Acknowledgements
Preface
Introduction A Monk at My Door
Week 1 Mindfulness: The First Step to Peace
Week 2 Suffering? It Happens to Us All
Week 3 What Causes Suffering?
Week 4 Finding Freedom
Week 5 The Road to Happiness
Week 6 Living Mindfully
Week 7 Inner Peace, Outer Peace
Week 8 Metta – Loving Kindness
Epilogue What Happened Next
This book is the culmination of many influences, experiences and people in my life, and I would like to acknowledge and thank them all.
First and foremost I thank Gautama Buddha for his teaching, to which this book owes its existence, and all those who have practised Buddhism during the last 2,500 years and passed it on to us today.
I’m very grateful to the late Ajahn Chah, who brought Theravada Buddhism to the UK, and whose influence lives on in the monasteries he founded and the teaching given by the monks he trained; and to Ajahn Sumedho, whose books The Four Noble Truths, and Don’t Take Your Life Personally became my close companions, and changed my life. I’d also like to extend my thanks to all the monks at the Chithurst Monastery, especially Ajahn Succito and Ajahn Karuniko. And a special thank you goes to Ajahn Subhaddo for the particular inspiration he brought me and for his patient answering of my questions as I worked on this book.
I am indebted to my grandmother, Grace Cooke, for her vision and courage, and (together with my grandfather, Ivan Cooke) for creating the spiritual environment into which I was born and grew up; my parents, Joan and John Hodgson, for their wisdom, and the very loving upbringing they gave me; also my aunt, Ylana Hayward, who played an important part in my early life; and to my sister, Jenny Dent, my closest companion in my early years along with my cousins, Colum and Jeremy Hayward, who were more like brothers than cousins and also grew up with us at the retreat centre.
I thank and send much metta to my very dear close family, in particular to my three daughters, Kate Ellis, Meg Ashton-Key and Claire Carr, for their incredible, unwavering love and support – and I thank Claire especially for reading the manuscript of this book and giving me the benefit of her perceptive and incisive editorial skills when she was nearing the time to give birth; and to my beloved husband, Robert, my constant companion, who shared so much, and who instigated the days of Buddhist teaching in our home. My thanks, too, go to all the people who joined us for the teaching and made it so special.
In life there are always lows as well as highs when we can learn and grow as we pass through them, and I’d like to express my gratitude to those people who ‘saved my life’ during some dark and difficult times I experienced in the past, which led me to where I am today: the late Ian Gordon-Brown and Barbara Somers, for their Transpersonal Psychology courses; Beata Bishop for her wisdom and guidance; the late Graham Browne and Babette Hayes for their Self-transformation courses; and the writers Louise Hay, Doreen Virtue and – especially – Wayne Dyer.
I’d like to thank my friends: Elinor Dettiger; Suna Jones, Mary Kennard, Lynda Lawrence, Liz Newnham and especially, Chryssa Porter, who have believed in this book, read the early drafts, commented helpfully and encouraged me all the way.
I’m also very grateful for the wonderful, professional team I have been blessed to work with: my agent, Barbara Levy, for her absolute belief in this book from the moment I told her my idea, and for her support at every stage; Jo Lal, who likewise ‘got it’ immediately and guided me in the right direction to make it a reality; the art and design team for the cover, which conveys the spirit of the book so perfectly; my editor, Ingrid Court-Jones for her meticulous work and inspired suggestions; and Deborah Hercun, who managed the project, and all the production team who have contributed to the final result.
I was just a hardworking cookery writer, creating, testing and writing recipes for my books and articles, getting on with my life with all its usual stresses and strains and ups and downs – and then I met a monk. He came to my home, gave teaching to a group of people – and changed my life. I gained so much from the experience that I wanted to recreate and share it, and that is how this book came about.
It’s my hope that as you read this book you, too, may feel you are taking part, and that it may be as life-changing for you as it was for me.
You could read the book straight through or, to make the most of it, you could treat it as a course, reading a chapter each week or at a pace to suit you, following the practice suggestions given just as the participants do in the book.
My wish for you is hidden in the title of this book – hidden like a crossword clue. It made me smile and by the time you’ve read the book, you’ll understand. I hope it will make you smile, too.
