Clear Vision Trust

JOY

Over the years that I have practised Buddhism, I have noticed that although Buddhists tend to be noticeably more mindful than non-Buddhists, perhaps more helpful and considerate too, they have not struck me as more joyful. Some Buddhist centres even have a rather sombre atmosphere. I once took a Buddhist friend, who was over from England, to a large American Zen centre. After we had looked around, he commented that the place felt like a mausoleum, which seemed to me a fair assessment. Sangharakshita, my teacher, who spent many years in India, has remarked that much English Buddhism often seems a very worthy but rather sanctimonious affair (or words to that effect). Yet he found it quite different in India, where people seem to approach their practice of the Buddha's teachings with real joy, particularly at celebrations such as Buddha Day.

Some years ago I visited a Tibetan Buddhist centre in France. They had recently held a ritual for an important teacher who had died. This ritual was conducted by two Tibetan lamas, who seemed to be sharing a private joke, and some of the students were quite upset at this attitude, which they felt indicated a lack of respect for their departed teacher. While it is understandable that they were upset, this does seem to me to illustrate both a different attitude towards spiritual practice and, perhaps, more profoundly, towards life itself.

More recently, I visited a number of Chinese and Tibetan Buddhist monasteries. I was moved by the combination of devotion and cheerfulness the non-Western pilgrims displayed. In particular, many of the Tibetans seemed delighted to see a Westerner turning the prayer wheels or kneeling beside them at the shrines. While they spoke no English and I spoke no Tibetan, they would often stop me with beaming smiles and thumbs-up signs, and leave me in no doubt as to the happiness they felt in our shared devotion.

There does, by contrast, seem to be a lack of joy in Western Buddhism. This may be due partly to temperament and partly to inherited ideas of what religion is. There are of course exceptions to this, but I suspect these are naturally joyful people, and their quality of taking delight in the spiritual life has managed to withstand this more gloomy atmosphere. Perhaps in the West we have been conditioned to regard spiritual development as a serious and sombre affair?

Perhaps, also, people's approach to the Dharma is often dominated by a negation of themselves that stems from a superficial understanding of the idea of 'non-self', and such terms as 'overcoming the ego'. Buddhists often seem to be more concerned with what they shouldn't do than with what they should do (which of course very much includes the cultivation of a happy and joyful attitude towards the ups and downs of life). It seems that many Westerners understand the Buddhist precepts (ethical guidelines) primarily as prohibitions, rather than seeing them as opportunities for the positive expression of awareness and compassion. Western Buddhists often seem a little stiff, as if, in them, the valuable practice of mindfulness finds its emotional energy in the will, rather than from calmness and clarity. A clear, still pond ripples at the slightest breeze. A calm, clear mind is forever ready to respond to the world around it.

Mindfulness is not primarily a matter of restraint, although that is sometimes valuable. It is better understood in terms of a freshness and responsiveness to all aspects of our experience. I have sometimes wondered if a lot of meditation is good for Westerners if it is not balanced by a joyful expression of some sort. Meditation can help us to realize that we can, and need to, experience ourselves fully, in an unrestrained manner - without always expressing it outwardly. Realizing that we can make a choice about how we behave in the world based on a fuller awareness, rather than on repression, is of fundamental importance in maintaining joy in our lives. While it is important to avoid inflicting our negative emotions on others, it is just as important to give ourselves the freedom to fully express positive mental states.

Within meditation we have a chance to become more familiar with our emotional energies within a context that provides a sense of containment and clarity. We learn that the full range of our human emotions can be experienced without the necessity to act them out. Meditation allows us the leisure to experience the richness of the human heart - but it also teaches us that there is a choice - and a difference - between experience and expression.

Directing our minds

Related to this alienated kind of mindfulness, and lack of joy, there often seems to be an emphasis on meditation being a struggle, and on the eradication of the natural liveliness of the human mind. The aim of meditation is to direct the energy of the mind, not to control the mind by repressing its natural curiosity and spontaneity. Meditation aims to encourage a state of awareness characterized by openness and flexibility, free from anxiety and fear.

