Mind the Gap (Between Your Thoughts)

Just before leaving for my two week holiday in London and Paris I was concerned by how my regular sitting meditation schedule would be drastically interrupted. So I knew I’d have to practice what I preach even more than usual: I had to find a way to integrate a contemplative practice into my daily life under a very different set of circumstances and an unfamiliar environment. And not practicing just wasn’t an option: Trust me, you wouldn’t like me when I’m not practicing. 

After arriving at London’s Heathrow Airport two weeks ago, my fiancee and I eventually made our way to the Underground Train (aka “The Tube”) that would take us to the house we’d be staying at. So we arrived at the Bakerloo Underground station and while waiting for the train to arrive I was struck by the bold yellow letters stenciled into the edge of the platform just below my feet:

MIND THE GAP

In New York City when a subway car arrives at a station, there is virtually no space between the edge of the car and the edge of the platform--so you can walk onto the train very easily with no chance of having your foot sink through the space between the train and said platform. In the London Underground system however, there can be a significant gap between the train and the platform edge--thus the constant recorded “Mind the Gap” warnings over the intercom and written ones you see all over the place. 

When I saw “Mind the Gap” just before boarding the train towards London Bridge Station, I was instantly handed an invaluable contemplative tool that I knew would remind me several times a day to come back to my mind as it rests peacefully between thoughts. This phrase is something one sees and hears frequently when riding the Tube in London so I knew that I wouldn’t have to struggle all that much to keep my practice strong and consistent during my two week trip abroad.

Those gaps we experience between thoughts become more noticeable over time as we get more acquainted with how our thinking minds operate. I liken it to that moment immediately following a continuous noise of some kind like a car alarm, a barking dog, or wedding bells. When those sounds cease there’s this space left over that is always there but gets obscured by a constant array of internal noise. It’s an openness or gap where our thinking minds get a reprieve and something else has an opportunity to poke its head through--something that is always there but we tend to miss because we’re so enthralled by distraction. 

When all of the relentless brain chatter stops, even for just a moment, we’re left with something open, calm, and fertile. And those spacious moments gradually get longer and more frequent as we consistently practice both on and off the cushion. 

What happens about 97% of the time is that our brains secrete all kinds of thoughts, ideas, and opinions about our moment-to-moment experience. We buy into these thoughts, ideas, and opinions as real and as a result they take us over, leading us this way and that as if we’re nothing but dogs on a leash being yanked around by an erratic master. And in so doing we aren’t experiencing our lives directly but rather a facsimile of our our experience due to all of the commentary that’s been piled on top of it. 

So we confuse the constant chatter that goes on in our heads with who and what we are. But who and what we are has nothing to do with whatever stuff happens to be coursing through our brains at any given moment. 

Who and what we are has much more to do with those gaps we experience before thinking arises. 

This is not to say that thoughts are the enemy and we need to work hard to eradicate them. Trying to make our brains stop thinking would be like trying to fill the Grand Canyon with a thimble full of water. 

But it’s essential that we train ourselves to notice those gaps between thoughts, because it is within these gaps that we get a more direct experience of our true nature.

This process allows us to create more space between us and our thinking minds. When we notice this gap, we can relate to our thoughts with curiosity and objectivity rather than obsession and fear. 

So please: Mind the Gap. Your life and your sanity depends on it. 

What a Firefly Taught me about Impermanence

As a boy I really loved watching fireflies light up the night as they hovered around silently in the dark, warm air. 


One evening I so desperately wanted to prolong their spectacular light show that I thought it best to get a glass jar and trap a few of them in it so I could guarantee myself a private performance any time, anywhere (whether under my sheets at night or while having Froot Loops for breakfast). 

So I scooped a few into an empty peanut butter jar and left it in my room overnight, excited at the prospect of having them as pets that would perform for me on demand. 

When I awoke the next morning however, the same creatures that had delighted me with their vibrant illuminations were barely crawling around the bottom of the jar. At that moment I realized that I’d made a horrible mistake. After consulting the family Encyclopedia Britannica (these were pre-google days) I learned that it is the nature of fireflies to fly around at night and emit their golden glow in order to attract a mate. But during the day they are meant to be hanging out on flowers or foliage so they can feed on pollen. 


My trapping them in a glass jar had thrown all of this way off course.

Through my inability to simply appreciate their brilliance in the correct context, I had robbed them and myself of the privilege of simply riding the wave of impermanence. I wanted instead to prolong a pleasurable experience in a way that suited my short-sighted desires, and in so doing I caused myself and other living beings some suffering. 

Very often we resist one of the most fundamental aspects of this life: that everything is constantly shifting, changing, evolving. We breath in and out. Thoughts come and go. The quality of light changes from one second to the next. Mind-states that seem so daunting and heavy and permanent actually do change, if only we can just observe, trust, and wait. 

Impermanence doesn’t have to be viewed as something gloomy (e.g. Dammit! Everything eventually dies!) It’s actually a dynamic process full of potential and wonder if only we could refrain from resisting it, and revise our mistaken view to a correct one. 

At the base of our suffering is the changing nature of life itself. Our tendency to want to cling to certain things and keep them around as long as possible, and our desire to avoid anything we view as unpleasant or painful is what inadvertently causes us to suffer. So the very things we do to avoid any form of unease or unhappiness ends up creating unease and unhappiness. 

Since all things are impermanent, the second we try to experience contentment or joy through some outer means, we are dooming ourselves to failure. This sounds like bad news but what I am saying is in fact actually quite optimistic: as the Buddha taught, all of us are already inherently complete and awake and in need of nothing from “out there” that might fix or complete us. We are fine just as we are--and our job is to simply realize this and operate from that reference point.