So, come on in, and welcome …
Rose Elliot
2015
It is early afternoon on a beautiful Sunday in June and a Buddhist monk is standing at my door. He is of medium height, muscular, swathed in golden-brown. He has fabric wound around him over his shoulders and around his waist to form a robe that reaches halfway down his shins.
His head is shaved and shiny, and he is wearing leather sandals. Slung over his shoulder like a satchel is a big metal bowl. I know it is his only possession, used for his two meals of the day: breakfast and an early lunch that has to be eaten before noon.
I hesitate, resisting the natural urge to shake his hand because I know that as an ordained monk he is not allowed physical contact, especially with a woman. So I smile and in a moment of inspiration put my hands together, prayer-style, and say ‘Welcome’.
It is not every day I receive such a visit. The monk has come to teach a group of people ‘mindfulness, meditation and how to find happiness, freedom and peace’. Well, that’s what it says on the flyer.
It was my husband Robert’s idea. Some time ago, when he was finding life challenging, he began visiting a Buddhist monastery a few miles from where we live and learned to meditate. He found it really helpful; in fact, it changed his life: everyone noticed how much more relaxed and happy he had become. So Robert had the idea of asking one of the senior monks if he would give a course of teaching to a group of people in our home.
Robert contacted local Buddhist groups and friends of friends – anyone interested in learning more about mindfulness and meditation. The word went round and Robert sent out the flyer to anyone he thought might be interested. I did not previously know most of the people about to arrive.
So here we all are. It seems that everyone wants to learn mindfulness meditation. If anyone knows how to do it, surely it’s a Buddhist monk – after all, they spend hours meditating every day. As it worked so well for Robert, we are hoping it will help other people, too. I am certainly interested to find out more about it, so I’m open to the idea, although I’m also slightly wary.
Wary? Yes, I have to admit I am. I have a bit of a history where groups are concerned. You see I was brought up in a religious retreat run by my grandmother and my parents, and I also worked there myself for some years before I left. In fact, I wrote my first two major cookery books as a result of the recipes I developed when I was working in the kitchen there. In the end, for many reasons, I moved away – away from the retreat centre, away from anything remotely ‘religious’ in nature and I became very cautious about being part of any group.
So why am I here today? Why am I helping to host this meditation group? What am I doing with a monk in my home? You might well ask! I am doing it for love of Robert really, because I know it means a great deal to him. And because I am spiritually inclined, even though I am not ‘religious’ as such. I also believe that meditation can be helpful both physically and mentally, so I’m willing to give it a try.
And that is why at this moment I am standing a few feet from a Buddhist monk, wondering what to say to him, how to behave in his presence, what to do.
Robert, who feels more confident around monks, takes the initiative. As the sun is shining, and there is a little time before the rest of the group is due to arrive, he asks the monk if he would like to take a stroll in the garden before we begin.
We cross the hall and walk out into the warm air. I must admit the monk’s simplicity, openness and above all, his ordinariness, touch me. Here is a man who is freely giving up his time to come to our home to teach an unknown group of people, and I am grateful to him.
As we walk in the garden, the monk becomes more animated and looks around him with obvious interest. He chats easily and naturally and I begin to feel more comfortable in his presence.
‘Ah yes, armandii’ he says, noting the vigorous green clematis climbing up the side of the house. ‘That needs a lot of cutting back, doesn’t it?’
He explains that he was a gardener for many years before becoming a monk, that he has a ninety-year-old father living some distance from the monastery and that he regularly travels to visit him, using his bus pass. I did not realize that Buddhist monks were so down-to-earth and practical.
I look at his bright eyes and tanned face and think he barely looks old enough to have a bus pass. There’s a lot to be said for a shaved head. Or maybe it’s the monastic way of life that does it.
We go back into the house, through the entrance hall and into the sitting room. ‘Oh, what a beautiful room!’ the monk exclaims as he enters.
I’m glad he likes it. We spent last evening turning the room into a meditation space, or ‘shrine room’, as the monk calls it. We moved out some of the heavy furniture and brought in flowers, candles and an incense stick.
We put some dining room chairs in an oval shape around the outside of the room leaving plenty of space for those people who prefer to sit on the floor to place their zafus – firm, round meditation cushions like small pouffes that are placed on top of padded squares or mats. You sit on the zafu and your legs rest on the padded surround.
