed? Seduced by the infinite puzzle of our own pathology, we often resist any healing available to us that utilizes the simplicity of common words, colors, and gestures. Yet if we continue to take pride in the uniqueness of our individual drama, we may be destined to wander in isolation, frustration, and disappointment. If we can surrender our addiction to complexity, perhaps we may be persuaded that we are simply human beings and we all have pain, we all have sorrow, and we all hurt.

Sometimes we become infatuated with the stories we weave around our sorrows: We hurt because of this, and then that happened and that hurt me, and then I hurt because of this next thing, and on and on. When someone speaks to me in this way about their pain, I often stop them and ask that they just say, “I hurt.” Nothing more, no explanations, simply, “I hurt.” So many times when we speak this simply, the tears come freely and easily. Released from the stories and interpretations we have grafted onto our pain, when we say “I hurt,” there is nothing in the way, no complications, just simple sorrow. It feels like such a relief, such a blessing. Even pain can feel like a blessing when it is shared simply and clearly.

There is a song about simplicity that comes from the Shaker community. Many of us learn it as children:

’Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to be free,
’Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be.
And when we find ourselves in a place just right,
We will be in the valley of love and delight.

The Problem of Meaning

Another hindrance to the practice of simplicity is our belief that everything of value must be infused with many levels of meaning. Raised in family distress, we learn to look for the reason behind every gesture: Why were the blinds down, why did he hang up his coat that way, why did she say that, and what did she mean? Everything anyone said or did held some secret meaning, and we would not feel better until we found out what it was.

We easily become trapped by the desperate “whys” of our childhood. Carol, for example, had grown up in an alcoholic family, and she had done some very good work healing the wounds and making peace with her childhood. Still, she would occasionally find herself caught in some struggle or problem, and would come to me and say, “I am so disappointed in myself. I thought I had all this stuff figured out—and here I am, back at the beginning. Why do I do this? How come I keep getting caught in the same places? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I ever figure this out for good?”

Each time she felt stuck, Carol would beat herself with endless “whys”—why did I, why am I, why can’t I? I would gently remind her that pain and sorrow would probably always be a part of her life, that they were just part of the deal. The fact that she felt hurt, stuck, or angry might not mean anything about her, her family, or her childhood. It might simply be pain, fear, or anger—ordinary human feelings arising in an ordinary human being. These were simply her shares in the sorrows of being human, feelings she had observed in herself a thousand times before.

After a while, Carol could allow herself to let go of questioning and blaming, and we would both laugh at how easy it was to get caught wanting to know “why” before we could let anything painful or unpleasant fall away. In our quest for the meaning of every little blip on the screen of our life, we often find ourselves trapped and mired, wandering about in endless, meaningless detail, searching for the elusive “why” that will lead us to freedom.

Once a man sought the Buddha to ask him a number of questions about the meaning of life. Namely, was the universe eternal or not; was it finite or infinite; was the soul the same or different from the body? and other such things. He said, “If the Buddha can explain these to me, I will stay and follow him. If he cannot, I will see that he is not the Blessed One, and I will leave.”

The Buddha heard of this, and called the man to him and told him a story. “Suppose a man is wounded by a poisoned arrow, and his friends bring him to a surgeon. Suppose the man should then say: I will not let this arrow be taken out until I know who shot me; what his name and family may be; whether he is tall, short, or of medium stature; whether he is black, brown, or golden; and from which city or village he comes. I will not let this arrow be taken out until I know the kind of bow with which I was shot; the kind of bowstring and arrow; what type of feather and with what kind of material the point of the arrow was made.” The Buddha said to him, “Surely that man would die without knowing any of these things.” Whatever one believes about these problems, said the Buddha, you will still have birth, old age, death, sorrow, and pain. If you insist on knowing the reason “why” before you begin, you will surely die. Knowing why is not always useful. Sometimes we must just begin our practice—learning to remove the arrow—so that we may be set free.

This clarity of action is illustrated by a famous Japanese haiku:

Old pond.
Frog jumps in.
Plop!

As adults, we rarely allow a frog to jump in an old pond. We have to know why it jumped, how it got there, what else happened, and what it all means before we feel comfortable letting the frog jump into the water.

Similarly, in the process of personal growth and childhood exploration, we often insist on deciphering all the problematic levels of our lives before we allow ourselves to be healed. We hold our childhoods hostage, waiting to wring from them the many levels of meaning, all the answers to the riddles of our lives, before we claim the right and the courage to live freely and abundantly. Thomas Merton once said that many of us waste precious time exploring the complexity of who we are, and who we have been, before we allow ourselves to be healed. “There are no levels,” he said. “Any moment you can break through into the underlying unity which is God.”

