Does this meditation cushion make me look fat? (And other important questions)

One morning I had a vision. There was a meadow surrounded by a flock of geese, preparing to descend upon the water at one time. They marched to a beat, an invisible drum pounding like something you’d see in a war film. In this vision, I was a beaming ray of light walking on the water to the center. I had a message for the geese, and in a moment I flashed awake and found meditation to be the answer to finding complete and total inner peace.

Nah, not really.

I found meditation in the most ordinary and messy way, much like most people in America who are seeking a way out of status-quo misery. I learned about meditation in the least spiritual way possible (through Youtube videos, of all things!). And I practiced in the least possible spiritual way: on the floor of my basement bedroom, using leftover pillows from my bed.

Raised in fundamental Christianity, I’m sort of wired with this tendency to do things just so—lest I be thrown into the fires of hell and never return. I brought this angst with me to meditation. Thankfully, none of these tendencies were reinforced. Today, I’m possibly 1 percent less anxious about everything today, and if you knew me three years ago, that 1 percent is worth celebrating.

Every now and then these memories of trying my hardest to meditate pop up in my mind, and they make me laugh. I wish I’d known I wasn’t alone in my seemingly absurd questions, so that’s what this blog is intending to do. Show you, beginning, intermediate, advanced meditator that the questions don’t really go away—they just get more colorful.

Question 1: Does this meditation cushion make me look fat?

Buddhists believe the heart lives in the belly, so it’s pretty natural that the meditation instruction encourages us to soften our bellies. (Soft bellies, soft hearts.) I couldn’t get over this for the longest time. Would someone see me? What about the roll that falls over my yoga pants?

One day it dawned on me: You’re all alone in your room. There’s no one watching you or judging you or your “rolls.”

Two years later, I’m mostly at peace with the soft belly attached to my person. Every now and then I want to obsess over it and correct it (suck it in, like a proper southern lady). But then I remember that I want something more than a flat stomach. I want a soft heart.

Question 2: Am I trying hard enough?

Most meditation instruction is somewhat straightforward. Since the majority of your energy should be spent on working with your mind, the way you sit, the way you place your hands, the way you cross your feet, where your eyes look during meditation—this is all designed to be very practical and simple.

If you’re anything like me, when something is designed with simplicity in mind, I instinctually look for ways to make it more complex. There’s some weird idea that makes us think that complex things are more valuable, when nothing could be further from the truth (I’ve found).

Hands, arms, back, belly, feet, butt. I obsessed over whether or not I was doing it right. I still do, sometimes. Though, it’s become somewhat like riding a bike. Sitting down on the meditation cushion comes with ease over time, I think. It simply must eventually get easier, because the real work is in gently working with your mind.

Question 3: When will I feel better?

One of the reasons I obsessed over my hands, back, feet and belly all being “right” is that I wanted to unlock the meditation secret formula. I thought there was some medicine waiting for me the minute I finally did all the things right.

The interesting thing about meditation is there are practical instructions to help you along the way, and I’ve no doubt felt the effects on my anxious brain. But there’s also a certain magic or mystery. The connection between mind and body is complicated, and somehow, magically, when we seek to understand and befriend our mind, we find that something eases.

My life is still complicated and emotional. I still get anxious when large noises thud around my apartment or when my clients don’t pay me on time. I’m still me, but I do feel better about being me.

Question 4: Who’s the best at meditation?

Oh, gosh. I’m really embarrassed by this question. But I bring so much freakin’ baggage from my past. I am intensely competitive and want to roar to success as the very best meditator. Because that brings instant success? No. Because it solves all your problems? No.

Just because. No rhyme or reason. I just want to be the very best, and I want to find the very best meditator so I can imitate him or her.

Ugh.

The great thing about starting a meditation practice is you’re hard pressed to find a Buddhist meditation teacher who says, “Follow me! Do it my way and you’ll be fine!”

I love the anti-evangelical nature of Buddhism, even if it is a bit foreign to me. There’s no one person who had a good answer for me about who’s best at meditation. But I have a hunch my meditation teacher would say, “You are.”

You are the very best at meditating because no one else can possibly meditate for you. And so, you’re automatically the expert.

Question 5: Who can I trust to not convert me?

This one was a primary reason I didn’t want to try meditation at all in the past. I was forced so much in fundamental Christianity to believe so much that didn’t settle well with me—the last thing I wanted was Buddhist pamphlets showing up in my mailbox or Buddhist monks knocking on my door to talk to me about the eight-fold path.

I’m sure there are some well-meaning Buddhists who might veer into some situations where you feel like they’re trying to change your mind, but I can confidently say they’re the exception, not the rule.

Buddhism isn’t a religion. So there’s nothing to “convert” you to. It’s more like a philosophy of the mind and its complementary nature with Christianity has surprised me over and over again.

What it looks like today

Meditation has become very ordinary to me. It’s not something that I obsess over or try to understand. I do like learning about it, about myself, and about ancient Buddhist teachings. Some weeks I’m on the cushion gladly and other weeks I hop around it, avoiding the quiet that comes with breathing for 10 minutes in one spot. I’m still pretty inconsistent with my practice, but I do keep coming back. And for that (as Susan would say), I get an A+.