At the far end of the room we anchored a piece of burgundy fabric on the mantelpiece with two heavy vases of fragrant white flowers – philadelphus – from the garden. The fabric is hanging down in front of the empty fireplace and a large square brass and glass coffee table is pushed up against the fabric to provide a backdrop for a tall, carved, wooden Buddha that we brought back from Sri Lanka – Robert’s pride and joy.
I lead the monk to his place at the far end of the room, to the right hand side of the ‘shrine’, facing the door: the ‘head’ of the room. He settles himself cross-legged on the meditation mat I have placed for him, with the zafu under him. I ask whether he would like a cup of tea or coffee. ‘I’d love a cup of tea, please’, he replies, ‘Nice and strong “builder’s tea”, but without cow’s milk. Do you have any soya milk?’
I have. I am prepared for this because I have been warned that as a practising monk he is not allowed to have any food after noon and apparently that includes cow’s milk. Soya milk, on the other hand, being considered ‘medicine’, is allowed … I know, don’t ask.
I can’t help smiling to myself, though, because I know some nonmonastics who would agree about soya milk tasting like medicine. Not me, however. I don’t drink any kind of milk in my tea or coffee, but I do use soya milk instead of cow’s milk for cooking.
Before the monk has finished speaking, the doorbell rings – the first people are arriving. They’re at the door: a tall man called Tim, with short, receding dark hair greying at the temples and a thin, silky scarf knotted loosely round his neck; and a lively woman with short, spiky red hair who tells me her name is Suzi. They’re clasping cushions, meditation mats and rugs.
I show them where to put their things, how to get to the loo, where to pick up the name badges I made last night and the way to the meditation room. Meanwhile, a pale, rather nervous-looking young man with glasses arrives, introduces himself as Sam and I tell him where he can leave his bicycle. Then I make the monk his cup of tea.
The doorbell goes again. More people are arriving and this time Robert greets them. I see them coming into the hall as I carry the monk’s tea through to him. There is Dan, a rather good-looking, dark-haired young man in jeans, and a woman with long, straight, shiny brown hair, who I come to know as Nikki. She’s wearing cream leggings and a loose top falling off one shoulder, looking as though she’s going to a ‘yummy mummies’ yoga class: I hope she’s come to the right place.
I meet more people as I come back again into the hall – a tall, lanky guy who proffers a hand and says, ‘Maurice’; with his curly, auburn hair and tinted glasses he looks like a member of a rock band. I wonder whether he’s got a guitar tucked away in his car.
I recognize a few of the other people who have come: Pam, a tall woman with shiny blonde hair cut in a sharp bob with a long fringe, and an older couple called Rodney and Joan. But most are new to me. More and more are arriving; I’m losing track of them, losing track of the time, losing track of everything. I have a moment of panic: is our room large enough to hold them all?
I try to remember names and match them to faces. There’s Ed, muscular, with a ruddy complexion, who looks very sporty; then there’s a pale, dark-haired woman called Maggie, who has piercing green eyes and looks as if she is in her mid-thirties; and Gwyn, who appears rather calm and poised, in a silky dusky pink top with immaculate platinum hair and pearl earrings.
Soon there are about fifteen pairs of shoes and sandals at the doorway to our sitting room, and all but one of the people we’re expecting are settled within, some sitting on chairs, some on the floor on various zafus, cushions, rugs and even a couple perched on low, collapsible, wooden meditation stools – clearly they mean business.
I look at the last remaining name badge: ‘Debbie’: I don’t know her. I wonder whether she’s coming. I’m just trying to decide whether to begin without her, as we are already running at least five minutes late, when the bell rings and she’s at the door, rather flustered, straggly dark-blonde curls all over the place.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late’, she says, ‘I had to drop my children at my Mum’s on the way and then I took the wrong turning off the motorway.’
‘That’s quite all right’, I say, ‘we haven’t started yet, so don’t worry. I’m glad you could come’. I tell her the way to the loo, offer her the name badge, then we go through the door into the shrine room. It seems like a haven of peace in there, with everyone sitting still as if already in meditation. Debbie goes to the last remaining chair and I make my way to my meditation mat, trying not to tread on anyone in the process.
