What Meditation Is? ~ by William Hart

 What Meditation Is? 
~ by William Hart

In 1976 I left my job to spend three years in a small town in India studying meditation.

When they hear of my experience, people often ask me, “What do you do when you meditate?” Of course in one sense, meditation means “not-doing;” we have to stop all the things that we do in ordinary life, and start doing the opposite.

The meditation which I studied is called Vipassana. This is a word from Pali, the language spoken in India in the time of the Buddha. Its meaning is insight—seeing the reality, the truth; understanding reality by

experiencing the reality inside oneself.

All our lives we are busy looking outside.

We are only interested to see what others are doing; we aren’t interested in ourselves. 

When we meditate, we have to change all that, and start to observe ourselves.

We sit down, stop moving, and close our eyes. There is nothing to hear or see, no external thing to interest us. 

So we look inside, and we find that the biggest thing happening is our own breathing. We begin by paying attention to this reality: the breath entering and leaving the nostrils. We try to keep the mind fixed on the breath as long as possible, ignoring any other thoughts.

At once we find how hard this is to do. As soon as we try to keep the mind on the breath, we begin to worry about a pain in the legs. As soon as we try to stop all thoughts, a thousand things jump into the mind. As soon as we try to forget past and future and concentrate on the breath now, this moment, passing through the nostrils, at once some pleasant or unpleasant memory of the past comes up, some hope or fear for the future. Soon we forget what we are trying to do.

The fact is that the mind is like a spoiled child with too many toys. It starts to play with one toy, becomes bored, then reaches for another, and another. In the same way, the mind keeps jumping from one thought, one object of attention to another; and in this way we keep running away from reality.

Now we have to stop doing that. Instead of trying to escape, we have to face the reality, whatever it is. And so we keep trying patiently to bring the mind back to the breath. We fail and try again, and again.

After some time we find that the mind does stay a little longer on the object of the breath.

We have succeeded, never mind how slightly, in changing the habit pattern of the mind, training it to remain concentrated on a single object.

Using this strong concentration, we then change the object of attention deliberately, systematically, to examine every part of the body; and because mind and body are so closely interrelated, we are at the same time examining our minds.

Usually this self-examination gives the meditator many surprises. Many complexes of the past arise from the deep, unconscious levels of the mind—all sorts of memories, forgotten thoughts and emotions. Often, especially at the beginning, these forgotten memories bring with them a lot of physical or mental discomfort, even pain.

However, we don’t allow this discomfort to stop us. Our job is to observe our own reality, whatever it may be—like a scientist observing an experiment in his laboratory.

Usually we react to any thought, any feeling, any impression which forms in the mind. If it is something pleasant, we start wanting it—more, more; if unpleasant, we start hating it—how to avoid or escape it. But when we meditate, we must simply know what is happening inside us, and accept it as reality.

We don’t try to change it or avoid it; we just observe, without reacting.

If we persist, we soon realize that our experiences are constantly changing. Every moment, what we feel in the body changes.

Every moment, the thought in the mind changes. This reality—the reality of myself— is changing every moment. Nothing remains forever—not the most pleasant or unpleasant thing.

Thus by observing ourselves, we come to understand, from our own experience, one important fact: anicca (Sanskrit anitya) impermanence, the reality of change.

Everything inside me, and similarly everything in the world outside me, is changing every moment.

Of course we have always known this, and modern scientists have proved that this is true—that the entire material universe is composed of tiny particles which arise and vanish millions of times in a second. But instead of just hearing about this reality or apprehending it intellectually, we have experienced it directly, through meditation.

We continue, and we soon realize that if nothing remains more than an instant, then there is nothing inside me to call an ego, a self—no I, no me, no mine. This “I” is really just a phenomenon, a process which is always changing. And whenever I try to hold on to something, saying “This is I, this is me, this is mine,” then I make myself unhappy, I make suffering for myself—because sooner or later that something must go away, or maybe “I” go

away.

All this I understand not because someone is telling it to me—I see it for myself, by observing myself.

Then how not to make myself unhappy? Simple: instead of trying to keep one experience and escape another, to pull this to me, to push that away—I just watch; I don’t react. I observe with equanimity, with a balanced mind.

It sounds easy, but what to do when I sit to meditate for one hour, and after ten minutes a pain starts in the knee? At once I start hating the pain; I want the pain to go away. But it doesn’t go away, and the more I hate it, the stronger it becomes.

If I can learn for one moment just to observe the pain—if I can forget, temporarily, that it is my pain, that I feel pain—if I can just examine the feeling like a scientist—then probably I shall see that the pain itself is changing. It does not remain forever. Every moment it changes, passes away, starts again, changes again.

When I understand this, by my own experience, then I am free of the pain. It does not control me. Maybe it goes away quickly, maybe not—but to me it doesn’t matter. I don’t suffer from the pain any more because I can observe it. I have started to liberate myself from suffering.

And all this I do by sitting still with eyes closed, trying to remain aware of anything that happens inside me.

The purpose of Vipassana meditation, then, is to purify the mind, to free the mind from suffering and its causes. Usually we don’t know what is really happening. We are wandering in the past or the future, blinded by our desires or aversions; and we are always agitated, full of tension.

But by meditating we learn to face the reality of this moment, without wanting or hating it. We observe it with a smile—with equanimity, a balanced mind.

This awareness and equanimity are very useful for us in ordinary life. Instead of being ignorant of what is really happening—blindly following our unconscious desires, fears, hatred—now we can see the reality in any situation. Then instead of reacting blindly and making more tensions, it is possible for us to take real, free, creative action which will be helpful for ourselves and for other people.

Every person faces the same problems in life: things happen that we don’t want; things don’t happen that we want. In all these situations, if I react blindly, I make myself and others unhappy. If I keep a balanced mind, then I remain happy and I can help others to be happy.

When a sick man recovers health, naturally he feels happy. When a blind man can see again, naturally he feels happy. Similarly when we learn the way from suffering to liberation, naturally we feel happy. Previously we forced others to share our unhappiness; now we want others to share our peace and joy.

Thus a real meditator tries to change the world, after having changed himself. Perhaps his action is no more than a smile instead of a frown—but that smile may have far reverberations if it is a real smile from the heart. On the other hand, a smile is useless if it merely hides the tensions inside.

Certainly we have a moral duty to change the world for better—and we must begin with the material nearest to hand: ourselves. Having done that, we’ll be capable of anything.

This, then, is meditation as I understand it: an art of living.