Three Minutes

"The only journey is the journey within."— Rainer Maria Rilke

"The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear."— Rumi

"The Kingdom of God is within you."— Jesus (Luke 17:21)

Yesterday I completed a silent meditation retreat from my home. Although the retreat itself was being held at our meditation center, I stayed home because I needed to be with my two dogs. Anyone who has dogs understands that sometimes life asks us to be in two places at once, and this was one of those times. Each day I called in for the Satsangs, spent four to five hours in meditation, and tried to carry that silence with me throughout the rest of the day. Whether I was making a meal, doing a few things around the house, or simply sitting outside watching the dogs enjoy another beautiful day, I quietly repeated the sacred mantra my teacher, Kathy, gave me many years ago. When I wasn't meditating, I listened to one Sant Mat lecture or book after another, allowing the teachings to settle into my heart instead of simply passing through my mind.

As I reflected on the past several days, I found myself thinking back more than thirty years to the first time I ever tried to meditate. The memory still makes me smile because if anyone had told my twenty-seven-year-old self that one day I would happily spend four or five hours a day meditating, I would have smiled politely, assumed they had mistaken me for someone else, and gone on with my day. At that point in my life, I couldn't make it through three minutes, and I am not exaggerating when I say those three minutes felt like an eternity.

Before I ever sat down to meditate, I imagined it would be peaceful. I assumed I would close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and somehow drift into a calm, quiet state. Instead, I discovered that my mind had no intention of cooperating. Every unfinished conversation suddenly became important. Every worry I had ever carried wanted my attention. Memories from years before came rushing in, along with random thoughts that seemed to appear from nowhere. It felt as though my mind had been waiting twenty-seven years for the opportunity to tell me everything all at once. Apparently, it had been saving it up.

My body wasn't much more cooperative than my mind. I remember leaning against a wall because I thought sitting upright might be the problem. Within a minute I had changed positions. Then I changed again. Somehow I ended up lying flat on my back on the hardwood floor, and I honestly think I even got up and exercised because sitting still seemed almost impossible. Looking back, I can only imagine what someone would have thought if they had walked into the room. They certainly wouldn't have described what I was doing as meditation. I remember wondering how anyone could meditate for twenty minutes, let alone an hour, when I couldn't even stay in one position for more than a few moments.

Looking back, I think the remarkable part of that experience wasn't that I struggled. Almost everyone struggles in the beginning. The remarkable part is that I never gave up. I certainly wondered if meditation simply wasn't for me, but something much deeper kept drawing me back. I had become fascinated with spirituality, and I read everything I could find. I wandered through New Age bookstores for hours, attended workshops and weekend events, bought stacks of books, and listened to guided meditations on cassette tapes until they practically wore out. If someone recommended a book, I bought it. If someone suggested a meditation technique, I tried it. I was searching for something, although I couldn't have explained exactly what it was.

Nothing changed overnight. In fact, the changes were so gradual that I almost missed them. One day I noticed my mind wasn't racing quite as much. A few months later I realized I could sit a little longer without becoming restless. Then a little longer still. There was never a dramatic breakthrough or a single experience that suddenly transformed everything. Progress came quietly, almost unnoticed, until one day I realized I had traveled much farther than I ever imagined. Looking back, I think that is how most real growth happens. It rarely announces itself.

Somewhere along the way I heard someone suggest using a mantra. At the time I had no teacher and no formal instruction. I simply wanted something that would help gather my wandering attention. The words I chose came from the opening of the Gospel of John because they had always touched something deep inside me: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." I didn't really understand why those words resonated so strongly. I only knew they did. Looking back now, it makes me smile because I had no idea where those words would eventually lead me.

As I silently repeated that passage while gently focusing my attention at the point between my eyebrows, I found that my mind settled a little more easily. I also began visualizing myself surrounded by white Light. Before long I was surrounding my home with Light, then my family, and eventually just about everything else I could think of. Those practices genuinely helped me for a time, but eventually I realized they had become another activity for my mind. Instead of becoming quieter, I was giving my imagination another project to manage, and if you've ever met my mind, giving it another project is usually not the answer.

Years later, after finding Sant Mat, so many pieces of the puzzle finally came together. I learned that the verse from John's Gospel that had captivated me for years was understood by many Christian mystics as referring to the inner Word, the living power of God. In Sant Mat that same divine current is known as the Shabd, the Holy Sound, or the Audible Life Stream. Different traditions use different names, but for me it felt as though I had spent years following little breadcrumbs without realizing they were all leading in the same direction.

One teaching in particular changed the way I approached meditation. I came to understand that the mind is not our enemy. It has simply spent a lifetime moving outward through the senses, so of course it resists becoming still. Once I accepted that, I stopped expecting perfection every time I sat down to meditate. Whenever my attention wandered, I gently brought it back. Sometimes I had to do that dozens of times during a single meditation, but I eventually realized that bringing my attention back wasn't interrupting the meditation. It was the meditation. That realization alone took an enormous amount of pressure off me.

Even today, after more than three decades of practice, my mind still wanders. The difference is that I no longer become discouraged by it. I simply notice where my attention has gone and bring it back once again. Some days that happens only a few times. Other days it seems to happen every few seconds. Both are part of the journey, and I've finally stopped grading myself every time I sit down to meditate.

As I finished my retreat yesterday, I found myself wishing someone had told my younger self that struggling is not a sign of failure. If you can only meditate for three minutes today, then begin with three minutes. If your mind races the entire time, don't assume you're doing it wrong because I promise you're in very good company. Every time you notice your thoughts have wandered and gently return your attention to where you intended it to be, you are strengthening something much deeper than concentration.

When I look back now, I am actually grateful for those first awkward attempts because they remind me that no one begins by sitting effortlessly for hours. We all begin somewhere. We begin by wrestling with our thoughts, shifting positions, opening our eyes to check the clock, and wondering whether everyone else has discovered some secret we somehow missed. If we simply keep coming back, day after day, something begins to change so gradually that we hardly notice it until one day we realize we have been sitting peacefully for twenty minutes without looking at the time.

My own journey didn't begin with four or five hours of meditation. It began with three restless minutes on a hardwood floor, and I am grateful that something deep within me kept bringing me back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Looking back now, I realize those three minutes were never the problem. They were the beginning.