Writing and Meditation

I’m one of those people who’s been interested in meditation for a long time. But I’ve been mostly interested from a distance–because I also find it really, really hard. I find it hard to hold a thought—or my breath—in my mind, to concentrate on that thought, or to try and work with it. I’m one of those people who finds it easier to focus on a thought—and hold it—work with it—if my fingers are moving on a keyboard, or across a page.

I suspect this has everything to do with practice. If I were to graph the hours I’ve logged writing in my life—starting with the alphabet—and compare it to a graph of the minutes I’ve logged meditating, the meditation minutes would be powerfully dwarfed—they would literally disappear.

I’ve been interested for a while now in how writing can become a kind of meditation—perhaps a bridge to meditation—or a boat—for those of us who have trouble diving into the deep pool of meditation.

In 2014, I had the idea to explore connections between writing and meditation and I feel like I only began to scratch the surface. I also made a decision late in the year to let this thread go for a while. I may pick it up again at some point. I continue to think there may be something fruitful in this connection between writing and meditation . . . Maybe . . .

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Photo is of a painting by Leon Wyczotkowski, a Polish realist, from Wikimedia Commons

Meditation as Housekeeping

Posted by Diane Morrow on August 3, 2014 in Blog, Writing and Meditation

In The Peaceful Stillness of the Silent Mind, in a chapter called, “Introduction to Meditation,” which I also wrote about a few weeks ago, Lama Yeshe talks about two kinds of meditation: analytical meditation and concentration meditation. He compares meditation to housekeeping and then talks about how both types are necessary. He writes: By gradually developing your meditation technique, you become more and more familiar with how your mind works, the nature of dissatisfaction and so forth and begin to be able to solve your own problems. For example, just to keep your house neat and tidy, you need to discipline your actions to a certain extent. Similarly, since the dissatisfied mind is by nature disorderly, you need a certain degree of understanding and discipline to straighten it out. This is where meditation comes in. It helps you understand your mind and put it in order. But meditation doesn’t mean just sitting in some corner doing nothing. There are two types of meditation, analytical and concentrative. The first entails psychological self-observation, the second developing single-pointed concentration. I’m a very slow learner. But I think I’m gradually beginning to get a sense of what meditation actually is—as opposed to what I used to think that it was. Meditation is not doing nothing—or trying to get the mind to do nothing. It’s more like, I think, corralling the mind to do something—and something different than having the ordinary scattered, fragmented mind that I so often have, a mind going here and there, from one thing to the next, depending on what is happening around me and that all getting mixed up with memories that are triggered and preconceptions and plans and who-knows-what-else. If I try to extend this metaphor of housekeeping it seems to me that I could begin with analysis—house observation as a metaphor for self-observation—and this could begin with questions. What needs to be done? What are the problems in the house? What room is most crying for attention? In my own case: the floors. They’re dusty in the corners and littered here and there with small pieces of who-knows-what. Ah, and the sheets need to be changed, and, in a more immediate way, the dishes need to be taken out of the dishwasher and put away and the dishes in the sink need to be put in the dishwasher and I need to do laundry because I’m going out of town in a couple of days. The list could go on. It seems that even when I just begin to do analysis—and with something as simple as housecleaning—my mind begins to move in different directions. Things begin to pile up. So . . . perhaps after preliminary analysis what I need is some focus! Some concentration. Perhaps I have to pick one thing and focus and concentrate on that. And, in order to do that, I need to prioritize. What needs my attention first? With taking care of the house—or the garden—or preparing for a new school year—or anything—I’m continually going back and forth between focusing on a task and then observing and analyzing what needs to be done and then choosing the next task and focusing. Seeing how I’m already doing this in ordinary things makes it a little easier for me to imagine applying this...

