by Jason Siff
In the spring of the following year, my wife and I left Nepal, where we had lived for nearly six years, and went to Sri Lanka. As soon as we were off the plane and through immigration, we took a bus to Colombo and then another bus to a meditation center we had heard about. By nightfall we were receiving meditation instructions from one of the monks. Then we were separated. She was assigned to a small room in the female compound, and I was given a room on the outskirts of the monastery.
We had both done several ten-day meditation retreats in Nepal and India at centers teaching Goenka’s Vipassana method. This meditation center taught the Vipassana method of the famed Burmese monk Mahasi Sayadaw. We were asked to stop doing Goenka’s Vipassana. We were instructed not to observe our breath at the nostrils but instead to observe the rise and fall of our abdomen. We were instructed to note each sense impression in terms of the sense door (such as “hearing, hearing” for when we heard the sound of a bird, and not “bird chirping”). Also, we were told that we should alternate our sittings with one-hour periods of walking meditation, and we were given instructions to keep our attention focused on the lifting, moving, and placing of our feet as we slowly paced up and down the wide corridors.
Rather than unlearning our previous meditation practice, we were asked to abandon it and take up a new one—as if that were humanly possible. What I did was practice Goenka’s method for about half the sittings during the day and then tried out the new method in the remaining sittings. I really didn’t want to give up my familiar practice, even though instead of making me calmer and clearer, the moving of sensations up and down my body, along with alternating between sitting in lotus and half-lotus postures, was creating muscle tightening and spasms. Much of each sitting was taken up by painful sensations shooting through my body and the desire to relieve all the physical tension. Only in the early morning or after the midday meal did I feel relaxed enough to make it through an entire sitting without moving. I stuck with sitting through my pain and soon was able to devote more meditation sittings to this new method, and I began to have experiences that are common when practicing that method seriously and exclusively.
By the end of three weeks, I had decided to become a monk, and my wife had decided to become a nun. I ordained at that very same meditation center, while she left soon thereafter for Bodhgaya, India, since women weren’t ordained at that center. I continued to meditate using the Mahasi method, trying to leave my old meditation practice behind, though I would often find myself focusing on my breath at the nostrils and, occasionally, moving sensations up and down my body.
Eventually I discovered ways to transition more thoroughly to what I saw as a more grounded and sensible meditation practice, which integrated the instructions of both methods, and which also helped me tolerate my physical discomfort. Instead of moving sensations through my body intentionally, I began to allow my attention to go where sensations emerged naturally, as is taught in the Mahasi method. Without the intention to move sensations, I found that sensations just popped up in places, sometimes in the same place over and over again. Whereas before I would become involved in having a sensation that formed in my head move down into my chest and abdomen, I was now just allowing the sensation to form as it would naturally in my head, remaining open to seeing what would happen. Often what happened was that I would become focused on the particular sensation and I would start to break it down into smaller pieces, or I would try to find the center of the ache or pain and concentrate on it. I could easily have picked these instructions up from a teacher, as I have heard these instructions since, but none of my teachers or fellow monks ever mentioned going into physical sensations in these two ways. In the strict Mahasi method, you were supposed to note each sensation as it arose and passed away, which works fine for fleeting sensations but not so well when something sticks around for a long time, especially if it gets worse. So I had to learn other ways to be with what I was naturally experiencing.
Another thing I discovered was that by bringing my attention to the contact of my ankles and rear sitting on the hard, cold cement floor of my room, I could learn how not to focus on bodily sensations. This was completely opposed to concentrating on the sensations. By having my attention on the external contact of sitting on the cold, hard floor, I could then experience internal sensations with a certain distance. I no longer got involved in either moving sensations or focusing intensely on them. The world of internal sensations, which, for me, were mostly dull pains, feelings of tightness, throbbing, vibrations, and tingling, seemed to become looser, freer, more dynamic and changing as I continued to sit in this way. Also, quite contrary to my expectations, I developed greater tolerance for painful sensations by not focusing on them.
During this period, a fair percentage of my sittings were dedicated to being aware of my breath, and I would often switch to awareness of breathing when there were periods of almost no physical pain. I wanted to switch my focus of attention on the breath from the nostrils to the abdomen, and that took some time and considerable patience. I just couldn’t hold my attention on my belly for more than a few minutes. I would note “rising, rising” and “falling, falling” each time I felt my belly fully extend and contract, but it wasn’t the same as noticing the touch of the breath at the nostrils, which came so easily for me. It had a forced quality to it. Most of the time, I was trying too hard to keep my attention on my abdomen. Something had to change.
