The Constant

I meditate, but I don’t subscribe to the advantages most people claim. For me, it’s just something I’ve done every day since my twenties. It doesn’t make me a better person. It doesn’t make my day go better. And it definitely doesn’t curb my negative emotions.

I’ve meditated for thirty-plus minutes and for ten. These days I stick to ten—I’d rather give the rest of the time to other pursuits.

So why do I still do it every day? Two reasons, I gather. And neither is “because it’s a habit.”

The first is respite. Ten minutes before the day begins, before anyone else is awake, in the predawn dark. The second is observation—the practice of watching what I feel in the morning. More often than not, I’ll admit, it’s anger, distress, rage at times, or whatever went wrong the day before. Other times, my body is so battered from training and bad sleep that the ten minutes are just to get myself together before the day’s training. Meditation is anchored to training, training to meditation. One happens, the other follows. No exceptions.

That observation is a moment of truth. That’s where I watch and work hard not to judge what I feel. It doesn’t always work, but that’s the intent. That gut-wrenching frustration—or is it hatred? Am I hurt? Scared? I’m sure scared is part of it. If you have children, you’ll understand. It comes with the everlasting doubt: Am I enough? For my children? I’m afraid that’s a question that will never have an answer.

But here’s the deal. Every once in a blue moon, when I least expect it, a session comes in so blissfully perfect that everything flows in harmony—body and soul. Nothing is wasted. The focus, the observation—I can’t describe it except to say you feel light, relaxed, uplifted. In those moments, the ones where I feel connected to myself and to our Creator, it’s all worth it. They’re rare. Sometimes years pass between them. But when it happens, it’s a blessing.

So for those ten minutes, life stops. Everything stops. It’s just me and pure silence. And if you know me, you know silence is my favorite sound in the world. My favorite chaos? My children, of course.

For an introvert, silence and solitude are a gift. My family is the greatest gift of my life. Second after that: the years of solitude I got in my career—days on end sometimes passing without having to hear or say a single word. Just me, my thoughts, the running, the outdoors. Not a city. I miss that. Maybe I’ll write about it someday.

Because it’s all seasons. Seasons of clarity and tranquility, seasons of chaos.

Meditation is the constant.

As I write this, I recall what prompted me to begin. In my twenties, I was feeling aimless—having a degree and a promising future on paper, but lacking a clear purpose. I chose to diverge from the prescribed path, which was nearly unthinkable in my family.

I’ve always been the black sheep. I did things my way—not the right way, often the wrong way, but my way—and right or wrong, no matter the cost, I stuck with my decisions. That first big one left me with no focus, no direction. I can do without a map. I’ve done without a plan plenty of times. But without a compass—without knowing where my true north is—I can’t operate. The times I’ve gone without a bearing have been the worst of my life.

Then, a book found its way to me: Total Relaxation by John R. Harvey. I had owned it for years—books tend to come into my life at just the right moment. I eagerly read it and immediately began practicing the exercises. At that time, I was also reading The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. Somehow, though I can’t quite explain why, this marked the beginning of a daily routine I have maintained since the mid-2000s.

So try it. Not for the advantages they sell you—those may never come. Try it for the ten minutes of silence before the day, for the practice of looking at what’s inside without flinching.

And maybe, once in a blue moon, you’ll get the other thing.

Twenty years in, I’m still waiting on most of them. I show up anyway.