Our approach to meditation should not be one of wanting to dominate the mind or of seeing ourselves locked in some epic struggle with an evil ego. Such an attitude is often based on a kind of inverted inflated view of ourselves. Self-flagellation is not part of the Buddhist tradition, which regards severe asceticism as just as misguided as unheedful hedonism.

Nor, when we experience difficulties in meditation, should we give up. This often happens if our practice is too idealistic. If we have an unrealistic notion of ourselves - Enlightenment or bust - the chances are we will bust. The false notions that we are likely to gain full Enlightenment some time next week, or that we are so bad that no amount of practice will ever do more than scratch the surface of our dark souls, are equally undermining in the long run. So when things get a little difficult we should try to lighten up a little and see things with a bit of humour.

Our minds are often like those of small children. We can try to deal with a situation through stern discipline or we can enter into a more playful and interested relationship with ourselves. Of course, completely free parenting does not work; we need a balanced approach. So while there is a real need for some degree of discipline if we are serious about meditation, to get ourselves to the cushion on a regular basis, we do not need to be too rigid. I have known some people who, when for some reason they have been unable to meditate at their usual time, become quite distressed. It is as if they regard their meditation as a daily fix and they will go into some awful DTs if they are unable to do it. Of course we have to be careful that we are not just being lazy and finding all these good reasons why we can't meditate today, but fretting about the rare occasion when it really is not possible seems to me a little neurotic.

It is hard to talk about what really goes on in meditation. We are using the mind to work with the mind. It is like massaging one hand with the other. It is very difficult to separate clearly the sensation of one hand from the other. The self-reflective part of our awareness is not clearly distinguished from the rest of our mind, of which it is aware. For any sort of meditation to happen there has to be some element of this self-reflective awareness. We have to be aware that we are aware. It is then very easy to see the mind as dualistic, one part of it trying to control the other. A good part, a 'grown-up' part that wants to be a 'good Buddhist' tries to control another part that is seen as, well, evil, or at least rather naughty. For most people it is rare to become sufficiently concentrated to experience the mind as an integrated whole. While it often feels as though there is a good mind versus a bad mind, this is not a very useful attitude to take.

So while we can talk about meditation as the mind working directly on the mind, we should try not to regard those aspects of our experience that are less under our conscious control as something requiring eradication. Through a patient, kindly approach we can gradually involve all our psychic energies in our meditation. Indeed, it is the engagement of the aspects of our mind that are not subject to our will that gives meditation its depth and richness. Meditation is a place where our wilful 'should-be-ness' can be relaxed. We move towards an experience of ourselves as a textured and complex individual, where the sometimes conflicting aspects of ourselves can at least get a sense of each other. If meditation is a mental training, it is a training based in love rather than force. It is a means by which we can begin to heal the internal conflicts that thrive in the black-and-white atmosphere of dualistic thought, the good mind versus the bad.

Big mind

We each have only one mind, even though at times it doesn't feel like it. The good mind and the bad mind are one and the same, as expressed in the wonderfully prosaic term popularized in the West by Shunryu Suzuki, 'big mind'.

Big mind captures the experience of heightened awareness that can occur in meditation. It is not the self-reflective part of us watching over us like Big Brother, but our whole mind, saturated with awareness. Although our actual experience of what we can call big mind might be quite limited, we should nevertheless strive to bring such an understanding to our meditation. Although our mind often feels fragmented or divided against itself we should remember big mind, and remind ourselves that behind the confusion is at least the possibility of a sense of clarity and expansiveness where all our conflicting mental and emotional experiences disappear into a calm, pure awareness. We can perhaps think of a vast ocean that on the surface is whipped into mighty waves, but further down, in the depths, is calm.

Big mind is like big heart - it is open to what is actually there. It is patient and it is forgiving. It does not enter a situation with the idea of a fixed outcome. 'This situation will be like this' is not the attitude of big mind. The first thing is to take an interest in what is actually going on. If we go in with an idea of how things should be, and they are different, we get very frustrated. Perhaps our parents thought we would enjoy playing the piano, but we didn't - it was a fine day and we would have preferred to play with our friends. Even our parents hated the racket we resentfully made. If we want someone to learn we need to sit down and learn with them. To enjoy playing a piano a child needs the parent to be actively interested in what is happening, and the parent needs to be open to learning in order fully to take part. Similarly, if we pit one part of our mind against another in meditation, we will find it very hard to find real joy. There will always be some resistance to what we are doing.