We can ride impermanence and flow with it in much the same way a surfer uses the ocean as her driving force.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting certain things in life like a relationship, a fulfilling job, or the most amazing fitting pair of jeans. But our orientation to those things is what can mess with us if we aren’t careful. All of these things we look to for happiness are subject to change, and that’s ok. 

Impermanence as I see it is like a stream that never looks the same from one moment to the next. When you stand back and observe it’s flowing, constantly changing nature,  it’s really quite beautiful. Resisting impermanence is like trying to freeze a stream in time or trap a firefly in a tiny glass jar: when we do so, all we are left with is a facsimile of an experience, a crappy, lesser version of an experience, as opposed to the fullness and well-roundedness of the actual, fleeting experience itself. 

May we all learn to ride the wave of impermanence with ease and freedom.

“Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.” 

- Robert Frost

Saturday's dharma talk at Queer Sangha at the Interdependence Project:

What is Tonglen Practice? A brief introduction.

Tonglen isn't a very "Zen" kind of practice but I find it very useful.

I like that it can be practiced in a very simple and direct way in everyday life. Tonglen means "giving and receiving" and it's a method for connecting to our own pain in a way that gives it less of a selfish focus and helps us to develop more compassion for others.

It can be done very formally through an extended guided meditation (replete with "flashing bodhichitta") or it can be done on the run, or whenever it feels appropriate.

The way I see it, tonglen practice helps give some meaning to our pain so instead of wallowing in it and using it as an excuse to make an even bigger version of ME, we can instead use it as a tool to develop more sensitivity and compassion towards other people. So the pain that seemed so isolating and monumental at first can be transformed into something more useful that can help alleviate the pain of others. And the act of doing that ends up lessing our own suffering.

This short clip is from a dharma talk I did at a Queer Sangha meeting yesterday at the Interdependence Project.

Getting Out of Your Own Way: Viewing Meditation as a Manifestation of Your True Nature

Dharma talk from Wednesday June 20 at the Interdependence Project:

What my Father Taught me

For Father's Day I'm reposting this:

Almost five years ago my father was in a hospital undergoing a grueling cycle of blood tests, poking and prodding, infections, antibiotic treatments, recovery, more poking and prodding, reinfection, and more tests. He weaved in and out of consciousness and once even called out for his brother who had died some twenty years earlier. His personality would frequently disappear and then suddenly return again. He had fragmented into pieces, some of which I recognized, most of which I did not. His “Dad-ness,” contingent on so many fleeting factors, was changing as the circumstance of his health declined.

In just three weeks he dropped to ninety pounds, just half his regular body weight. The man I used to blame for the bulk of my personality flaws was rapidly regressing to a vulnerable, childlike state. I was suddenly caring for him in ways I never thought I would--feeding him, helping a nurse give him a sponge bath, holding him up when he cried and could no longer stand on his own, and eventually giving him regular doses of liquid morphine during his last few days to help alleviate what I imagine was excruciating pain.

Very late that last night, his breathing pattern had changed significantly, which we knew from the hospice literature meant he was about to leave us (they actually give you a handout to prep you for what happens when someone is dying). He’d been completely unconscious for the previous two days, and while his body had functioned in a mechanical sense, there was little to no sign of life underneath it all. He was there but he wasn’t there. For the previous two days his breathing had the perfunctory quality of a respirator machine. He was still my father yet it felt as if my “real” father had already left and his body just had to catch up, like he and his body were slightly out of sync.

Being there by his side as he took his last few breaths was one of the most important things I’ve ever done. He co-created me and was there just after I was born, and I got to be there with him just as he was ready to die. He raised me and taught me how to ride a bike and wash a car and how to make my work environment as comfortable and orderly as possible so I could work more efficiently. He taught me things he hadn’t intended to teach me, like how to be patient (as he often was not) and the importance of not jumping to conclusions too quickly (as he often did).

The process of caring for my father transformed my selfish, habitual anger towards him into a desire to alleviate his suffering and make him as comfortable as possible. I grew obsessed with trying to make sure he wasn’t in any pain.

In just a few days I’d managed to accomplish what many years of therapy could not--I was able to forgive him for all of those things I’d spent years blaming him for, all of those things I expended so much energy resenting and whining about. All of the blame and anger I’d attributed to his inadequate parenting quickly unraveled when I was able to have my perspective shifted by how brief and precious life really is.

I used to blame my father for my inability to be fully intimate with other people and through his death I learned how to cut through that. Whenever I sense some sort of block between me and someone else, whenever I feel anger or hostility or insecurity in relation to other people, I bring to mind an image of that person as an infant and an image of them at the moment of their death. All of the stuff that happens in between shouldn’t be confused with the underlying reality that binds us all together.

Most of us have very complicated relationships with our parents and I’m not claiming that their influence and behavior towards us during our formative years doesn’t have any sort of impact; of course it does. I am saying that what we do with the circumstances and conditions of our lives is our choice, regardless of who or what contributed to their creation. All we can do is to work with whatever we’re given and wherever we are at any given moment. We can choose not to let those things fester and turn into sources of self-pity and blame, or we can use those same things as an excuse to engage in destructive behavior and to build walls around our hearts.

It’s up to us.

To use our wounds as some sort of protective armor is to be fearful and weak. It’s when we recognize the transformative ability of our pain and those feelings of loss that we’re being courageous enough to step outside of ourselves and our inner psycho-dramas long enough to be of service to someone else.

In the end my father left me with a huge gift: the realization that this life of ours is temporary, tenuous, and precious. There is something there before we are born and something there after we die, and we’d be wise to spend at least a portion of our lives getting acquainted with what that is.

Thanks, Dad.