This story was published in Volume 1, Issue 2
By: Leah Cass
So, you’ve tried to meditate. You closed your eyes and attempted this concept that’s been incorporated into curricula and printed out on poster boards: this “mindfulness” that many believe holds the key to focus and happiness.
I remember first hearing of mindfulness in my middle school homeroom. It was served over the loudspeaker as an attempt from the administration to reduce stress. Instead of mass mental health improvement, I witnessed throngs of students crush the administration’s attempt under their Converse.
It wasn’t until five years later that I attended a teen meditation retreat at Insight Meditation Society (IMS), a popular retreat center in Massachusetts. Up until that point, at age 17, all I knew was that I knew nothing and that I wanted to know something. I desired the wisdom and ease that I witnessed in my mentors.
Instead of calm and tranquility, I found a storm of thoughts, worries and desires taking root in my mind. The mind was not a place of stillness but a field of calamity. Despite difficulty, coming back to the cushion again and again, I was able to discern a path in the tangled wood of my mind. It was profound to notice things that blended into the crowded composition of experience. And so, to IMS I returned year after year.
After my time at IMS, I continued to practice on my own. But outside of the retreat community where I had felt curiosity, I now felt overwhelmed. Where I had found energy, I now found doubt. I remembered the presence held by my teachers, and the trials they passed to attain it. In hope for my future, I knew this was a path to continue.
I found a connection to the roots of these practices during my time in Nepal. Faith coming to fruition; meditating on the below-zero peaks of the Himalayas and in the hectic bazaars of Kathmandu.
None of my experiences in the West had prepared me for my time at a Tibetan Buddhist Monastery. There I learned of Buddhist theology and meditated among those who practiced for enlightenment, while I could barely acknowledge the concept of rebirth.
At the monastery, among the jasmine flowers and breathtaking views of the valley, I bore witness to the distance between the practices of these people and the mindfulness taught in my public education. My relationship with meditation expanded, and in my curiosity, I knew I had started on a path that I could not disembark.
This path of mindfulness does not immediately produce existential tranquility and abundant peace. Just like any practice, it takes time, dedication and consistency.
I liken it to a path in the woods. In an uncharted wood, the first time forging a path is disorienting; it might feel futile, like a clear way will never make itself known. But if you continue on, and walk the path again and again, the foliage will begin to be familiar to you. Your steps evolve into the dirt floor, and soon enough, the woods will be your home.
And now, I am a student once more. Busy-minded and with both too much energy to know what to do with and not enough energy to keep up with it all. As I continue on this path, the tangled wood that was once foreboding has now begun to clear. I still need a map and make some wrong turns here and there, but I have begun to know these woods and have faith in my direction.
So if you’re feeling lost in the woods, take a moment to meet the trees, curious about their story, and feel the wind as if it is a long lost friend.
Maybe you’ve attempted this practice before, you’ve tried to sit and quiet your mind. People find this practice in many ways: It could have been a poster in a guidance counselor’s waiting room or as unsolicited from your slightly estranged yogic aunt. Whatever way it may be, if you just keep walking, you’ll eventually know where you are.
