Get Some Headspace: 10 minutes can make all the difference (16 page)

For the first couple of weeks we worked together to establish a really strong foundation for mindfulness, in particular the meditation element, taking ten minutes out of each day to allow the mind to settle. At first he struggled with this idea. ‘I’m already finding it difficult to find time for my family, how can I justify taking out even
more
time for myself? Isn’t that just selfish?’ This is a common viewpoint, but if you think about it, that’s not really the way it is. So I explained, ‘What you’re doing here is training your mind so that you can actually be there for others. How can you be happy and feel connected with others if you are always caught up in your own thoughts? So, far from taking something away from your family, you’re actually giving them something. You’re giving them a better husband, a better father, someone who is truly there for them.’ It took no more than a week or so for him to experience that connection in a very direct and tangible way. In fact, he returned with a big smile on his face the following session and proudly exclaimed, ‘I haven’t shouted at the kids all week!’

By the time we came to the third week, I was keen to introduce him to walking meditation. Not the formal kind which is usually done very, very slowly, but more in the way of being mindful when out and about, walking at an ordinary speed. This is usually the point when the ‘mindfulness penny’ drops, when it starts to make sense that training the mind is about so much more than sitting down with your eyes closed. Having walked together around the block a few times as I explained the technique, I then sent him off to do a short exercise on his own. The first part of the exercise was on very quiet streets, where it was easier to concentrate. The second part was along a very busy road with lots of cars and pedestrians. Ten minutes later he returned to the clinic from his walk.

‘I’ve lived just round the corner from here for fifteen years,’ he said, ‘and I walk down this same street nearly every single day. But that’s the first time, the very first time, I’ve ever actually
seen
the street. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. It’s the first time I’ve noticed the colour of the houses, the cars in the driveways, the smell of the flowers, the sounds of the birds.’ But it’s what he said next that really struck me. With a genuine sense of remorse he said, ‘Where have I
been
all my life?’

How many of us live our lives in this way? Swept away by memories of the past and plans for the future. So preoccupied with thinking that we’re completely unaware of what’s actually taking place right now, oblivious to life unfolding around us. The present moment just feels so ordinary that we take it for granted, and yet that’s what makes it so
extraordinary
– the fact that we so rarely experience the present moment exactly as it is. And quite unlike anything else in life, you don’t need to go anywhere to get it, or do anything to create it. It’s right here, no matter what you’re doing. It’s in the eating of a sandwich, the drinking of a cup of tea, the washing of the dishes . . . ordinary, everyday activities. This is what it means to be mindful, to be present, to be aware.

When I was a monk there were a lot of things that I wasn’t allowed to do. Well, yes, obviously there was that one, but there were other things too. Now this is fine when you live in a monastery, because the day is structured in such a way that you are pretty much always engaged with either meditation or work of some kind. So it’s not as though you’re sitting there thinking what you’d do if you were not a monk. Besides, everyone around you is doing the same thing, so there’s not so much to compare your life to. But when you live as a monk outside of the monastery you lose that structure, and life becomes a little more complicated. In fact, it becomes that much more important to engage with activities that are, how can I put it . . . equally wholesome. Now my apartment in Moscow was very old, built way back in the days of the Soviet Empire. In my first winter, before I’d learnt the art of double glazing with newspaper and cellophane wrap, the ice was thick on the inside of the windows. The wallpaper hung desperately to the wall in just a few places and random bits of metal poked out of the concrete ceiling. But the location more than made up for it. It was right on the edge of a large lake in the north-west of the city, famous for its clean air and sandy beaches.

It obviously wasn’t appropriate to sunbathe as a monk, but during the hot summer months I often used to go down to the park next to the lake and juggle. ‘You did what?’ I hear you say. ‘You mean that it wasn’t appropriate to sunbathe but that it was OK to juggle like Coco the Clown?’ Well, yes and no. It was certainly appropriate to find an enjoyable way to relax outside of the formal meditation practice, and for me this meant juggling. I guess I could have sat in my flat and meditated all day, every day, but the need to move and be physical once in a while was surprisingly strong. So I would juggle, often for many hours at a time. I found that the act of juggling perfectly mirrored my meditation. It became an external reflection of what was happening inside. If my mind was too tight, too focused, then the juggling balls didn’t flow. On the other hand, if the mind was too loose and I wasn’t concentrating enough, then I would drop the balls altogether. So there was something in working with this balance of focus and relaxation, which reflected the inner balance developed through meditation. I guess it’s what most people would describe as being ‘in the zone’ and you’ve no doubt experienced it yourself at some time, perhaps while you were playing a sport, painting a picture, cooking a meal, or doing some other form of activity.

One day I was juggling five balls. If you’ve ever juggled, you’ll know that each extra ball you add takes that little bit longer to master. For example, if you learnt to juggle three balls in a week, then it might take a whole month to learn how to juggle four, and then perhaps six months to learn how to juggle five. I was a good few months into learning five balls at the time and, on the whole, was able to keep them all in the air at any one time. But it wasn’t pretty. I was still rushing in my mind, frantically trying to correct and over-correct the rise and the fall of each ball. It really does take a genuine sense of relaxation and ease for the balls to flow evenly and smoothly. Then one time I forgot to try. Strange as that may sound, I just forgot. I was thinking about something else momentarily before I started to juggle and so there was none of the usual effort, anticipation and expectation of what was to come. I just threw the balls up and started to juggle. The result was something quite extraordinary. In fact, it wouldn’t have looked at all out of place in the
Matrix
. It was a total distortion of time as I knew it. Sure, I’d had meditation sessions where fifty minutes had felt like five minutes and, more frequently, sessions where five minutes had felt like fifty minutes, but never had I seen this quite so clearly while engaged in an everyday activity (if you can call juggling an everyday activity). In that moment I had all the time in the world. It was as if the balls just hung there in the air. I had time to look at them, each and every one, thinking how I would move this one over to the left a little bit and that one slightly to the right. It was as if someone had pressed a slow motion button, an extraordinary thing. When I quit rushing around in my mind, trying to get from one ball to the next, trying to control every little thing, there was an inexplicable amount of time and space. It might be something to think about given the way we rush around in life. It doesn’t mean you can’t do things quickly and still be mindful – of course you can. It just means that the body moving quickly and the mind being in a rush are two very different things.

Meditation is undoubtedly a vital cornerstone to the practice of mindfulness. To practise mindfulness in everyday life without doing even ten minutes of meditation a day is a bit like trying to build the foundations of a house on loose gravel. It will work, but it will not be anywhere near as stable as if you built it on solid ground. However, the reverse is also true. What good is meditation if it doesn’t change the way you feel and behave in life? Remember, the point of getting more headspace is to make your own life and the lives of the people around you more comfortable. It’s not much good getting all nice and calm if you plan to lose it with the very first person you come into contact with. Try to think about meditation as the platform from which you’ll operate over the next twenty-four hours. That sense of calm will enable you to respond skilfully to situations if you can maintain your awareness. But if you get so caught up with your own story, that you lose all awareness, then you may well find that you react just as impulsively as the yogi.

While it’s a wonderful feeling to sit down for ten minutes or more each day to practise a meditation technique, the concept of mindfulness really comes into its own when you start to apply it to everyday life. In this part of the book I’ve put together a few of my favourite mindfulness exercises for everyday living. They include mindfulness for eating, walking, exercising and sleeping. As before, although it might be tempting to jump straight to the technique at the end of each section, there is much more to these exercises than a simple list of instructions. The introduction and story for each activity will hopefully convey the flavour of the technique, while demonstrating its full potential.