Jenna is a wonderful pal who has taken on her meditation practice with commitment, humor, and just the right dab of melancholy. Her blog, Drinking to Distraction, is a great account of her efforts to cease distracting herself from, well, her Self. Big up, Jenna. You’re a warrior goddess for sure.

Here is Jenna’s account of what it’s been like to enter into meditation practice. After 10 months or so, this perspective is really valuable.

For years, I considered making meditation practice a part of my life. Meditation was something I idealized; it was part of the person I wanted to become.

I thought it would calm me down (eg, when trapped behind slow walkers, I would not want to throw them into oncoming traffic), deepen my understanding of the world (eg, Sarah Palin’s popularity would immediately become clear), and make me a better person (eg, when my mother announced that I should have married my college boyfriend…again, I’d smile and know her intentions were pure). (I soon came to realize none of these are true.)

I hoped meditation would allow me to feel safer “out there” in the world, so that despite my vulnerability, I could be brave and take risks. And I hoped that meditation would help me deal with the things I found most difficult in my life – uncomfortable feelings, self-doubt, restlessness.

Yet, it was years before I finally sat down! Perhaps meditating seemed too inactive to affect these troubling things and my bias for action (change jobs, move apartments, start dating again) seemed more likely to really change my life. Or more simply, maybe sitting still with uncomfortable thoughts and feelings just scared the crap out of me. Whatever the reason for the delay, I finally got around to it one July morning.

I had been reading Susan Piver’s The Wisdom of a Broken Heart, a guide to dealing with heartbreak that involves seeing it as a potentially transformative experience. The book also provides some introductory meditation instruction. With some trepidation, I slid from my bed to the floor, two pillows strategically arranged beneath me. I set a timer for 10 minutes and stared at the old wooden chest of drawers pulled years earlier from someone’s garbage to decorate my first apartment.

Here is how it went:
I started off with my attention lightly on the breath. In – out – in – out – in – out – I never noticed how some of the whorls on this chest look like a big brown bear peeking out from behind a tree – my boyfriend’s flight leaves shortly, I wonder if I’ll hear from him – I hate my hips; they’re so tight. I can’t even sit right for meditation –maybe I’ll take the long way to work tomorrow so I can pick up an iced coffee – wait, I’m supposed to be focusing on the breath! In – out – in – can you imagine if I tried to do this at my parents’ house on Long Island, with the telephone ringing off the hook and people knocking down my door – I should text my boyfriend and say “have a good trip” or should I say “have a good flight?” – oh, shit – the breath – in – out – in – out – how many minutes do I have left? – I’m not sure I can do this every day – maybe I should set an alarm on my phone to remind me to meditate every day – what am I going to do with the cats so they don’t distract me? – how long do I have to do this before I feel better? – I think I have to pee.

And this was just the first 30 seconds.

During the last 9 or 10 months, I’ve experimented with meditating for 5 minutes a day or up to 30, with doing it in the evening and first thing in the morning, and with practicing alone as well as with a group.

I always try to maintain awareness on the breath. And when thoughts inevitably take that awareness away, I gently return it to the breath. While this sounds incredibly simple, there are times when it could not be more difficult. Thoughts about everything from the mundane (what am I going to eat for breakfast?) to the profound (what am I doing with my life?) to the painful (what if I grow old alone?) arise and make the breath seem like the least interesting thing on Earth.

My inherent bias for action makes me want to do something, not just sit there. There have been more times than I care to admit that I have wanted to give up – to turn off my little iPhone meditation app, get up, and walk away. Luckily staying seated also appeals to my inherent laziness so I’ve been able to resist that temptation for the most part. And I’m learning that an important part of the practice (perhaps the most important?) is exactly that: resisting the urge to give up and, even if you are having what you think is the worst practice of your life, staying.
In some ways, it is getting easier. I recognize my wandering mind a little earlier and can return awareness to the breath and those gaps between thoughts are gradually getting wider. At the same time, the practice seems to be deepening my awareness of my essential vulnerability. While I’d initially hoped that meditation would serve as a protective shield, I’m instead feeling even more raw, open, and exposed. Through practice and some of the dharma-related reading I’ve been doing, though, I’m finding this less scary and recognizing there is great strength in vulnerability.

It isn’t always easy or fun or clearly beneficial. But I sit through each practice and every time my mind wanders, I just try to begin again.