What I did was apply the same principle I learned from sitting with sensations. Instead of trying to focus on my abdomen, I brought my attention to my whole body sitting still, and from that vantage point, I noticed what was moving. What was moving when I breathed naturally was not my abdomen but my diaphragm, chest, and collarbone. The movement was occurring higher up in my body. To make my abdomen move in and out required an intention to create that movement; in a sense, I had to change the way I breathed to become aware of the rise and fall of the abdomen. What I did instead was just breathe naturally, and having my attention on my whole body sitting still made that possible. I could follow my breath easily for most of the sitting if I wanted to.
But observing my whole body breathing was never as absorbing as observing my breath at my nostrils. Upon reading the Buddha’s description in the Satipatthana Sutta (Discourse on Establishing Awareness) about bringing one’s attention to the front of one’s face and then noticing the breath go in and out, I tried that approach. It’s basically the same principle as being aware of your diaphragm going up and down as you keep your attention on the still posture of sitting. Having my attention on my whole face, which was essentially still for the whole sitting, provided a way to be with and notice the air that moved out of my nostrils and into them.
As I became more established in being aware of my body sitting still, other things that had previously been excluded from my meditation practice began to become more prominent. I began to have longer periods of thinking. Emotions emerged in my thoughts, and I would feel them less as bodily sensations and more as moods, attitudes, eruptions of feeling. My mind would drift off into some hazy, drowsy, and yet very tranquil states for long stretches of time, sometimes lasting a couple of hours. I had successfully unlearned the meditation instructions I was taught. I was moving in the direction of allowing my mind to be as it was in meditation.
I intuitively knew that this was a truly remarkable and beneficial development, but from the standpoint of the meditation instructions I had learned, it didn’t look that way. But this is how unlearning meditation looks, at least initially, both as a practice for beginners and as a direction for those who have learned a meditation practice.
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Gentle Intentions
The limb of the Buddha’s eightfold path that deals with intentions expressly states that two types of intention to develop in one’s practice are those of nonharming and not killing. These are intentions to be gentle and kind.
We are not used to things changing through being gentle and kind, thinking that we must take
decisive action or discipline ourselves with harsh methods (which include punishment and/or shame). There has to be some kind of faith or trust in the efficacy of gentle intentions to produce changes, for it doesn’t make rational sense that by being kind and patient, and by essentially doing less, we will transform in significant ways. We tend to prefer direct approaches to change, such as working hard on one thing or taking a prescribed course of training. Something indirect, such as being gentle and allowing with one’s inner experience, doesn’t meet the rational requirements, doesn’t suit the belief that change comes about by doing something that aims directly at what needs to be changed.
The third kind of intention the Buddha speaks of is the intention to renounce. It too is a soft intention, but it is often practiced in a strong, determined way that is not soft at all. What you renounce while unlearning meditation is not any previously learned meditation technique but, rather, any strong intentions that may have been attached to the technique. It becomes possible to do the meditation practices with gentle intentions. If you’ve learned, for example, to follow the breath as a meditation practice, this approach isn’t about abandoning that practice; rather, it’s about doing it without a strong intention. An example would be if you find yourself noticing the breath and you are able to gently focus your attention for a short while, seeing if it will stay there naturally or not. If your attention doesn’t stay with the breath, then let it move to where it will. But if it does, you will be with the breath and experience the benefits of that practice, even though your attention may only stay there for a minute or so.
Loosening around the Instructions
The tension between the meditation instructions you use and your mind as it is in meditation leads to tightening or loosening around the instructions. When we tighten around meditation instructions, we try to do them exclusively, rigidly, “correctly.” When we loosen around meditation instructions, we do them loosely, partially, or not at all.
There can often be a tightening around an instruction when you first learn it. It can’t be helped. That is what we do when we receive instructions and try to do them correctly. We don’t follow an instruction with the intent to be loose with it, for that would open the door for failure, for forgetting the instruction, for doing something other than the prescribed practice. No, we tend to want to do the instruction well, even perfectly, and get all the promised benefits from it.
The problem here is the type of intention that is required to do the instruction. To pursue this with you, I would have to propose that you consider that there are two types of intention to be found in the meditation instructions themselves:
• Strong, harsh, rigid intentions
• Gentle, light, flexible intentions
What tends to happen to you when you hear a meditation instruction such as “Be aware of your breath; when your mind wanders, bring it back to the breath” is that you have a strong, harsh, rigid intention to do just that. There is no room for doing anything else. The sole purpose of meditation becomes keeping your attention on the breath at all times.
What happens when that instruction becomes gentler, friendlier, more allowing? Say the teacher phrases it as, “Be aware of your breath. When your mind wanders, gently lead it back to the breath.” Is that going to create a gentle intention instead of a harsh one? In my experience, it does not. In fact, it tends to set up a bind. You are still being told to disregard thoughts and to concentrate on the breath. Paradoxically, until there is a true allowing and acceptance of thoughts in meditation, it is unlikely you will learn how to gently disengage from thinking. The imperative to pull yourself out of each mind-wandering goes against the conditions that would lead to gentleness.