Big mind takes in the whole situation. It enters into the situation completely. It is not one part of the mind trying to impose its will on another.

The most common way we split the mind is into intellect and emotion. We think we should do something, but we have no real emotional energy invested in it. Depending on our personality, we might do it anyway or we might just give up. One of the reasons we meditate is to try to bring these two facets of ourselves together and encourage a unification of heart and mind. Big mind is the ability to encompass the divisions that exist within ourselves and to seek a creative way of working with them.

It is sometimes necessary to do things even when we do not feel wholehearted about them. With meditation, too, there has to be some discipline. We may not always feel like doing it, but this does not mean that we cannot at least acknowledge the part of us that isn't very interested. We have to be able to pay attention to ourselves in this way, to see both sides of ourselves. When we do this a third element can arise that is not so dualistic, but more concerned with working with the whole of us. This part of us is what we meditate with. It is a self-awareness that is above, but also encompasses, the conflicting parts of ourselves. This kind of self-awareness can arise when there is some kind of dialogue between the divergent aspects of our mind. The 'good idea' part of us has to value the energy that is pulling in another direction.

This energy is often where our imagination is. It is only when we are able to engage this kind of energy that some real sense of vision can arise, and it is this sense of vision that sustains us in the spiritual life. There needs to be a sense of excitement and joy in our practice, a sense that what we are doing is of real worth. This also has to be nurtured outside meditation. We cannot expect it just to be there when we sit down to meditate, if the rest of the time we neglect it. This means that we need to stimulate the emotional side of ourselves, and in particular find ways of cultivating a sense of excitement about the spiritual life and, through reflection and reading, reminding ourselves of the benefits that meditation and ethics can bring.

Flexible awareness

I have often been struck by the number of people who do not seem to enjoy their meditation, especially those who have an established practice. In some ways it is laudable that they keep trying. If you meditate regularly there are bound to be times when it is difficult, but in order to sustain a beneficial practice there needs to be a strong element of enjoyment at least some of the time. It is not enough that we think meditation is good for us and we therefore force ourselves to do it. Rather, the direct experience of meditation needs to be sustaining. Part of the problem is having a fixed idea of what should happen when we meditate, what our mind should be like.

It reminds me a little of the local gym, where many people appear to be at war with their bodies - no pain, no gain. They seem to want to force their bodies into an unnatural shape that conforms to some idea they have, but bears little relationship to their particular type of body. Why do people meditate if they do not enjoy it? Why do they continue to approach it in the same old way if it brings them little joy?

I recently led a workshop for quite experienced meditators. One woman, who had been meditating for seven years, had been taught the form of Mindfulness of Breathing in which one counts the breaths. She said she had never found this counting useful. Counting made her tense and anxious. I asked her why, after seven years, she was still counting her breaths. Her response was that this was how she had been taught. This situation highlights the need to get into dialogue with other meditators, especially those with more experience than ourselves, if at all possible. I suggested she tried it without the counting to see if it worked better, for although this approach seems effective for most people, perhaps it was not the best one for her. The main thing seemed to be that she needed to enjoy her breath rather than seeing the practice as a chore.

I was reminded of the story of the devoted peasant who was given a mantra by a passing guru, which he misheard so that the sacred syllable hum was replaced by a similar Tibetan word meaning 'cow'. The peasant chanted this mantra to good effect until the guru returned to the isolated village to check on his progress. On discovering the mistake he carefully corrected the pronunciation. However, the correct mantra seemed not to work, and the beneficial effects of the practice were lost. Some time later, on a third visit, the guru gave his pupil special permission to revert to his original version, and once again the peasant began to experience the benefit of his heartfelt invocation of the cow.

We need to trust our experience and feel free to try different approaches that might work better. There are forms of the Mindfulness of Breathing that do not employ counting. The initial delight we find in meditation is often lost because we become too rigid in our employment of technique. Our practice becomes a routine that we go through regardless of our experience, like going to the gym and feeling we have to do so many press-ups or swim a certain number of lengths.