Good in the Beginning

Posted by Diane Morrow on July 28, 2014 in Blog, Writing and Meditation

I came across another piece of advice about meditation that I found useful, and thought I would share it, this from The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, by Sogyal Rinpoche, a book that was recommended to me about fifteen years ago and was one of the first books I ever read about meditation. In a chapter on meditation, called “Bringing the Mind Home,” he talks about a method for making meditation more powerful and useful. He calls it, “Good in the Beginning, Good in the Middle, and Good at the End.” Good in the beginning refers to setting a positive motivation at the beginning of the work. Good in the Middle refers to doing our best, and having as clear a mind as possible, while we’re doing the practice. And then Good at the End is remembering, when we finish, to simply dedicate the work—that it will become of benefit to ourselves, and, if this makes sense to us, that it will also, in some way, begin to benefit others. I like the symmetry of this advice and the way it can frame one’s work, and I’ve been trying to put it into practice, not just for meditation, but for writing as well: Good in the Beginning: May this writing be for the benefit of myself, for all who come across it—and for all sentient beings. Good in the Middle: Trying to stay clear and aware and focused as I work. Good at the End: Remembering to dedicate the work—may this writing be of benefit for all sentient beings. I think there could be countless ways to adapt this. What could make your own work good in the beginning, good in the middle, and good at the end? The book, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, can be found...

Writing and Meditation Prompt: On “In Silence” by Thomas Merton

Posted by Diane Morrow on June 22, 2014 in Blog, Writing and Healing Prompts, Writing and Meditation

Be still. Listen to the stones of the wall. Be silent, they try to speak your name. Listen to the living walls. Who are you? Who are you? Whose silence are you? from “In Silence” by Thomas Merton One way of thinking about meditation, it occurs to me, is to think of it as listening to thoughts in the silence—either one’s own thoughts or the thoughts of someone else, or some combination of the two. And one way of thinking about writing and meditation would be to combine this kind of thinking in the silence with writing about it afterwards. The meditation and the writing complementing each other. This is something I’ve been trying out lately, and playing with, in my quest to explore and practice meditation. I seem to have settled on three steps. These steps could be thought of as meditation for those (like me) who find meditation a challenge. Or these could be thought of as writing and meditation for the beginner. Relaxing and settling in The meditation itself Writing about it The steps, of course, could be adapted as needed. Here are the three steps as they might apply to meditating and writing on this excerpt from Thomas Merton’s poem. The process as outlined here would take about twenty minutes. Probably best if one can find twenty minutes of quiet, uninterrupted time to try this out, but this too could be adapted. First, settle in and begin to relax. Take 5 minutes or so. If you’re already a meditator, you can sit in the posture you use for meditation. (If you’re already a meditator, you probably don’t need these instructions!) Or you can sit in a chair. Whether sitting on the floor or a chair, best if possible if your spine can be straight—and then your muscles relaxed or beginning to relax. I’m including here brief instructions for relaxing and settling in, instructions I’ve adapted from instructions I learned when I was doing imagery training (a kind of hypnosis training), fairly basic instructions that I often used with patients when I had my mind-body medicine practice. Sometimes, when working alone, it can be helpful to record a script like this and listen to it while you relax, but you can also simply read it and go back and forth between reading it and settling in. Begin with a cleansing breath—a deep inhalation, a pause—and then a long breath out. Do this twice. And then begin, very gradually, to bring your attention to your body. Beginning with your feet. The soles of your feet. Your toes. Noticing that, and then, if you like, inviting your feet to relax. And noticing what that feels like . . . Now your calves. Noticing what you feel there. Your thighs. Your hips. Inviting the muscles to relax. All the time noticing, paying attention. As you do so, you might begin to feel a flow of relaxation moving from your feet up into your legs, your hips, your belly, your chest. If you do, just notice it. Notice what happens as you bring your attention gradually up the body, imagining the relaxation flowing into your neck and shoulders, and down into your arms, and past your elbows. Then down into your hands—the tips of...

