This is where I make my argument for meditation. In the way that I use the term, meditation is synonymous with awareness practice….

There are many types of meditation, which can be confusing. One can meditate to reduce stress, to take a time-out from life. One can meditate to focus the attention on a particular object to the exclusion of others. One can meditate to get a new perspective on a problem. One can meditate as a way of deepening a relationship with a supreme being.

My definition of meditation is “being present in conscious awareness.” To be free of suffering, we must learn to be in the moment in which life is happening. In my experience, it takes a good deal of paying attention to the attempts to be in the moment to realize how out of the moment we are.

The second book I read on Zen gave instructions for a sitting meditation. I learned two things: (1) You sit in the full lotus position (the posture in which your legs are crossed, feet resting on thighs); and (2) you count your breaths from one to ten, then start over with one.

I began immediately. How I learned to sit is something I explain to people when they are just beginning, because I think my experience may offer helpful information. From the time I read that description of a sitting meditation, I sat in the full lotus posture every moment I was not walking or lying down. I talked on the phone, read, had tea, and visited with friends while sitting in full lotus. When the pain became too much, I would release my legs, rest them, switch the one on top, and return to the position. By the time I left the monastery where I trained, I could sit in full lotus indefinitely, as long as I switched legs every couple of hours. The point I want to make is this: As difficult as it may seem, sitting in meditation position (full lotus or an alternative) is, with practice, quite possible. As with everything in life, it all depends on how much we want to do it. It comes down to willingness. (And it’s helpful to know that an alternative to the full lotus includes sitting—with spine properly aligned—in a chair.)

The second step, counting the breaths, was a life-altering experience. The book suggested counting the breaths from one to ten, so that’s exactly what I did. I counted breaths everywhere, all the time—in the shower, while I ate, as I worked, I counted breaths. It was hard to count breaths and carry on a conversation, although I learned to do this fairly well as long as the other person was talking and I was listening.

During that period of my life, I was driving back and forth between Oregon and the Bay Area of California with some regularity. I decided to count my breaths on a trip between San Jose and Medford. Ten hours of counting breaths!

I knew something was happening to me the first time I stopped for gas. Instead of my customary chip-on-the-shoulder attitude to people I encountered, I actually felt friendly toward them—for no reason! When I stopped for something to eat, it was as if I had been ingesting illegal substances: Everything was beautiful, colors were vibrant, people seemed so dear. By the time I reached my destination, I was ecstatic. My world seemed huge. Those things that I would have perceived as problems to solve just a day before, were now a joy. Nothing was a problem, nothing was wrong. I was in love with life; and everything was fun, interesting, exciting, and perfect.

I didn’t know enough to recognize that for the first time, I was living in the moment. I didn’t know that the reason I was so happy was that I had stepped free of the illusion of a separate self standing outside life and making judgments about each moment as a way to keep its place at the center of the universe. I just knew that counting breaths brought me to this new experience—and I wanted to count breaths from that moment on, for as long as I lived.

People ask me when they can stop counting breaths and go on to something more advanced. I just smile inside and hope that some day they do find an experience more advanced than counting breaths, because I know that then they will be blissful beyond telling. In the meantime, I encourage them to find out what counting has to offer before they move beyond it. The fact that they desire to go on to something else lets me know that they don’t yet know what is available to them right here and now through this simple practice.

Practicing
So, let’s begin here, now. Rest the book somewhere nearby so that it is easily retrievable but will not distract you. Turn your attention to your body as you take three long, full, relaxed breaths.

What did you notice?

Were you able to keep your attention on the breath?

What sensations were you aware of in your body?

Where were the sensations strongest?

Were you aware of any tension, discomfort, or pain?

Did your attention move around or stay focused on a particular point during the breaths?

What were your thoughts during the breaths?

Did you move your attention from the breath to the head or the eyes?

What emotions did you experience?

Where in your body did you experience these emotions?

How would you describe the emotions in language other than your thoughts about the emotion? (For example, when I feel sad, there is heaviness in my chest, like a 20-pound weight perched on top of my heart. My throat feels tight and full, as if something large is lodged in it, and my eyes are burning.)

Let’s try it again. Set the book aside, and focus on your breath. Take three long, full breaths.

What were you aware of around you as you breathed?

What did you hear? What did you see? Smell?

Were you warm, cool, or just the right temperature?

Was there movement in your field of awareness? Were you aware of what was close to you? At a distance from you?

Did your thoughts wander?

Any questions? Comments? Memories? Fears? Irritation?

Let’s try it again. Set the book aside and focus on your breathing. Take three more breaths.

What did you notice?

This is it: You are meditating.

Here is the biggest tip I can offer you: If you pay very close attention to exactly how you learn to pay attention, you will learn everything you need to learn. You will learn how; you will learn process. You will learn to learn.

Here are reports from three people doing the process of meditation outlined above:

First-Time Meditator
I found myself dizzy and tired when I breathed deeply. I kept my attention on my breath and noticed tingling in my feet, tightness in my lungs, and restlessness and anxiety throughout. After the first three breaths, my attention moved around some, but returned to my breath, which began to feel like it was flowing more like water than air. I was aware of concerns and anxiety coming in and going out, as well as concerns as to whether or not anyone was watching me. I paid attention to my head at one point, while remaining attentive to my breath. The feelings I experienced were deep sadness, peace, tiredness, and warmth all over my body. These emotions manifested themselves physically as a heaviness and tightness in my chest and throat, and relaxation in my limbs. The third time, I was aware only of my breath and my thoughts—I didn’t notice anything else around me. My thoughts wandered toward feelings of anxiety about not being sure how I’m supposed to be doing this.

Experienced Meditator
When I took the first three breaths, I noticed that I think I’m making myself breathe. I noticed under that, a subtle but constant criticism for not breathing right. Lately, I’ve been acknowledging the fact that I’m not going to “get” meditation. The moment when I notice the breath is the only moment there is. The criticism comes afterward, through a voice that says things like, “Where have you been? You’ve been doing this for so long, and look how long it took you to get back to the breath.” That’s not meditation, it’s self-hate. I’ve realized I have this idea that there will be a time when the breath and being present becomes one long, continuous, blissful experience. So what is scary, and also liberating, is that—and this is true of my recent experiences—this moment is all there is. Noticing the breath as if for the first time, over and over again. That’s what being present is—not having the past breath or a future breath to hold on to, or to create a continuous experience out of—it’s like frame by frame. I’m alive, I’m breathing, here I am. Over and over again. It reminds me of dying and being born over and over again. It isn’t what I thought being present would be like. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to bring anything with me into death. Now I realize I can’t bring anything with me even into the next moment.

Doubtful Meditator
I didn’t notice much of anything. Most of the time, my mind just wandered, as it always does. Now and then, I’d remember to try to pay attention, and I’d notice how I felt or notice something that was going on, but instantly my mind would be off again. I’m not sure I can do this.

Grateful Meditator
Just wanted to report that yesterday I tried everything else to escape my negative feelings before I finally sat down and meditated for 35 minutes. Afterwards, I was less chained to my suffering, and went on with my day with a bit more freedom and gratitude. I feel a little more willing to sit today, which is a tremendous gift.

The above excerpt is from the new book, How to Get From Where You Are to Where You Want to Be by Cheri Huber. It is published by Hay House and is available at all bookstores or via the Internet at www.hayhouse.com.