At last we are all settled. There is a little pause, then Robert introduces the monk and says how happy we are to have him with us.
‘Well, it’s good to be here with you all’, says the monk. ‘I hope this will be a time of peace and inner replenishment, an oasis away from the pressures of daily life.’
He stands in front of the coffee table shrine and lights first the chunky white candles and then the incense stick, which he holds between his uplifted hands and raises above him as if invoking a blessing. He then replaces it in the little pot of sand on the coffee table and returns to his meditation mat.
We start the session with a little chanting, using sheets Robert obtained from the monastery. The words are in Pali, the ancient language from India in which Buddhist teaching was written down. It’s a bit like Thai, but is no longer spoken. The words express gratitude to the Buddha for his teaching, and to his disciples, who have practised and brought it down to us over the centuries.
The sound is soothing and we all join in as best we can. The chanting seems to bring the group together, although I have to admit that I do not feel very comfortable with it – too much associated with ‘religion’, for me – and I wonder whether there are others in the group who feel the same. But I have made the decision to go along with things as they are, and I must say, the monk’s voice is pleasant and melodious and I let the chanting float over me.
We follow the monk’s example and bow our heads at various points, and then we settle down on our cushions or chairs. I wonder how many of the group are actually Buddhists, how many can already meditate and what they want to get out of the group.
The monk pauses for a moment or two, then begins to speak. ‘Well then’, he says, smiling around, ‘perhaps we could introduce ourselves and maybe say why we are here and what our hopes are for this course?’
As usual when such a statement is made, no one moves. The monk waits for a moment, laughs and says, ‘Well, I’ll get the ball rolling, shall I? And then you can follow if you wish.’
He tells us his name is Venerable Bhante and adds that we can call him Bhante if we wish, though I always think of him as ‘the monk’. He has been a Buddhist monk for over thirty years and he was a Zen Buddhist for 15 years before he moved to the Theravada school of Buddhism. He mentions that there is also a branch of Tibetan Buddhism, headed by the Dalai Lama.
He says that Theravada Buddhism is the oldest form, given directly by the Buddha to his disciples in repetitive, almost poetic words. They learned them by hearing and saying them over and over, handing the teaching on from generation to generation until it was written down about 300 years after the Buddha died. The Tibetan and Zen schools of Buddhism developed later, but share the same roots.
‘I love the sense of continuity, the knowledge that the words of wisdom the Buddha spoke have been repeated down the ages, helping so many people on the way’, he confides. ‘And now it has spread all over the world so that Buddhism is the fourth largest religion after Christianity, Islam and Hinduism, and the fastest-growing one in some of the developed Western countries.’
He pauses, then adds with a chuckle, ‘That is, if you can call Buddhism a religion…’
There is some surprise in the group at this statement. Rodney, the older man, raises an eyebrow.
‘Really?’ he says. ‘I always put “Buddhist” when I have to state my religion. Surely most people consider it to be a religion?’
‘Whether or not it “qualifies” as a religion is a subject of endless debate’, replies the monk, ‘How long have you got?’ He laughs.
‘Why is that?’ asks Rodney.
‘Buddhism does not have many of the things that normally constitute a religion. There is no deity to be worshipped – the Buddha always insisted that he was just a teacher you listen to and follow if his words make sense to you. But you don’t worship him.
‘He was very clear about this. He wanted people to test his teaching, to try it out for themselves. He told his followers not to believe anything that was told to them, nor “written in holy scripture or handed down by previous generations; only believe in things that seem right and are helpful to you and those around you”.’
When I hear those words my tension goes. I feel my body relax. You really can’t fault that approach.
I was brought up in a house where there were such strong religious views – albeit unorthodox ones – that I soon learned to keep quiet and not to question what I was told. This repression continued until I was in my late twenties when all my doubts and uncertainties surfaced and eventually I had to break away from my family to find out for myself what I really did believe.
So to be given permission – indeed, to be advised by a spiritual teacher – only to take his words on board if they feel right to me, is really liberating. I feel happy already and eager for more. I listen intently as the monk continues.
