Imagine speeding down an open road on a bicycle. The wind against your hair, feet pedalling away to a cadence, the body rocking in rhythm to the whole movement. Not a thought to balancing the bike as the momentum takes care of it on its own. Beautiful green vistas as far as the eye can see. A few walkers by the side that you pass and wave to.
If you have never ridden a bike, you can only guess at what this might feel like. You might have read descriptions similar to the one above. Or you might have seen pictures and videos of people riding their bikes. Or even passed some while you were either walking or in a car. But to really know what it feels like, how you see things differently from a bike seat versus otherwise, you would have to sit on one and take a ride.
It’s the same with meditation. Until you sit down and finally settle into ‘being’ instead of doing, you will only have books and videos or words from your teacher to go by.
Just recently I sat down for one of my routine meditation sessions. As always thoughts started arising and I began with watching them come and go. A part of me was also aware that before long, I will be carried away in the story only to realise after sometime that I was lost in it instead of staying at rest. For a change, that part was not gripping so hard on the way it’s supposed to be. There was no admonishment there, just a gentle acknowledgement. Everything was how it was supposed to be. I was here just watching things unfold as they will and staying at rest.
So when thoughts started to appear, I was able to see them from a distance. There was no getting involved in the content, no presenting of arguments for or against, no analysing what was appearing. Just a knowing that thoughts are here. And suddenly I felt relief wash over me – like coming out of a tunnel into a wide-open space. There was so much room that it could accommodate anything. It enveloped me in a warm safe space the like of which I hadn’t experienced before.
I’m not narrating this account so that it can become one more thing that we grasp at – oh, until I experience this in meditation, I haven’t reached the desired level. No, not at all. The idea is to confirm what all the teachers and the literature say. I finally sat on the bike and felt the freedom.
When I first sat on a bike, balance was the whole battle. I kept dropping a foot to the ground at the smallest wobble, certain I was about to fall. Sitting down to meditate has the same texture. Doing nothing, not even wrestling the thoughts, feels so precarious that we reach for something to hold, some small act of control, just to stay upright.
Confidence comes in stretches. The rides get longer, and now it's the corners we dread, the moment the road bends and we have to trust the lean. On the cushion it's the same dread wearing different clothes. We've steadied the mind for a few minutes, and now we brace against the next distraction, the "oh, not again" that arrives with the to-do list, the revenge fantasy, the small ache of desire or wanting something. (The mind is nothing if not well stocked.)
Then we get good. Good enough to lift our hands off the handlebars and coast, just to see if anyone's watching. The cushion has its own version of showing off, the quiet congratulation when we decide we've finally arrived at the right way to do it. Total concentration, maybe. Thoughtlessness. Peace, calm, whichever flavour of experience we've privately filed under proof that we are good at this now.
And then, somewhere along the way, the ride stops being a thing we do and becomes a thing we need. We wake early to fit it in. We give up a Sunday to it. Miss it once and we're irritable and restless – like a fist that’s always clenched. It has quietly become a sanctuary, the thing we believe keeps us sane, and meditation slides into the same slot without our noticing. I can't be calm without my session. I need it or the day goes sideways. It keeps me grounded and I don't like being caught off guard. The medicine becomes one more item on the list.
Eventually, mercifully, the bike ride goes back to being a bike ride. A commute. A way from one place to another. A loop through the country on a clear afternoon. We stop thinking about the seat and the pedals and the balance, and there's just the riding.
"Don’t meditate to get anything, but to get rid of things. We do it, not with desire, but with letting go." – Ajahn Chah
And that’s what happened this time during meditation. There was nothing to do, nothing to fix, change, or analyse. Thoughts came, ran their course, and went away. Sometimes I went chasing after them, like a ride in the country, and then came back. The mind rested like it hadn’t in so many years. The constant doing stopped for a while. The constant trying to win at life by figuring everything out went quiet with it. The tightness, the aggression just dulled away leaving a steady clarity.
And it was gone just as fast as it came. I know it’s not a constant. Life will throw me a curveball just round the corner. I might get upset, or scared, or anxious, or numb. But I know now what’s holding it all together. The momentum that keeps the bike balanced without pedalling while you take in the view. And I know it’s always there and I can keep coming back to it again and again.