Meditation and the Hokey Pokey

You put your whole self in

You put your whole self out

You put your whole self in

And you shake it all about

You do the Hokey Pokey

And you turn yourself around

And that’s what it’s all about.

 

I have a black t-shirt that says, “Maybe the hokey-pokey is what it’s all about.” I love wearing it, especially when I’m teaching meditation. It seems to lighten up the room and put the intensity of mind-watching in perspective. My colleagues at the Center for Mindfulness at the University of Massachusetts Medical Center in Worcester used to laugh at me when I equated what we did to the hokey pokey. I seemed to be the only one to see the connection.

The words of the hokey pokey first came to me in the midst of a very serious ten day silent Vipassana (mindfulness) retreat. It was the late 1970’s and meditation seemed a very in thing to do. I was in my 30’s, single, living in Cambridge and new to meditation, coming to it out of curiosity and unhappiness. I hoped to meet people and feel more satisfied with myself and my decision to live on the East Coast. I had moved from Seattle, where I had lived for eight years, to Cambridge to be closer to my brother who lived in Boston and my parents who lived in Mt. Vernon, NY. I left an established career, good friends and a passionate but disastrous relationship. Re-establishing myself and recovering from the relationship was harder than I had anticipated. Now, a year later, I was wondering if I had made a wise choice. I thought the time and space of a retreat setting would help me lick my wounds and recover. I didn’t realize that my unsettled mind would travel with me to the brown hills of northern California where I had chosen to go on retreat.

In the retreat I had nothing to do but observe myself: my ups, my downs, my likes, my dislikes. I couldn’t read, talk on the telephone, or eat except at specified times. Why, I wondered, had I chosen to do this? (A familiar question.) I found it excruciating to be still and just observe the workings of my own mind. There were no distractions. I was stuck with my own discontent.

I recalled the first time I meditated. It was in Cambridge at a New Age Institute called Interface. I was one of perhaps fifteen people in a room that was small and cold. It was lined with flat mats and small cushions where people sat cross-legged facing the teacher, Larry Rosenberg. The instructions were, “ Do nothing but follow the breath as it enters and leaves the body. Notice where you’re feeling it most vividly and keep your attention there. If the mind wanders, simply notice it and return your attention to the breath.”

Sitting upright on small round cushions in a cross-legged position on a hard floor was uncomfortable. My body ached. My mind was restless. I kept thinking, why am I doing this? Everyone else was sitting quietly and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by fleeing.

I sat in a draft and wondered whether it would be OK to close the door. As I practiced focusing on my breath, noticing it as I breathed in and out, my mind didn’t seem to want to cooperate. I was miserable and wanted to leave. I strained to pay attention and stay in the present moment without judging myself and felt like a failure. Meditation was supposed to calm me and help me be peaceful. Instead I seemed to either fall asleep, be irritated, restless, bored or heavy hearted. I ruminated, Should I move or keep sitting? Wanting to be a “good” meditator I didn’t budge. I wanted Larry’s approval and I was afraid of what he would think if I got up and closed the door. My body appeared stationary, but my mind kept going over whether to close

the door or not. Rather than “let go” and stop ruminating, I kept battling myself. I felt as if I was in a torture chamber without an exit. Years later when I was teaching stress reduction I’d quote Wittgenstein who said, “The way out is through the door. Why is it that no one will take the exit?”

At the end of the weekend, Larry said, “Isn’t this wonderful?” and I thought, “NO!”

Yet, I persevered. Now I had signed up for this ten day retreat and I was miserable again, caught in indecision. Should I move once more? I wished I were someplace else. Seattle? Cambridge? California? My mind wouldn’t steady. Inside the gated lawn of the retreat center it was green, like New England. Beyond the gates it was brown and hilly, very Northern California, and if I kept going on one of the trails, which I did after lunch every day, I came upon a lovely and cool blue-green pond which reminded me of Seattle.

One afternoon I was doing a walking meditation, focusing my attention on lifting, moving and placing my foot on the ground, and my mind was unusually busy. As my mind pondered where to place my foot in the future I’d momentarily lose my balance. When I stumbled and noticed what my mind was doing, I’d criticize myself and then try again. This kept repeating itself over and over. Suddenly I found myself silently singing, “You pick your right foot up, you put your right foot down. You pick your left foot up. You put your left foot down. You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around. That’s what it’s all about.”

