Thinking... and my Problem Meditating

Yes, I have an unquiet mind.

I fight anxiety, and so I have tried at various times to meditate. I often think of Leonard Cohen, how he spent five years in a Buddhist monastery, was both a Buddhist and an observant Jew. But did it give him peace? Perhaps, but his songs, even his last ones like ‘If it be your will,’ show him still struggling for it.

One time during the 1990s, when I had lost two beloved friends, I went for three days in January to a retreat in Darien, Connecticut, after visiting my mother in Rowayton, whose Alzheimers was progressing. The retreat was at The Convent of St. Birgitta. They gave me one of the little rooms on the second floor. Over the head of my iron twin bed hung the cross. It was peaceful, simple, serene. When I woke up in the morning, I could hear the nuns praying, singing beautiful Gregorian chants. At noon and at dinner time, a nun struck a large gong announcing it was time for food for the women who were staying as guests.

I had intentionally not brought any work with me, but also no books to read for pleasure. What had I been thinking? Now I found myself with nothing to do! Nothing! So, I went out to the living area, sat on the sofa looking out towards the wooded grounds, which were now covered with snow that had fallen during the night. The sun was shining, beautiful, but I was bored after ten minutes. I found a small room with a TV set to a channel with the Mass, and a handful of books, including a history of the nuns of St Birgitta.

There was nothing to do but sit. I couldn’t stop thinking of my sad mother, silent, her mind disappearing, sitting motionless for hours in her padded recliner just ten miles away.

Maybe I should take a walk, but there was nowhere to go. It was several miles to Darien, with snow and ice everywhere. And now I would be here for three days.

Ever since I can remember, even as a child, I’ve hated being bored, even found the Sabbath quiet uncomfortable, but at least I was allowed to read. It is not that I cannot be in the moment and present. I am totally present when I am with friends, when I am teaching or meeting my students. I also am when writing (yes, that is work, but I am totally absorbed), when I am cooking (selecting the ingredients, choosing flavors, chopping, stirring, arranging). There is something that energizes me in all those activities. But they are not meditation.

A year ago, my wonderful son gave me a subscription to “Waking Up,” an app he thought might help with my anxiety. The program starts with brief ten minute meditations, helpful advice and instructions, and then you progress. But quickly I ran into problems. “Everything is passing, nothing lasts, whatever is here will be gone.”

This message was (paradoxically) a constant. Yes, I know that, and yes I’ve read Montaigne, and Donne, and Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress:”

But at my back I always hear

Time’s winged chariot hurrying near

and Herrick’s “Corinna’s Going A Maying:”

Our life is short; and our days run

As fast away as does the Sun.

And as a vapour, or a drop of rain

Once lost, can ne’r be found again.

I did not need to be reminded of the brevity and evanescence of life. To hear I have no self, and that everything passes was not helping. I knew I wanted to make the most of everything, of every moment.

Still, I have not given up on being in the moment in a calmer way that doesn’t require physical or mental activity, that is more relaxing. I have, at least for now (who knows how long) a place that works, my happy place. My corner apartment in Riverdale---on a high floor—looks west out towards to Hudson River and the New Jersey Palisades. To the north is Westchester, full of trees. The light is always changing. Sometimes a hawk swoops by my window. Tankers and boats sometimes sit out bad weather in the river. I can see a whole world looking out from my perch.

In the warmer months, I sit on my terrace, looking at the ever-changing horizon, the sun slowly setting, sending streams of color—orange, red, fuchsia—across the darkening sky creating slivers of gold on the undersides of clouds. I look at the Hudson River, always in motion (like me?), especially when the tide is changing (the Hudson is a rare river that has tides).

For the moment, I experience awe, the miracle of life, and I feel at peace.