‘And over the centuries, although the teaching has evolved, grown a number of branches and spread all over the world, the Buddha’s essential teaching – how to find happiness, freedom and peace through mindfulness and meditation – has remained the same and is freely available to everyone. It is something every man, woman and child can try for themselves, if they wish.
‘And that – learning mindfulness, and meditation, and experiencing the benefits they can bring – is why we are all here today.’
There is a murmur of affirmation, a feeling of tension relaxing. Then Ed, who looks as though he would be more at home on a rugby pitch than in a shrine room, says that his doctor told him that meditation might help his blood pressure.
‘That has certainly been shown to be one of the benefits of regular meditation’, replies the monk.
As if a cork has been released from a bottle, the rest of the group start introducing themselves. I try to remember them; names and voices float over me…‘Dan’…‘tried to meditate and found it difficult’… ‘need to be calmer’… ‘Nikki’… ‘worry a lot’…‘might help me relax…’ ‘find a sense of purpose in life’… ‘be happier’… ‘just feel there’s something missing in my life…’
‘Thank you’, says the monk. ‘I hope you will each find what you are looking for. This afternoon we will look at the very first tool the Buddha gave his followers – what we call ‘mindfulness’ – and how to use it in our daily life and in meditation. It has become quite fashionable these days.
‘Then in the following weeks we’ll build on that strong foundation with other simple processes from the Buddha’s tool kit and experience the benefits these can bring. But you don’t have to take my word for it – you can try everything out for yourselves.’
The monk looks around the group and smiles. ‘May I ask, how many of you have done meditation before?’ he asks.
Just over half the group put up their hands.
‘And how many of you practise regularly: every day or most days?’
Many of the hands go down and there is a little laughter.
‘So,’ he says, ‘most of you are new, or fairly new, to meditation?’
There is a sound of affirmation from the group, then Maggie, the pale woman with dark hair and green eyes at the far end of the room, puts up her hand.
‘Yes?’ asks the monk, smiling.
‘I am a little confused. People often talk about “meditation”, “mindfulness” and “mindfulness meditation”, and I’m not really sure what they mean or what meditation really is – and how “mindfulness meditation” is different from just, well, plain “meditation”?’
‘A good question’, replies the monk. ‘I will explain. The word “meditation” means many different things to different people. To meditate can simply mean to ponder or reflect, and it can also refer to a wide variety of techniques including relaxation, guided visualization, “mantra” meditation – where you repeat a word or a sound to help you achieve a state of peace, as in transcendental meditation – or in types of meditation where you focus intensely on a particular object, and others. But the type of meditation the Buddha taught, and the one that we are going to learn and practise, has become known as “mindfulness meditation”.’
Maggie smiles and says, ‘I’ve tried to meditate before and I know it’s really good for me and I should meditate more often, but the trouble is I find it so difficult to make myself get down to it.’
‘You’re not alone in that’, replies the monk. ‘Many people feel the same way and I understand this. We don’t always feel like doing what is “good for us”, do we?’
The group laughs.
‘And there can be a sense of duty about meditation, of having to do it, can’t there?’, continues the monk, ‘We say to ourselves things like: “I should meditate, it will make me a better person. If I were a better person, I’d meditate more, find peace, perhaps have some amazing spiritual experience”. It’s enough to make anyone feel grumpy, isn’t it?’
The group laughs again.
‘I’m here today to de-mystify meditation for you. People are inclined to make it more complicated than it is. It is not something that has to be done in a darkened room in hushed silence, with candles lit and incense burning, pleasant though these are’, he says, nodding toward the coffee table, ‘and it doesn’t take years and years of practice. Anyone can do it. So we will take it step by step and by the end of this course you will be meditating like pros.’
The monk chuckles, then takes a slow breath. He looks around the group and states, ‘It all starts with mindfulness.’
‘So, what exactly does mindfulness mean? Mindfulness, or being mindful’, he says, answering his own question, ‘simply means being completely aware of this present moment – really noticing how we are feeling, what we are looking at, seeing, hearing; and accepting it exactly as it is, without judging, comparing, criticizing or wishing that it were different. It’s simply focusing on how things are at this present moment – now – without trying to change them in any way. It’s being “in the now”, as some people say.’
