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For a year now, I have been practising Mindfulness meditation, revisiting something I had first encountered (and blogged about) more than five years ago.  The first time I engaged in the practice, I did so in a clinical context as part of a study.  I have chosen to revisit it in a context which is more authentic to its roots in Buddhist spiritual tradition.  The difference is in the intention.  In a clinical setting, Mindfulness is “sold” to consumers like a medication.  This is how Jon Kabat-Zinn “sold” the practice to the insurance industry.  It was a useful tool in the management of chronic pain.  The intention was to produce benefits that were measurable using Western scientific methods.  Now, I approach the practice with a different intention:  to be awake.

In his book, The Art of Power, Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh describes Mindfulness by comparing it to the North Star:

The goal is not to be perfect but simply to be mindful of ourselves, even when we make mistakes.  If you are lost in a forest at night, you can follow the North Star to find your way out.  You follow the North Star, but your goal is to get back home; it’s not to arrive at the North Star.  The mindfulness trainings are like the North Star; we don’t have to be perfect in practicing them.

I’m glad I don’t have to be perfect, because I recently discovered how somnambulant I can be.

Last weekend, my wife and I went for an afternoon walk with our dog.  Before we left, our daughter told us that she would be going out.  We told her to be sure she was back with the car before we returned from our walk because we needed the car for some errands.  Then we left for our walk.  We walked down the front steps, along the front walkway, down the driveway, then we spent forty-five minutes walking in our neighbourhood.  When we returned, we walked up the driveway, along the front walkway, and up the front steps.  Once inside, I called for my daughter.  She wasn’t home.  I was annoyed, so I phoned her and told her how annoyed I was that she hadn’t listened to me.  I specifically – isn’t it awful when parents use the word “specifically”? – I specifically told her that we needed the car when we got home.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

I stepped to the front window and looked outside.  The car was sitting in the driveway.  My daughter had realized that if she went out, she wouldn’t be able to make it home in time, so she had arranged for a friend to pick her up instead and left the car for us.

I had walked past the car twice, yet because I assumed my daughter was driving it, I couldn’t see the car even though I had to step around it.

I am constantly surprised at how assumptions and prejudices undermine my capacity to see the obvious.

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