Do you have to meditate to meditate?
I recently came across this excellent infographic on meditation, which shreds common meditation myths, offers a factual step-by-step guide, and recaps the countless and oft-cited benefits of this practice.
The piece doesn’t shy away from an unfortunate truth about meditating (especially in the beginning and especially for those of us with especially restless minds): it’s difficult. Really, really difficult.
I’ve written before about my struggles with pranayama and meditation. In fact, the hardest part of every single yoga class I walk into is the first pose, often called the “bone-settling” posture. Whether it’s in a traditional savasana pose, constructive rest, or sukhasana, it’s stillness and silence.
During this exercise, which I believe is intended to be de-stressing, we’re encouraged to focus on our breath and let our bodies relax into the mat. Quite simply, it’s the part where I desperately want to run out of the room. (What about savasana? Sometimes, it’s easier easier if class has been particularly physically tiring, but sometimes it’s another interminable period of wondering how much longer we have, thinking about anything and everything, and trying very hard not to fidget.)
However, I have experienced thoroughly meditative states. I understand the precise brain sensations we’re looking for during actual meditation. Recently, I sat down at my electric piano to revisit pieces I had memorized years ago (decades, even!). The sheet music sat before me, but forcibly reading the notes on the page, processing them, and translating the instruction to my fingers failed me. Everything felt clunky.
Something sparked deep in the back of my mind. I tried to turn everything else off and encourage that little spark to glow. Muscle memory and an indescribable connection between melody and instantaneous intuition into each future note’s direction took over. To keep the flow continuing, I couldn’t think about anything else. I couldn’t think about playing the piano, either.
My mind needed to be entirely blank, save for that tiny sliver of consciousness controlling the tapping of the piano keys. I faltered numerous times in one song; I thought the note, or about dinner. Each time, I patiently dragged my brain back into that passive twilight state.
When the song ended and I re-emerged into full consciousness, I felt awesome. And I thought about painting. Walls.
It turns out that this meditative state was not new. It was exactly how, as a homeowner with a lot of 1990s-era aesthetic neglect from the previous owner to remedy, I had learned how to paint those expansive diabolical boundaries where wall meets ceiling (or, to a lesser degree, doorframe or window frame).
Many rooms still bear the feathery scars of my more deliberate, over-thought attempts at navigating the edges. Eventually, I discovered the secret to crisp, flawless lines: You can’t think about it. But you also can’t think about anything else. Passive twilight state again. Empty mind. Meditation.
I’ve found many parallels between yoga and both of those experiences: playing the piano and painting walls. The physical movement that lends a comforting rhythm and repetition. The sense of creating (brief, potential, fleeting) beauty, and practice-makes-perfect gains that are possible after repeated practice.
I’ll continue striving to reach the desired state during “traditional” meditation. I’ll also practice my unconventional meditation with a paint can and keyboard.
Where have you found a meditative state in unexpected places?