The monk pauses, then says: ‘That may not sound like much, but learning to be mindful and practising mindfulness is one of the most helpful and empowering things you can ever do – and anyone can do it. In recent years, the medical profession has recognized its value more and more and it is being used in an increasing number of therapies. But you don’t need to be unwell to benefit from mindfulness; being mindful can benefit anyone and everyone.’
‘So’, he says, looking around the group, ‘how often are we doing one thing and thinking about another, or wishing that we were somewhere else or feeling worried or afraid of what might happen next?’
He pauses and looks at us all again. I am sure everyone recognizes what he is talking about. I certainly do.
‘When we let our thoughts wander we are not being present in the moment, we are not being mindful. We may be hundreds of miles away in thought; we may be years in the past or far into the future, pondering on things that have happened or things that might happen.
‘Our thoughts are all over the place, perhaps troubling and unsettling us, perhaps making our bodies feel tense. Perhaps they are even making us miss the joy of the present moment because we are feeling sad about how much we will miss it when it has passed.’
As the monk says that I have a vivid memory of myself in Greece, swimming in a clear blue sea on a perfect day, feeling unhappy because the holiday is nearly over and I am afraid that I may not come back again the following year; so the pleasure of the present moment is tinged with sadness. The last days of my holidays are often like that.
‘But with mindfulness’, continues the monk, ‘it need not be like that. As we learn to be mindful, to focus on what we are actually doing right now in this very moment, we experience the quality of the moment: the gentle breeze on our face, the fragrance of the roses, the song of the birds, the taste of the food in our mouth…we really appreciate them.
‘Of course, that kind of focus is not easy to maintain. As we practise mindfulness, we soon notice how often our thoughts have nothing to do with the present moment, how often we get distracted by thoughts of fear, worry, judgment and so on.
‘But even just noticing when this happens is a positive step and the more we practise our mindfulness, patiently bringing our minds back to the present moment, the easier and more natural it becomes. And happily, unlike almost any other practice, mindfulness doesn’t require any equipment, travelling, payment – anything other than the intention to do it.’
The monk stops, then says, ‘One of the very best ways to become mindful is to notice how our body is feeling at this very moment. So let’s do that now. Notice the feeling of the cushion or mat, or the chair beneath you; the temperature of your body; any tensions, aches and pains. Just notice them but don’t comment on them with your mind.’
There is a pause then Maurice, the guy I think looks as though he’d be more at home in a nightclub, says, ‘What do you mean “don’t comment”?’
‘This is what I mean’, replies the monk. ‘There you are, focusing on how your body is feeling, and as you do so, you feel an ache at the base of your spine. So you think Oh bother, my back is playing up again. I do hope it won’t get worse this afternoon. I wonder why it’s aching again? Maybe I pulled a muscle when I was carrying that case. I really should have been more careful. If it gets any worse I’d better make an appointment with the osteopath – more expense and – oh goodness – I haven’t paid off my credit card yet. I don’t know where the money goes; wretched government! and so on.’
The group starts to laugh, but the monk is continuing, ‘That’s what I mean by “commenting”,’ and he laughs too.
‘We got from the here-and-now experience of the feeling of a pain in the back to self-criticism – I should have been more careful – to fears about it getting worse, to worries about money and to complaints about the government. Do you see how our internal comment has turned a simple pain in the back into so much more? And we all do it, all the time – so much of our pain is caused by mental comment.’
‘How do we stop doing this, then?’ asks Maurice. I wonder what he does for a living, why he is here.
The monk answers,‘You focus on how you are right now and, if there’s pain, you feel it, but you don’t think about it. Just let your body feel the pain. Don’t resist it, don’t comment on it, don’t judge it; just allow it to be, just be with it.
‘Being mindful means bringing our mind back to the present moment, and noticing how our body is feeling brings us right back to the present immediately. Concentrating – really focusing – on what we are doing at this moment, does that too. But don’t concentrate so hard that you tense up. It’s more an awareness, an alertness, an openness, a noticing, an observing. ‘For example, it’s the feeling of the pen between our fingers if we are writing; the food in our mouth, and our chewing, if we are eating; the feeling of the water on our skin if we are taking a shower; the steering wheel in our hands if we are driving. We simply focus on what is real and what is actually happening right now, without letting our mind take us off somewhere else.’