The Seeds of Simplicity

In order to develop a simple eye, we must shed our belief that only things that are dramatic have real value, and that the true meaning of things lies within their complexity. Only then can we begin to discover that simple things can have great power. One small measure of yeast can leaven an entire loaf of bread. A single mustard seed can grow into a tree of grand proportions. Suzuki Roshi stresses the value of simple attention: “For Zen students a weed, which for most people is worthless, is a treasure. With this attitude, whatever you do, life becomes an art.”

William Blake echoes this call to attend to the smallest details:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower.
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.

Simple acts can become seeds planted in the garden of our lives. Everything that grows requires a seed of some kind. The seed starts the process, inviting the miracle of growth to come to full flower. The seed is simply a teacher; by itself, it cannot make anything grow. It also needs earth, air, sun, and water to blossom and bring forth fruit. The power of the seed is that it has the information; it knows the story. It knows the story of this plant, this organism, this being—and it can teach that story to the earth, the air, the sun, and the water. The seed serves as a patient storyteller, and, having heard the story, the four elements galvanize and repeat the story, again and again, cell by cell, slowly, patiently, until the story comes true— tangibly, improbably, inexplicably true.

Like the planting of a seed, the repetition of a single act can give birth to a new way of life, a new way of being. At the height of the campaign for Indian independence, Gandhi took a spinning wheel and began to spin. He said that if everyone began to spin their own cotton, the simple act of industry and creativity could spark the dreams of a nation. That spinning wheel became a seed that blossomed in the hearts of an entire people.

A solitary act like the spinning of cotton, the repetition of a short prayer, or the making of a cup of tea can become a seed of great healing. When we spend a few moments attending to something as uncomplicated as the rising and falling of our breath, our attention becomes more focused, we become relaxed, and our minds feel clearer. By attending to the experience of the simple acts of breathing, speaking, touching, and walking, we allow new experiences to take birth in our lives and hearts, experiences far less dramatic and complex than those of our childhoods.

Every act we perform with mindfulness and care may plant a seed of awakening. The Buddhists say that even chopping wood and carrying water can lead us to healing and enlightenment if we bring them our full and loving attention. As Mother Teresa has said, “We do no great things; we do only small things, with great love.”

The Practice of Simplicity

On a trip to South America I was blessed with an opportunity to study with Gustavo Gutierrez, a Peruvian priest who is deeply loved and honored for developing a theology of liberation for the poor and oppressed in Latin America. Sitting at the Catholic University in a room filled with eager, young Peruvians anxious to serve those in need, I listened to Father Gutierrez speak about Jesus’ beginnings.

“The experts all said, ‘ Nothing good will ever come from Galilee.’ Galilee was small and rural, much too primitive a place to give birth to anything of great significance. They all insisted that the Messiah, when he came, would come from a place of glory, a family of honor and sophistication. This is why, when Jesus was born in a manger and raised in tiny Galilee, no one recognized that God had been born in their midst.

“So, too,” he continued, “they now say that nothing of value can come from the poor of Latin America, of Africa, of Asia. But do not let them discourage you—for the spirit of God is everywhere.”

When our eye is attuned only to things dramatic, sophisticated, or spectacular, we may miss the birth of something strong, simple, and beautiful right in front of us. We are shrouded in detail, protected from direct contact with the spirit of life. But as we learn to watch the breath, the seed, the cup of tea, or the newly born, we begin to appreciate the tremendous power of the spirit that takes form in all life.

When we begin spiritual practice, some of us expect dramatic transformations and dream of exquisite experiences of enlightenment. In one Buddhist monastery there is a sign near the kitchen that announces: “Pots and pans are Buddha’s body.” This reminds us that each and every object, every act of lifting, washing, drying, and cleaning, however small or insignificant, is a part of our practice, a path of enlightenment. Jesus echoed this teaching when he said that the one who is mindful in the small things will be mindful also of the greater things.

It is not easy to undertake a practice of simplicity. We tend to want our journey to be more glamorous, our meditations exhilarating, our progress showy and impressive. Even while we are meditating we are considering how well we are doing; while praying, we often secretly critique our spiritual growth since the last time we prayed. Sujata said: “A saint is a very simple person: When they walk, they walk. When they talk, they talk, and that’s all. They don’t think while listening, daydream while walking, see while touching.

“That is very hard. That is why they are saints.”

There is a story of a Zen Roshi who always taught his students to practice simplicity of action and attention: When you eat, just eat; when you walk, just walk. One morning, a student found him at breakfast, eating cereal and reading the paper. The student was confused, and confronted the Roshi.

“You always tell us to act simply, to pay attention: When you eat, just eat; when you walk, just walk. Why are you here at the breakfast table right now, eating cereal and reading the paper at the same time?”

The Roshi smiled at the young student and said, “That, too, is simple. You see, when you eat and read—just eat and read.”

The practice of simplicity asks that we pay attention. As we walk, eat, move, and speak, we simply bring our awareness to each moment. If we fully attend to the act of grasping a cup of tea, or speaking a single word of kindness, it can help us to become awake in this moment. If we are alive in this instant, it is much harder to view this moment through the lens of our childhood. If we spend our time thinking about this moment, we can get caught analyzing how this moment reflects our childhood. But if we simply experience this moment, noting the experience of walking, breathing, and touching, then we are free of our history, more fully alive.