The most important quality we try to encourage when we meditate is awareness. The various techniques are there to help us do this. We need to keep in mind the nature of the awareness that we are trying to develop - not a rigid awareness that is insensitive to our real experience, but an open, flexible awareness that can respond to our actual situation.

A friend and I were once walking along a beach, and we were passed by a number of joggers. Most of them seemed to be in some state of distress. We then came upon a young woman exercising. I don't know if she was employing some system of exercise or just making it up as she went along, but what she was doing reminded me of the spontaneous joy of a young child. She was jumping and skipping, throwing her arms in the air. It was quite wonderful to watch. Her body seemed to be full of joy and life. She seemed open to the wind and the sea, and appeared to be really enjoying herself. At the same time her movements were graceful and co-ordinated, all in striking contrast to the desperate joggers. I thought, 'this is what the mind should be like when we are meditating.' It reminded me of Milarepa's 'Song of a Yogi's Joy'.

Milarepa was an eleventh-century Buddhist poet famous for the depth of his meditation and the expression of his profound experience in spontaneous song:

"The greater the distress and passions,
The more one can be blithe and gay!
What happiness to feel no ailment or illness;
What happiness to feel that joy and suffering are one;
What happiness to play in bodily movement
With the power aroused by Yoga.
To jump and to run, to dance and leap, is more joyful still.

"What happiness to sing the victorious song,
What happiness to chant and hum,
More joyful still to talk and loudly sing!
Happy in the mind, powerful and confident,
Steeped in the realm of Totality."

Milarepa is clearly expressing a profound state in which dualism has been overcome. What comes through is a real sense of joy. We might be a long way from being able to respond to our distress in the same manner as Milarepa, but we can encourage an attitude of interest and joy. On the most basic level we need to frame our practice in a manner that allows us to take delight in it. We could think of ourselves as poor human beings lacking in awareness and compassion, desperately needing to meditate in a frantic attempt to improve a little. But such a view does not allow for the possibility of joy and delight in meditation; it limits us even before we take our seat. Conversely, we can encourage the idea that as humans we have a tremendous potential, that we can build on our existing awareness and nurture the kindness that we already experience.

The joy of no comparisons

The scriptures of Buddhism are full of accounts of the most unlikely characters gaining insight into Reality. Milarepa himself had a rather unpromising start. After the death of his father, his uncle, now the head of the family, plotted to steal the family's wealth and land. Milarepa's mother was reduced to a state of penury and treated little better than a slave in her own home. Under the influence of his embittered mother the young Milarepa learned the black arts and used them to take revenge not only on his uncle but on the whole village, who had stood by while his family had been cheated and humiliated. Later, having been responsible for the deaths of many people, Milarepa had to undergo many hardships before he attained the joyful state of liberation to which his songs testify.

Few of us start from such a position, weighed down by such a murderous past, but the extreme life of Milarepa illustrates the potential we all have to transcend the limitations of a life dominated by greed and hatred. Most of us in the West have a tremendous opportunity to cultivate ourselves. We are relatively free from the hardships faced by most of the world's people. We live in a society where we have the freedom to practise, and we have access to a great many resources to support our efforts. What we often seem to lack is a basic confidence in ourselves and a joyful relationship to life. Confidence, in the modern world, seems to be based mainly in a sense that we are in some way better than others. From an ever earlier age, children are encouraged to see themselves in a competitive relationship with one another, their sense of worth linked to the achievement of external goals.

In Buddhism, it is regarded as arrogant to think of ourselves as better than someone else. It is also said to be a form of arrogance to think of oneself as inferior to another, or even the same as another. Here, Buddhism is trying to help us to see that comparing ourselves to others is beside the point. It is not a useful way to view either ourselves or other people. It is quite ridiculous for a child to be conditioned to feel that self-worth depends on making the school basketball team, or being top of their class. Instead of children being encouraged to find joy in sport or literature, they are pitted against one another.