Writing and Healing Prompt: A Poem and a Meditation

Posted by Diane Morrow on June 15, 2014 in Blog, Writing and Healing Prompts, Writing and Meditation

________________ “Hurry” by Marie Howe We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store and the gas station and the green market and Hurry up honey, I say, hurry hurry, as she runs along two or three steps behind me her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down. Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave? To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown? Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her, Honey I’m sorry I keep saying Hurry— you walk ahead of me. You be the mother. And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says, hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands. ________________ “Meditation: Make the Best Possible Use of Time” by Matthieu Ricard Contemplate the passage of seasons, of the days and months, of each moment, and the changes that affect every aspect of the life of beings. Then think about death, which is inevitable but whose time is uncertain. Who knows how much time you have left to live? Even if you live into old age, the latter part of your life will pass just as fast as the beginning, if not faster. So you need to consider, in the deepest part of yourself, what really counts in this life and use the time left to you to live in the most fruitful way possible—for your own sake and others. If you have the wish to meditate and develop your inner qualities, it is never too soon to start. Some questions: What really does count in this life? How can we weave this glimpse of what counts into our ordinary lives? And how can we maintain some sense of humor about it while we’re doing so? ___________________________________________________________________________ The poem, “Hurry,” by Marie Howe is from her book, The Kingdom of Ordinary Time. The meditation is from the book, Why Meditate? by Matthieu Ricard, which can be found here. You can learn more about Matthieu Ricard and his work at matthieuricard.org and at karuna-shechen.org...

Thinking About the Preciousness of Human Life

Posted by Diane Morrow on June 8, 2014 in Blog, Writing and Meditation

The kind of meditation I’m most familiar with (mostly from hearing about it and only a bit from experience) is meditation that focuses attention on a single object—like the breath—or that focuses on one’s thoughts or experiences, such as in mindfulness meditation. But when Matthieu Ricard finally turns to actual suggested meditations, in his fourth chapter, “Turning the Mind Toward Meditation,” he doesn’t start with either concentration meditation or mindfulness. Instead, he begins with four meditations that will, themselves, he suggests, “strengthen your determination to meditate.” Some teachers, I believe, would categorize these four meditations under analytical meditation because they involve thinking about things and trying to analyze them and apply them to our lives. I used to think meditation involved trying not to think—or only trying to think exclusively about one word or object—but it turns out I was wrong. And in fact, it’s these more analytical meditations that seem like they could potentially have a closer connection to the act of writing than say concentration meditation or meditation that focuses on the breath. Here is the first of the four meditations: On the Preciousness of Human Life Realize how precious human life is and arouse a deep wish to draw out its quintessential qualities. Unlike the life of animals, human life offers an extraordinary opportunity to accomplish good things on a scale beyond that of your own personal experience. Your human intelligence is an extremely powerful tool that can create either great benefits or horrible disasters. Use it to achieve the gradual elimination of suffering and to discover genuine happiness, not only for yourself but also for those around you. In this way, every moment that passes will be worth living and you will have no regrets at the time of death, like a farmer who has cultivated his fields to the best of his ability. Remain for a few moments in the state of profound appreciation aroused by these contemplations. If this were a poem I would be most drawn to the image of the farmer cultivating his fields to the best of his ability. Not wasting any of it—not the fields or the time. And not having regrets at the time of death. If this were a poem I would also notice what it’s not saying—that it’s not locating the preciousness, for instance, in any particular experience of the world, no matter how lovely. That he’s suggesting that it’s not what we experience that makes life precious but that it’s the opportunity to create benefit that’s precious. This opportunity to cultivate our fields—whatever those are—to the best of our ability. This opportunity to use our intelligence to gradually eliminate suffering. I’ve been sitting here for a while thinking about what that means—what it could mean—to use this life well enough to not have any regrets at the time of death—to keep remembering, in spite of whatever arises, that this life is a precious opportunity—and finite. I’ve been trying to think how it might happen that these words of Ricard’s might become something more than mere words flowing past me while I remain unchanged, with the same old configuration of thoughts as before. I’m beginning to think that’s what meditation might be—or one kind of meditation—thinking deeply about something in the silence–letting new words and thoughts actually sink in and...

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