Just for Now, Without asking how, let yourself sink into stillness.
by Danna Faulds
It’s such a liberating phrase – ‘just for now’. We don’t say to ourselves often enough – ‘just for now, this is what I’m doing. Just for now, it is enough.’ Instead there can be this sense of ‘Yes, I’m doing this task, but there are plenty of other things I should be doing right now as well.’ Even though we haven’t yet worked out how to clone ourselves and actually carry out all these different tasks simultaneously, we may still feel as if we should. And this way of living can be the cause of a great deal of unnecessary anxiety and angst.
I’m aware of this when I’m in the garden and notice all the work to be done, instead of (just for now) enjoying the plants which are growing well, and listening to the insects and birds. I’ve even caught myself, when I’m doing an essential task like bringing in the washing, feeling guilty for not doing something else. Perhaps it’s because many of us are trying to cram so many things into our lives – somehow it doesn’t all quite fit, and so we’re constantly playing catch-up. Whatever the reason, it can cause a low-level anxiety which is quite exhausting over time.
We might pride ourselves on our multi-tasking, but research shows that there is actually no such thing as multi-tasking – we’re constantly switching our attention back and forth, and for each switch we pay the price of losing a little bit of energy and efficiency.
The opposite of ‘just for now’ is a sense of ‘what if’ or ‘it’s never enough’. How would it feel if, throughout the day, we could instead say to ourselves.
‘Just for now, I’m doing this,’ or
‘Just for now, I will allow myself a few moments of peace and stillness and contentment.’
Take a moment to pause several times throughout the day, and say quietly to yourself – ‘just for now, I’m doing this’, or ‘just for now, I pause and rest’. Notice how this feels – could this be something worthwhile to incorporate into your everyday life?
When families or communities experience a crisis, the temptation is to look for an easy solution and for someone else to blame. The unconscious thinking might be ‘if only x hadn’t done y, then everything would still be okay.’ If we can quickly ensure that x no longer does y, then the crisis is quickly resolved, and our lives can go back to what they were before the emergency.
Of course, very few crises are this easy to fix, or have only one person or group of people to blame. Usually the conditions which led to the crisis have been festering for years, perhaps ignored or hidden away, and there are many people who should have acted sooner or spoken out. It follows then that the solutions may also take years and involve everybody to some extent, and that a successful outcome is far from certain.
This is where we can benefit from the ‘wisdom of not knowing’, what in Zen is sometimes called the ‘don’t know mind.’ For complex issues such as climate change, there is no one person in the world who has ‘the solution.’ We can make decisions based on the current best available evidence, implement changes in our own lives according to our values and encourage others to follow along, but we don’t know what the unintended consequences of our actions might be, or whether the best knowledge available now will still be correct in five years’ time. In Australia, we have plenty of examples where people thought they’d come up with a good solution, only to find the solution was far worse than the original problem it was meant to solve. A well-known example is the cane toads which were imported to deal with beetles affecting sugar production, and which have decimated wildlife in parts of Australia.
The wisdom of not knowing lies in the humility of accepting that we don’t have all the answers and can’t single-handedly solve complex problems. The wisdom of not knowing lies in the humility of accepting that we don’t have all the answers and can’t single-handedly solve complex problems. It is not a disengaged apathy, but rather a stance of remaining open-minded and curious about new information. One of our strengths as human beings is our ability to cooperate across large complex systems. Traffic flow in a large city is one such example – apart from the occasional rogue bad driver, most people cooperate on the roads, and are supported by a vast network of road agencies, local councils, road workers, police, town planners, and many others. If a car breaks down or has an accident in a modern city, help through the emergency services is almost immediately at hand. It takes a lot of complex organisation and planning to be able to offer such a timely response no matter where we are in the city. We tend to take this for granted, but it’s just a small example of how good us humans can be at working together to find solutions.
A crisis, because of its unexpected nature, tends to bring out the best and the worst in us. In the recent bushfires, while many people were putting their lives on the line to protect their communities, others were peddling outrageous conspiracy theories on the internet, or coming up with elaborate scams to swindle people out of money. It’s easy to point the finger of blame on ‘the other’. And while people in power do need to be held accountable for their decisions, we all have a part to play in finding ongoing solutions. Meditation can help us to sit with strong emotions without trying to shift blame outwards. We can sit in uncertainty, instead of rushing into looking for easy solutions. This can be helpful when our community is going through upheaval, but also for difficult times within our families. The meditation teacher Pema Chodron calls it being ‘comfortable with uncertainty’, and learning to spend more time in this state can be a powerful way in which we can contribute to the collective wellbeing of our families and communities.