The monk pauses for a moment, looks around the group then continues. ‘And each one of us has within us the perfect tool to help us with this, to help us with our mindfulness. Do you know what that is?’
He pauses again. There is silence in the group. ‘It’s our breath’, he says. ‘Every breath we take gives us the chance to be mindful, to connect with this present moment.
The monk stops, breathes deeply, then says, ‘We notice the feeling of the breath going into our nostrils; we feel its cool passage down into our lungs; we feel it going back up again and passing out through our nostrils. We don’t try to control it in any way, we just let it be: a beautiful, calming, healing, refreshing breath.
‘While we are focusing on that, we are naturally being mindful because the action of breathing is occupying us. In the process we clear our mind; we feel the peace and the strength of this moment; we are fully here, now.
‘Let’s do it’, he says. ‘Let’s try being mindful of our breath – “watching our breath”– as they say.
The monk waits for a moment. We move a little to prepare.
‘Breathe in’, says the monk. ‘Feel the air going in through your nostrils and down into your lungs; then be aware of it going out again.’
I do it. We spend a minute or two taking a few breaths. I immediately feel more at peace, more grounded, more in touch with my own strength. I am amazed at the effect this simple technique has.
‘Why don’t I always do this?’ I ask myself. My mother always used to tell me to take a few deep breaths before I had to go through any ordeal – but they were not breaths like this. My mind wasn’t on them. They were more gulps, all mixed up with fear and apprehension. But taking a deep breath the monk’s way feels altogether different. It really does calm me and, in a funny way, put me in touch with myself.
‘If your mind wanders, just gently bring it back to your breathing’, the monk is saying.
I realize I have stopped focusing on my breathing, and bring my mind back. As I feel the air going in through my nose I immediately feel at peace again, sort of anchored.
‘Well, how was that?’ asks the monk, after another few breaths, with almost a chuckle in his voice.
‘Good, really good’, says Gwyn.
‘I couldn’t feel when it entered my nostrils’, comments Ed.
‘Just notice it at whatever point you can feel it’, replies the monk. ‘Mindfulness is about what you are feeling yourself, not what you are being told to feel. Notice how breathing in then breathing out feels for you at this moment. As you practise, you may well find that your awareness of your breath changes.
‘So, to repeat’, continues the monk, ‘mindfulness means being completely focused on the present moment and noticing what is happening to us right now, without getting distracted by thoughts that take us away from that. It’s being “aware” without “commenting”, or judging in any way. Just “being”.
‘We can do this by simply noticing how our body is feeling or by concentrating fully on what we are doing at this moment, bringing our mind back to that when other thoughts intrude and, above all, by following our breath.
‘How often do we breathe in a day?’ the monk asks. ‘So how often do we have the opportunity to be mindful in a day? Being mindful of our breath is a remarkable tool. The more you use it, the better it becomes and the more you will come to love and to value it.
‘And mindfulness breathing is so easy and so discreet that once you get used to it you can do it whenever you remember, wherever you are. And you hardly notice you’re doing it: you just feel more and more peaceful, happier, better in yourself and more contented with life. Now that’s worth a little bit of practice, isn’t it?’
The monk pauses and smiles. ‘After all, you’re breathing all the time; why not make each breath a mindfulness breath as you tune into the present moment, into “now”. When you can do that, you’ll know true peace.
‘You can have some fun with it, too, he says, chuckling. ‘You can set up a little “reminder system” for yourself. Let every loud noise you hear be a reminder to take some beautiful, refreshing, calming, mindfulness breaths. For example, there’s a dog barking: breathe in, breathe out. Follow your breath, really notice it. There’s a doorbell ringing: breathe in, breathe out; someone shouting: breathe in, breathe out; a siren sounding: breathe in, breathe out; a plane overhead: breathe in, breathe out… and so on.
‘One thing you can say about modern life’, he says, laughing, ‘is it does give any number of opportunities for us to practise our mindfulness breathing!’
‘You can do it with “worry” thoughts, too. Every time a worry comes into your mind, turn it into a reminder to take several healing mindfulness breaths: in, out; let it be, let it go; in, out, let it be, let it go. The more you do it, the more natural it feels and the benefits to you just keep on building and building.