When we internalize this kind of attitude as a child it is very hard to let go of it later. We find it a particularly great handicap if we wish to develop as individuals. When we meditate we will have in the back of our minds the idea that we are either a better or a worse meditator than other people. This is, of course, a quite meaningless idea. Spiritual practice is not something we can measure and compare. We can find ourselves looking at the spiritual life as if it is some kind of competitive sport, constantly concerned with how we are doing in relation to others. Not only does this lead to anxiety, it also means that we cannot really encourage and support others, because we are jealous that they might outdo us. Rather than feeling joy in our own, and others', progress we are caught up in ideas of superiority and inferiority. Confidence does not arise by encouraging ourselves to feel better than others, but by valuing the progress made.

Meditating with other people can be a great support to our own practice. We feel supported in the sense that others affirm that what we are trying to do is of real worth. If we are a little sensitive to those around us we will find that we can tune in to someone else's concentration, and allow the general atmosphere of awareness to help us. We can have a tangible experience of being part of a great tradition that goes back to the historical Buddha, and includes many outstanding figures like Milarepa. We are working with the same basic stuff they had to work with - human awareness. The difficulties we might encounter have been encountered - and overcome - by many thousands before us. We then have to encourage a basic confidence in our own ability to cultivate awareness and compassion. This does not mean having some overblown idea of ourselves as one step away from being a Buddha, but a quiet appreciation of the progress we are making - and a sense that, although it takes time and effort, there is really no limit to our practice.

It is not that one day we will be done with spiritual practice. As we progress, it opens up rather than narrows down. If we have a rigid idea of wanting to reach the end we will find the spiritual life very frustrating. It is as if we are in a rush to get to the top of a hill: we climb what we think is the final ridge only to find that the hill goes on and on. So it is with our spiritual practice. We need to have a general sense of direction but at the same time take in and enjoy the landscape as we go.

I sometimes play with this idea when I teach walking meditation. I instruct people in a very slow form of walking in which we take one small step with each breath. People often find this quite hard because they feel they are getting nowhere. When I sense that people are getting frustrated, I tell them to imagine that this is all we will be doing tonight, just walking very slowly together, for the next two hours. If people can let go of the idea of there being some fixed destination, they are often able to relax into what is really happening. It is hard to express in words just how wonderful it can be to walk slowly with others, being aware of oneself and of one another. There is a simple joy in such an activity, a sense of connectedness and completeness - just from walking in a circle without hurry.

Whenever we begin to feel frustrated in what we are doing, we should slow down and pay closer attention to it. Frustration takes us away from ourselves; we become alienated from our experience. When we feel this beginning to happen we need to pay more attention to our experience. I used to live with someone who was a great cook, but he was very messy and seemed to use every pan in the house. After a meal the kitchen would be in a state of chaos. Because I was home in the morning, my writing time, I was often confronted with the chaos from the night before. I found it very interesting to become aware of my reaction as I set about cleaning up. I tried to just take the time it needed, not rushing to return to my writing, but trying to find some pleasure in cleaning up. If I found myself beginning to feel resentful I would remind myself what a nice meal I'd had the night before. I would slow down and try to enjoy the experience of restoring order. The point is that if I had rushed through it feeling resentful and put upon, by the time I got down to what I wanted to do, I would have created frustration and distraction. I would then find that I was not able to work effectively. Then of course I would get into an even worse state. Alternatively, I could see it as a useful way to become more aware of myself and actually supporting my next activity. I don't want to give you the impression I can always to do this, but I do manage it some of the time.

This, then, is a small example of what is going on all the time in our lives. It can go on in the sense of wishing to be done with a particular activity, but it can also go on in the overall context of our lives. In perhaps its most extreme form it can be a whole life wasted doing something in which we really have no passion or true interest. Sometimes this is called becoming 'a success'.

Changing our relationship to time

It may at first seem a harsh statement, but Buddhism sometimes talks of most human lives as basically being wasted. It is as if we throw away what is most dear to us. From a Buddhist perspective human life is rare and precious. Having a human form is a unique and wonderful opportunity. While we take being human for granted, Buddhism calls on us to see it as an exceptional, almost miraculous, occurrence. Possessing a human form and a human consciousness makes possible the unlimited expression of love and awareness. What is more, and is in a sense profoundly ironic, is that we somehow intuitively know it is true. What else could explain human beings proving themselves, again and again, willing and capable of acting from love - even at the cost of their own lives? We sense our capacity to act for the good as surely as we fear our capacity to act from the bad. It sometimes seems to me that much of my life is lived as if I am caught in the headlights of my possible actions. I fear doing evil, but I lack the courage to do good. I can feel startled and paralysed. I see my meditation practice as attempting to bring a spaciousness and joy into my life. Then following the good can become a form of playfulness.