Mindfulness practice idea:
Set ten minutes aside for a quiet meditation. If feelings of discomfort arise, notice how these feel in your body, being open and curious about your experience. How does it feel, to be able to simply sit with the discomfort?
For the past few months, I have gone back to focusing on counting the breath during my meditation, which is a form of meditation I probably first learnt more than thirty years ago. For this practice, the focus is on the breath out, and to help with concentration, I count a slow, silent ‘one’, ‘two’, ‘three’ and so on during each outbreath, up to ten, and then start back at one again. It sounds pretty straight-forward, but can actually be surprisingly difficult to do, as my mind would much rather be busy planning or strategising or fantasising than simply being present with the breath.
It can be very grounding and reassuring to go back to basics, whether in meditation or in other parts of our lives. There is a sense of ensuring a strong foundation, on which we can then place the many often complex components of our lives, like the wooden beams and bricks of a well-built house. Ensuring a strong foundation is not nearly as exciting as choosing curtains or buying new furniture, but a house with unstable foundations can soon start to show the cracks. Sometimes, we can be tempted to look for complex or high-tech solutions, while neglecting the fundamentals such as nourishing food, exercise, sleep, and rest.
I often find myself unwittingly doing this – trying to devise intricate systems for managing my life when much of the time, what I need to be doing next is actually quite simple and straight-forward. Our lives are filled with countless tasks we dismiss as ‘chores’, but these chores are like our foundation. When they’re taken care of, there is hopefully still room for excitement, creativity, for the new and the stimulating. It’s about finding a balance which works for us – some people are quite content at home, whereas others love travel and excitement. It is terrible to be caught in a life of endless drudgery, but it can also be destabilising to be constantly in search of new excitement. When I was backpacking around India in my twenties, I sometimes met travellers who had been on the road for years. They often seemed a bit lost, as if they’d spent too long in the company of strangers, without the familiarity of a community and routine.
We’re often encouraged to search for external solutions – buy this, subscribe to that, go to this workshop to turn your life around. All these external resources can be helpful, but they can also become excessive, superfluous, an end in themselves. I recently heard the meditation teacher Ayya Santacitta talk about how we can ‘leak’ our energy through our thoughts and behaviours if they’re too uncontained. Going back to basics could be about reducing some of those leaks, developing a stronger container to be filled with essentials rather than living like a sieve which barely notices what passes through.
It is one of the aspects I used to enjoy about going camping – all your essentials could be carried in a backpack, and a single rubber band become a valuable commodity to be stored with care. Going back to basics is not about being simplistic, but it can help to ground us, and to nurture that which is most sustaining in our lives.
Think about an area in your life which is feeling overly complex. Is there an activity you could do to bring this area ‘back to basics’? Set aside some time to do this activity in a slow, mindful way, and notice yourself becoming more grounded and focused as you do this. What did you notice?
When Europeans first came to Australia and started painting the landscape, they used the colours they were familiar with from their training in Europe. We can look at these paintings now in art galleries, and although they are meant to depict Australian scenes, to our modern eye they don’t look Australian at all – the colours and even the shapes of the trees seem to come straight out of Europe.
Humans vary in the number of colours we can distinguish, but estimates range from 1 million to 100 million different colours. Artists are particularly highly trained to differentiate and reproduce a wide range of colours, but as the example above shows, not even an artist can necessarily ‘see’ true colours without the influence of their cultural upbringing.
It is an interesting exercise to look around and notice just how many different colours and shades of colours there are in our environment. Some of the questions we can ask ourselves as we explore colours might be:
How different do colours look in sunshine and in shade? In the morning, or at noon?
What do I notice when looking at man-made colours, or colours in nature?
Do I have different emotional responses to different colours?
How many different gradients of colours does a single flower have?
What colours do I enjoy wearing, and which ones do I feel uncomfortable in?
If I were to do a meditation breathing colour into my body, what colour would I choose today?
People often comment that colours seem brighter after a meditation retreat, and I have noticed this for myself as well. We can explore colours through painting, crafts, fashion or photography. Or we can sit in front of a painting, or in a park or at the beach, and allow ourselves to become absorbed in the different colours and notice the effect they have on us. There are psychological theories about the impact of various colours on our moods and our health which are interesting to learn about. However, we can also explore these as a mindfulness practice for ourselves – becoming more aware of the great richness of colours around us, and of their impact on us.
As the painter Wassily Kandinsky said once,
‘Colour is a power which directly influences the soul.’