‘Make the intention to be mindful, and you’ll find you remember to do it more and more. The more you do it, the easier it is to remember to do it and the more enjoyable it becomes.’
‘Now’, says the monk, ‘once you’ve got the hang of moment-to-moment mindfulness, you can move on to mindfulness meditation.
‘Meditation is really joined-up mindfulness, you know. We allow ourselves a period of time when we can sit and concentrate on our breathing. We do it in the same way as we have just been doing, but we do it for longer periods of time.
‘By doing that each day, or more than once a day – many times, even, as we do in the monastery, though I do not advise that for beginners – we practise the technique of being mindful in our lives. It therefore becomes easier and we also build up what I like to think of as our “mindfulness pool”, a reservoir of peace and strength within us that we can dip into and draw on whenever stresses and challenges come along.
‘And, I promise you, it’s simple. If you can breathe, you can be mindful; and if you can be mindful, you can meditate. When you do it regularly, the benefits – both physical and mental – just keep on coming.’
‘So’, asks Rodney, the older man who looks as though he’s got a copy of the Sunday Telegraph rolled up in his bag, ‘what is the goal of meditation? Finding peace? Lowering our blood pressure?’ He pauses, then adds facetiously, ‘Healing the world?’
He sounds crisp and efficient, as though he is going through a checklist and ticking things off.
‘All of those, perhaps’, replies the monk, laughing, ‘but the real goal, Rodney – if there is such a thing as a goal in meditation – is to get to the state where you don’t need goals’.
The monk pauses for a moment. We are all silent. Perhaps the others, like me, are trying to take on board the idea of having no goals.
‘What I mean’, he continues, ‘is that one of the effects of meditation is that you become so aware of this moment – through concentrating on your breath going in and out, and experiencing the peace this brings – that you stop focusing on goals.
‘There is some research that backs this up. Scientists have found that after you’ve been meditating for 20 minutes or so you start to function in “right-brain” rather than “left-brain” mode – or to use plain language, you stop being so active and goal-driven, and become more peaceful, more grounded, less full of thoughts, and at the same time, more open to your intuition, your feelings, your creativity, your natural joy – more in touch with the deeper parts of your being.’
‘So’, persists Rodney, ‘how long would you say it takes before you start feeling the benefits of meditation – if you do it every day or most days?’
‘There have been quite a number of studies on the effects of mindfulness meditation’, replies the monk. ‘In one study, discernable physical changes occurred in the brains of those who had been meditating for 20 minutes every day for eight weeks. These people also showed reduced levels of stress generally and better performance in stressful multi-tasking tests compared to the control group who did not meditate. Regular, preferably daily, meditation has also been shown to improve memory, depression and attention span.’
‘So’, smiles the monk, ‘it’s worth doing. And when you begin to feel the benefits you will have an extra incentive. People often start meditating because they’ve heard about the benefits, and then continue because they are experiencing them, and then they start to enjoy meditating … so it’s really win, win, win.’
There is a pause. The monk looks around the group and Nikki, who I’ve been mentally dubbing Yoga Woman because I have a feeling she practises yoga, catches his eye.
‘May I ask a practical question? Is there a time of day when it’s best to meditate?’
‘Yes’, replies the monk, ‘any time that suits you and fits in with your life. Of course it’s best to find a time when you know you will not be disturbed by other people, so be practical about it and find a time when you can be reasonably sure you won’t be interrupted.
‘Switch off your phone, and ask those around you to leave you in peace for ten, fifteen or twenty minutes, or however long you need. Then, when you’re meditating, if there are noises such as planes, cars, sirens, bursts of music or whatever, just let them be – don’t let them irritate you, don’t fight against them. In meditation we are opening ourselves to this moment and that means to everything that this moment contains – to “what is”.’
There is another pause, then Debbie, who seems to have completely recovered from her late arrival, raises her hand and asks, ‘How often should I do it? Should I try to do it every day? And how long should I do it for?’
‘Oh my, that’s a lot of “shoulds”’, retorts the monk, laughing.
The group laughs and Debbie blushes.
‘I’m a hairdresser with two young children and a dog, so it’s difficult to fit everything in,’ she explains. ‘But I feel if I could meditate each day I’d be calmer and could manage things better.’