It seems wonderful to me that many of us, when faced with extreme conditions, behave with such courage and humanity. I have seen this in the way many face their own death or the death of those dear to them. But it also seems to me a great pity that we perhaps have to find ourselves in extreme and painful situations before we find the courage to tap into such goodness.

The remarkable autobiography of Jean-Dominique Bauby, The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly, recounts his experience of suffering a severe stroke which left him completely paralysed. Formerly a successful and urbane fashion editor, Bauby manages to dictate his memoir by a laborious semaphore of fluttering an eyelid - the only part of his body still capable of voluntary movement. What is revealed is that through the trauma and desolation of his condition, a new sense of being alive to the world has emerged. Bauby here recounts a trip from the hospital:

"I have come to gorge on the aromas emanating from a modest shack by the path leading away from the beach. Claude and Brice bring me to a halt downwind. My nostrils quiver with pleasure as they inhale a robust odour - intoxicating to me, but one that most mortals cannot abide. 'Ooh!' says a disgusted voice behind me, 'What a stench of grease!' But I will never tire of the smell of frying potatoes.

I hope I do not have to face such a situation, but I also hope that I become increasingly able to live from what I most value. We need to start from where we are at any given time. We cannot wait for extremes. We must look at our lives as they are now - to see how we are being formed by our everyday activities. In our daily lives there is often the sense that we are doing something just to get it out of the way, so that we can get on with what we really want to do. We can even find this attitude developing towards meditation. All the time we are thinking, 'I will just get this out of the way - it's good for me - then I can get on with things.' When we have this attitude we are limiting our experience. We are placing it in a 'good for me' box.

One of the realizations we are trying to cultivate through our meditation is that life isn't really divided into distinct segments. How we do one thing will affect the mental state we take into the next. A sense of frustration and rush will stay with us. It seems all too easy for modern life to become one continuous rush tainted with frustration and a feeling that there is never enough time to do anything with care and sensitivity. So it is a very useful practice just to take one's time. The truth is that if we can take pleasure in what we do and be mindful, we will find we have more time. Our relationship with time itself can change. Time becomes full of life rather than second by second stealing our life away.

In practical terms, we might not have very much time to meditate, but we should still learn to take our time and be fully in the time that we do have. We should not rush into the meditation but take care in laying out our cushion and making sure we are comfortable. We need to prepare for the meditation, being aware of our body and taking time to tune in to how we feel. It doesn't matter if this means we spend more time in preparation than formal practice. If our approach to preparation is one of care and attention, there is no difference between that and the meditation itself. If we can find joy in placing a cushion mindfully on a mat that we have carefully smoothed out, we will find that we are in time and the time that we do have will be useful.

Shunryu Suzuki has a passage in his book of essays Zen Mind, Beginners Mind (a book in which I have found much joy and inspiration) that has always intrigued me:

"So when you practise zazen [meditation], your mind should be concentrated on your breathing. This kind of activity is the fundamental activity of the universal being."

I understand Suzuki to mean, at least in part, that when we do anything, no matter what, with clear awareness and a sense of care and kindness, we express what is highest in us. We are in the best sense most fully ourselves. There seems to me great hope in the fact that such expression can be found in the activities of our daily lives.

reflection: Witnessing Yourself

Take up your sitting posture. Spend a little time becoming aware of your body and developing a sense of your general emotional and mental state. This does not mean that you have to work out why you feel as you do; it is more a matter of just being aware of your emotional colour and state of mind. Once you feel you have settled you can begin with the first stage of the Metta Bhavana meditation, and cultivate a sense of kindness towards yourself.