‘The most precious thing we can give to another is our presence, which contributes to the collective energy of mindfulness and peace. We can sit for those who can’t sit, walk for those who can’t walk, and create peace and stillness within us for people who have no stillness or peace.’
Thich Nhat Hanh
If you enter a room full of meditators, it might seem as if each person is caught up in their own little bubble, watching their breath and their thoughts with little awareness of their surroundings. And while it is possible to meditate in this way, my experience of meditation retreats has been the opposite – that over the days, as you drop into stillness and become more attuned to what is happening for you, you are also becoming more attuned to the people you’re sharing the space with. And even though the retreat might be in silence, there can be a strong sense of community, of supporting each other in our practice, and working harmoniously together to make the retreat experience a meaningful one for everybody.
Of course, we don’t need to be at a retreat to cultivate this sense of connection to ourselves and others through meditation. While we are often interested in learning meditation for personal reasons, such as managing stress better or dealing with illness or other challenges, over time a meditation practice will also enable us to be more present to others in our lives. As human beings we’re highly social creatures, and we can immediately sense whether someone is really listening to us, or whether their mind is elsewhere. A particularly mortifying experience is talking to someone at a social gathering who is clearly looking out for a more interesting or important person to come along. As Maya Angelou expressed so eloquently:
‘I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.’
We don’t need to be calmly floating around all the time for people to have a sense of our presence. Whether we meditate or not, we will all have our good days, our distracted days, and our downright unpleasant days. Yet it is heartening to remember, as we make the commitment to meditate more regularly, that meditation can help to cultivate connections, to add to the collective energy of stillness in the midst of busy lives. It is a simple practice, but the ripple effect does extend out to our families and to others we interact with. We might be sitting in meditation on our own, but we’re doing it both for ourselves and for others.
Next time you meditate, think of the practice as an offering to others. In some traditions, meditators formally dedicate their meditations to benefit all other beings. Experiment with a few words of your own, and notice how this feels.
As this joke so cleverly illustrates, we have, by and large, become a rather impatient culture. Many of us do yearn for a sense of stillness among all the rushing around, some time for quiet reflection and rest, but we often want it now, quickly and easily, available to us whenever we need it, like flicking a switch on and off. Busy. Stillness. Busy. Stillness.
Yet the times which call on our patience, at a deep, psychological and even spiritual level, tend to come when we least expect them, and mostly not by invitation. Often these times occur at those crossroads in our lives where we move from one life stage to another. The teenager taking her place in the world of adults, the young carefree man who grows into the responsibilities of fatherhood, the woman whose children have left home and who is now maturing into a new sense of self. Other times might be an extended period of study, where we are developing towards a new career but are still unformed in our knowledge and competency. Pregnancy is a long wait towards the birth, and recovery from a serious illness or trauma can take months or years.
These are slow, deep processes of development, much of it happening below the level of our everyday consciousness, but all too often we want to transition straight from being a caterpillar into the butterfly, without the waiting time of the cocoon. Like the characters in ‘Waiting for Godot’, we’re waiting around with no guarantee that Godot will ever come. Shouldn’t we be going somewhere, doing something, ticking a few boxes on our endless lists of things to do and, while we’re at it, get the bucket list happening as well?
Waiting can seem disempowering, as if we’re a damsel in distress waiting for the prince to rescue us, rather than taking responsibility for our lives. It is certainly true that we can spend too much time in waiting, getting stuck at a point in our lives while opportunities pass us by. Yet there are certain processes which can’t be rushed. We sow some seeds in a pot and then wait weeks for the seedlings to emerge. We want to make some changes in our lives but need to be patient with the deeper processes of transformation.
While the act of growing seedlings can’t be rushed, we can provide optimal conditions for the plants to emerge and thrive. Similarly, in our own lives, we can endeavour to create opportunities for the waiting times to develop in their own natural rhythm, so they can bear fruit when the time is right. In the modern world we don’t always have a narrative which honours times of waiting, of being in the cocoon for a period of time.
For a while now I’ve been trying to teach myself to be more patient with the need to wait. One small example is when I’m in a hurry and find myself stuck behind someone slower (a slow car, an elderly person, a family with little children). Instead of getting impatient, I pause to silently thank them for slowing me down. It’s a small gesture, but it turns around for me that constant imperative to rush. As Milton said in his famous poem ‘When I consider how my light is spent’:
‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’
What are some of the waiting times in your life? Can you slow down a little, for example through meditation, and find a way of consciously valuing these times?