If you have been following the grand theme of the tension between the meditation instructions you use and your mind as it is, you will see that any instruction that asks you to concentrate on one part of your experience (the breath) and exclude other parts of your experience (thoughts) will set up an internal struggle when the two are in conflict (such as fighting off thoughts to stay with the breath). You could say that the purpose of learning the practice to be aware of the breath is to conquer the mind’s own natural wildness and bring it in line with the breath. A struggle with your mind as it is occurs from the very outset by disallowing mind-wandering.
Long ago, having realized this and other problems with the instruction of following the breath, I decided not to teach meditation using it. Awareness of the breath is something I see people come to some time down the road on their own, when a good deal of harshness and rigidity has been weeded out of their meditation practice. Then it can be accomplished gently and effortlessly.
What I teach people new to meditation is to start with an awareness of the body sitting still. But it is hard to begin with an awareness of your whole body. So I ask them to start with bringing their attention to the touch of their hands on top of each other in their lap. The idea is not to hold your attention there all the time but to allow thoughts and feelings into the sitting also.
During the meditation sitting, anything that happens is okay. Falling asleep, planning a trip, worrying about a relationship, fantasizing, daydreaming, problem solving, anything. Wherever your mind goes, whatever comes up, however you feel, it is all okay. If you forget to notice your hands touching for a long period of time, that is fine too. All that is required of you is to sit still, but if you need to move, do so, and then resume a still posture. Your eyes can be closed or open, though I often find that this practice is more effective with eyes closed.
This may sound too loose to be a legitimate form of meditation. If your idea of meditation is staying with a particular object of meditation throughout the sitting, then this certainly doesn’t count as meditation. And that is part of what can keep people from embarking on the path of unlearning meditation: it does not meet the commonly held views about what meditation is. The practice of unlearning meditation is, very simply, being with your experience of meditating. It is not about the meditation instructions, but about what you experience in meditation. The chart below can be used to compare instruction-centered meditation practices and this approach of unlearning meditation.
Traditional Meditation
Unlearning Meditation
Strong intentions
Gentle intentions
Focused on a prescribed object (e.g., the breath)
Grounded on the body sitting still while allowing anything to come up
Constant reminding oneself to return to the breath
Periodic remembering to return one’s attention to the body or just finding one’s attention on the body of its own accord
Judging oneself for doing the meditation practice wrong and trying to find the correct way of doing it
Being okay with how one is meditating much of the time, except for periods of doubt and confusion as to this being an acceptable way to meditate
Discipline in terms of staying with the task is important
Developing tolerance for difficult feelings, thoughts, and memories coming up is important
Not only is the orientation different, so is the way it is taught.
In my workshops I ask people to take a few moments after each sitting and try to call back to mind what they can remember from it. Often they can remember only a few things. So I suggest that you start with what you remember most easily and then try to recall things that are less clear. You can write down your recollections in a notebook or journal. Recollective Awareness Meditation gets its name from this feature of recalling and journaling sittings. The purpose of the recollection is to become familiar with your experiences in meditation. I will go into this in more depth later on, but for now what you need to know is that we can use our memory to cultivate present-moment awareness. It is generally believed by those who teach and practice mindfulness meditation that present-moment awareness (mindfulness) is developed by using techniques that bring one into the present moment. That is a direct approach to achieving the aim of bein
g in the present.
Recollective Awareness is an indirect approach that accomplishes the same thing, but instead of only learning how to be present with the breath and bodily/sense experience as in the mindfulness techniques, one learns to be present with emotional and mental states, for that is what is often recalled. By recalling what you were experiencing emotionally in the meditation sitting afterward, you become more able to stay with similar emotional experiences when they arise again. And not only that, but you also become more interested in them and skilled in exploring them.
An important part of Recollective Awareness Meditation for many people has been talking about their meditation experiences with a teacher. Since some readers of this book may not have access to a teacher, I am including stories from individuals who have been meditating in this way, along with some actual journal entries from their sittings, including my observations and comments. I hope that you will be able to relate to some of what people have gone through and use that to further support your meditation practice. And you could always decide to attend one of my workshops or retreats, or those held by teachers I have trained.
Listed below are the basic meditation instructions for Recollective Awareness Meditation.
Find a quiet spot to meditate where you most likely won’t be disturbed by others or by the phone. Decide how long you are going to sit (anywhere from ten to forty minutes) and either set an alarm or have a clock nearby to peek at on occasion.
Sit in a comfortable posture, one that you feel you will not need to change for the duration of the sitting, either on a chair, on a couch, or on a meditation mat or cushion. But if you do need to move during the meditation sitting, try to move slowly and quietly into a more comfortable posture.