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “Whenever a mind is simple, it is able to receive divine wisdom; old things pass away; it lives now and absorbs past and future into the present hour.” In the simplicity of the present moment, he asserts, all things take on new life, all things become powerful, rich, even sacred.

“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams,” urged Henry David Thoreau. “As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler.” Every moment we may try to simplify our lives. With each conversation, with every thought, every plan, every step, we may try to become aware—are we moving toward complexity or simplicity? What can we let go, how can we live more simply? What can we do to engage others more directly, how may we approach our day with more attention to the simple moments of being fully alive?

Thich Nhat Hanh teaches his students the practice of simplicity of attention by encouraging them to notice every step they take. Is it quick or slow? Hard or gentle? Tentative or sure? Attentive or thoughtless? Here he describes the simple Buddhist practice of walking meditation:

Place your foot on the surface of the earth the way an emperor would place his seal on a royal decree.

A royal decree can bring happiness or misery to people. It can shower grace on them or it can ruin their lives. Your steps can do the same. If your steps are peaceful, the world will have peace. If you can take one peaceful step, you can take two. You can take one hundred and eight peaceful steps.

EXERCISE
Walking Meditation

In this exercise we use walking as a way to practice simplicity of attention. Normally when we walk, we are trying to get from one place to another, using our walking to help us accomplish some task. Perhaps we are rushing to an appointment, walking through a store as we do our shopping, or perhaps we are jogging to keep ourselves fit. For now we will walk simply to walk, to experience the sensation of walking.

You may do this meditation inside or outdoors. Begin by finding a place to stand quietly, centering your attention in the body. After a moment, begin walking very slowly, at a fraction of your normal walking speed. Allow each step to take a few seconds. Find a comfortable pace that is not so slow that you feel off-balance, yet not so fast that it is difficult to focus your attention on each step. The object is not to get somewhere, but to observe what it feels like to be walking.

Let yourself become aware of three distinct movements contained in each step you take. The first movement occurs when you lift your foot up from the earth. As your foot rises off the ground, note silently to yourself ‘‘lifting.” The second movement is “moving,” when you move your foot through the air as you step forward. Again, as this happens, note “moving.” Last, as you place your foot on the ground and complete the step, note “placing.”

As you walk slowly forward, allow your eyes to rest on a spot a few feet ahead of you. The object is not to look from side to side as you would when you took a stroll in the park. The point of this meditation is to experience the many sensations that arise when you simply use your body to walk, one step at a time. Walking mindfully straight ahead, after about fifteen feet you may slowly turn around, noting “turning,” and return back to your original point. If the mind wanders, gently return your attention to the sensations of lifting, moving, and placing. You may repeat this cycle as many times as you like.

Be aware of the unique qualities of each movement. Feel the simplicity of each action as you lift, move, and place your foot on the ground. Feel the sensations that arise with each movement. What do you notice? Do this exercise for fifteen minutes. Notice what happens to the quality of your concentration. Later, you may extend the practice to half an hour.

When you have become comfortable and familiar with the walking meditation, you may expand the practice to include other bodily movements you use every day. Choose a simple, regular activity that you usually perform on “automatic pilot.” Resolve to make that particular activity a meditation for the week, a reminder to wake up, to cultivate simplicity of attention. For example, you may choose making tea, washing the dishes, cleaning the house, or taking a bath. Before each activity, pause for a few seconds and resolve to perform this act with full attention, noting each simple movement as it arises: pouring, wiping, rubbing, drying. Allow the simplicity of each gesture to hold its own integrity.

Here, we begin to value each act not because it gets something done, but because the simplicity of the act itself reveals an intrinsic beauty. In this way we begin to invite a deep appreciation for the simple things that grace our everyday lives.

EXERCISE
Exploring a Life of Simplicity

Arrange for some time to sit in your place of refuge, in front of your table. Allow yourself to become calm and quiet, using the breath to settle yourself into your body and heart.

Then, in a simple way, review your current life. Bring to mind each of several major areas, including your work, your relationships or family life, your finances, your leisure activities, your possessions, your goals, and your spiritual life. One by one, as each area comes to mind, ask yourself the following questions: What would it be like to simplify this part of my life? What could I let go, what could I do to make this part of my life more quiet and simple?

Allow the images and responses to arise in your mind. Continue to sit quietly, reflecting on the choices before you. Notice which feel immediately comfortable and which feel difficult or frightening. The object is not necessarily to change anything immediately. In this moment you are just noting where you desire more simplicity in your life and becoming aware of which changes you may consider to make room for that simplicity. Take as much time as you need with each part of your life, becoming aware of whatever steps you might take. Then make a resolution to begin making mindful changes in each area.