When you have established a basis of metta towards yourself, bring to mind a situation about which you still have confused emotions. This could be something that has happened recently or from way back. It might, for example, be an occasion when you behaved harshly towards someone, while another aspect of you feels that they had it coming. Or it might be related to how somebody has acted towards you. The important thing is that you are aware of having conflicting feelings around the incident.

Rather than getting into an internal debate with yourself, give each side a few minutes to state their case, or, more importantly, let yourself experience both sides in turn. Allow yourself to be receptive to whichever side is speaking, while as far as possible avoiding the voice that wants to say 'yes but...'. What is important to note is that I am not asking you to judge which of your emotional responses is 'right', but that you let the two, or more, sides have their say.

So there is another part of you which is willing to listen to the conflicting voices without feeling the need to value one above the other. This kind of awareness is sometimes called witness awareness, and it is a type of awareness that can be developed through meditation. So in this reflection, we are not trying to make a judgement about what is the right way to feel, but simply giving all sides a chance to be experienced as fully as possible. After you feel you have given voice to the various aspects of your emotions return to the Metta Bhavana and spend a few minutes re-establishing a sense of well-wishing towards yourself, that is, try to cultivate a sense of kindness towards yourself as you are, with sometimes conflicting emotions, rather than a idealized version of yourself.

Note that I am not implying we should value all our emotions in the same way. There are many emotions we should not allow to become the basis for action. But this does not mean that it is healthy or useful to pretend they do not exist. Meditation is a place where we can develop the ability to witness ourselves fully while understanding that there is a difference between experiencing and expressing.

reflection: Appreciating Yourself

Start as always by taking a little time over your posture and making sure you are settled and have a sense of how you are. Just be aware of the breath coming and going in your body. See if you can locate a pleasurable sensation associated with your breathing. It might be quite subtle, a gentle movement in your belly for example.

Give your attention to this sensation. Don't try to make anything happen; just use this simple sensation as the focus. If you realize you mind has drifted off, bring it back to the sensation. Once you feel you have centred yourself in your body, slowly start to bring your surroundings to mind.

Bear in mind that the space you sit in is not empty, but that you sit in a space full of the element air. Without opening your eyes become aware of your surroundings. Be aware not only of the objects in the room, but also of the materials from which these objects are made. Develop a sense that everything around you has, in one way or another, been made from materials found in the natural world. Think of the brick or wood of which the building is constructed.

Become aware that even in the heart of the city the element earth is under the buildings. Let your awareness of your context slowly expand. Keeping a sense of yourself, let your imagination come into contact with the world around you. Be aware of the life that, even in an urban environment, manages to flourish: the birds, insects, plants, then beyond the town into the countryside to the ocean. Have a sense of the abundance of life, a sense of the richness of the organic and inorganic world.

Sitting quietly in the midst of all this life, encourage an awareness of being part of this world, part of the manifestation of life. Feel that you are breathing in this world, in the middle of a breathing world. Be aware that you are made of the same basic elements that make up everything around you. See if you can encourage a sense of yourself as part of this remarkable phenomenon of life. Just sit quietly for a while, having a sense of your place in the world of things.

reflection: Being in Time

Find ways of being in time, rather than against time. Take a leisurely stroll around the park; have a day in the country; sit down and listen to your favourite CD; spend an hour reading poetry.

Try to build into your daily life activities that you engage in for their own sake. Give yourself over to these simple pleasures as fully as possible. Make some time in your life free from striving and doing.

There are many activities supportive of the spiritual life, activities that create a sense of spaciousness. Just sitting with an awareness of my breath encourages a sense in me that I am in time. Feeling the breath coming and going in my body nourishes a sense of belonging to a living world unfolding within organic time. Try using awareness of your breath to slow down whenever life begins to overwhelm you. Even if you don't have time for a formal session of meditation, you can just be aware of your breath for a few minutes. Imagine as you breathe out that you are letting go of any mental tension. See if you can develop a sense of the world around you based in a feeling of kindness towards others, as if you are breathing out kindness into the world. Let your breathing be easy and relaxed, tuning in to its rhythm, feeling time in your own body.

Try to be aware if your experience begins to take on a frantic edge, when you start to feel oppressed by time. If this happens, consciously slow down. Stop for a few moments and be aware of the breath until it becomes calm.