I lightened up. I realized that I needed to turn myself around, mentally, and really commit myself to being here, where I was. I needed to connect to this earth, here. The future would take of itself. I realized that I was nowhere, only in my head. I was also resisting walking slowly. I thought it was boring. I was making it drudgery. I wasn’t putting my whole self into it. The meditation instruction was “BE PRESENT.” Where was I? Once I could acknowledge what I was really doing (resisting) my attitude changed. Fatigue, boredom, irritation, frustration dropped away. I was in the present moment!!! Struggle ceased. Maybe the hokey pokey is what it’s all about!

The mind is so nimble it is often compared to a monkey climbing all over the place or a little puppy that needs to be trained gently but firmly to listen and be still. When I put my WHOLE self into being present with the moment I was in, it was easier to pay attention and experience the subtleties of the movements in walking. I could focus clearly on the sensation of moving my body through space — to my surprise, it was interesting. My balance also improved. I felt the support of the earth below me. I noticed my feet in contact with the ground. I felt the connection of foot to ankle, ankle to leg, and upward to the crown of my head. I felt the wonder of being able to be upright and I was all right. How wonder full.

This taste of happiness and contentment kept me meditating. Once a week I’d walk to the bookstore in Harvard Square where Larry held a meditation class. I’d go up the stairs to the room where people congregated and find a spot in a row with others in the narrow space on the floor. We’d meditate for about forty-five minutes and then Larry would give a talk, which we then discussed. After the talk I’d go out for coffee with Lewis and Herb and we’d talk some more. I had a crush on Lewis and I thought he and Herb were very funny. We laughed a lot, schmoozed and discussed LIFE. It was fun. It was stimulating. It felt meaningful. I began to feel more at home in Cambridge. My work life also improved. I got a good job as a therapist in Worcester, Massachusetts, at a large medical clinic that was also an HMO. My life was beginning to settle down.

Coincidentally, one of Larry’s best friends, Jon Kabat-Zinn, was starting a Stress Reduction program in the department of medicine right down the road from where I was working. He offered free yoga classes at the hospital at lunchtime. I saw patients in the morning and did yoga at lunchtime. I’d then return to the clinic refreshed and ready to see more patients in the afternoon. Larry was going to be teaching meditation in Jon’s program. He didn’t have a car so I offered to drive him to the program. Every Monday for about six months I’d get up early and pick him up in Somerville. We drove the 50 minutes to Worcester, talking and talking, and laughing.

The conversation was so stimulating that I’d often miss the exit and have to go back. In the lulls of conversation we’d hear the exhaust of my little Fiat and Larry would chant “Ohm” in tune with the sound of the car. When I dropped him off he’d say, “Now I’m really going to be present today,” and I’d make the same commitment. It was a challenge. Could I really listen and be with my clients that were scheduled for the day without my mind wandering?

Larry blew my image of meditation teachers as being holy and always serious. It was fun to travel with him. It was not beneath him to listen to rock and roll or comment on my love life. Once, as we were listening to the Stones singing, “You can’t always get what you want . . . . you get what you need,” Larry gave me a nudge. He knew I had a crush on Lewis, and Lewis liked me, but not in that way. He was trying to tell me humorously, “let go” if you want to be happy. You can’t always get what you want, but you can get what you need. I didn’t like this.

Larry seemed to be happy. I remember meeting him one day in Harvard Square with his friend, Corrado Pensa, a meditation teacher from Italy. I was coming home from work and feeling tired and not particularly happy, my mind focusing on what was absent in my life. Looking at Larry and Corrado made me envious; they seemed to be enjoying themselves, walking around as if they had no cares. And when I asked Larry how he was, he said, “Great.”

“How are you?” he asked me.

“Not so great.”

Why wasn’t I happy? I asked myself. Was my unhappiness based on craving the impossible?

I kept practicing. I also entered psychotherapy.

About a year later I turned 40 and gave myself a present. I quit my job and opened my own private practice as a psychotherapist. This gave me flexible hours and more control over my time. Some things are within our control to change. Giving myself this time allowed me to be available when “Jonny,” as Larry called him, had an opening for another instructor at the Stress Reduction Clinic. Now I could incorporate my training as a psychotherapist with meditation and work with people I respected. I could put my whole self into teaching: “There’s more right with you than wrong. The greatest relaxation of all is to be comfortable in your own skin. The only moment we have is now.”

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