RWM Classics are some of my older editions, which fit in well with the theme we have been exploring in our recent editions. This edition is part of a series of deep dives into the audiobook “Coming Closer to Ourselves: Making Everything the Path of Awakening” by Pema Chodron.

❤️‍🩹 Content Warning: This edition contains mentions of suicide and depression. If these topics are triggering for  you, I recommend you stop reading here and choose something else to read.

Since I was 13 years old, I’ve had multiple suicide attempts. In 2016, I made my last attempt.

It was a monsoon evening when night fell earlier than usual. I lived behind a bustling main road in the south of Bangalore. From my house, I could hear the crowd of people on the road, milling about at various street-side food stalls, savouring tasty vada pavs, bajjis, chaat, pav bhaji, and other delicacies that were best eaten only on the roadside and not in the comfort of one’s house.

I had been feeling low for the past few weeks. It was hard to get through every moment, let alone a day navigating work and life. It was a planet-sized task to go to work every weekday. 

After sleeping fitfully for more than 12 hours, it took me a couple of hours to drag myself out of bed. Another hour to bathe and get dressed would be early noon when I got to work.

At work, I would stare at an email for hours together while trying to figure out how I was going to get through my workday when it was beyond my capacity to respond to a single email, not to mention the three projects that I had taken on(why, but why!) with deadlines looming and tasks undone.

My appetite had vanished; I couldn’t eat, and the sight of food was repulsive. My sleep routine (or lack thereof) had also shaken up. I would sleep for 14 hours and still wouldn’t feel refreshed when I woke up.

This wasn’t an unusual state for me, as I had spent the better part of my life since I was a teenager living under this fog. On this particular evening, the weight of all those years of feeling numb and dead came crushing on me.

I lost my bearings and have no memory of what happened next.

Everything seemed too much to handle, and these low periods were coming on frequently and were staying on longer. I could no longer go on, could no longer take a breath. The night, the sounds, and the air were oppressive and suffocating me, and I decided to take the way out, which always seemed readily available to me.

One that I had fantasised about a million times since I was 13.

When I came to my senses, I opened my eyes and found myself at the kitchen sink with a knife in my right hand poised at my left wrist, right where I had the symbol Om tattoed.

The sight of Om brought me back to my present moment, and I was horrified at how I got there.

I had no awareness of what had transpired between feeling low and standing at the kitchen sink. 

This loss of awareness shocked me, and I set aside the knife on the counter and walked back to my bedroom. On one side of the bed lay around ten books, and on the top was a book called “The Art of Communicating” by Thich Nhat Hahn, the Vietnamese Zen Monk.

I picked the book and turned the pages but could not focus, read a word, or make sense of what was written. But the book reminded me of meditation and my first Vipassana retreat, which I had attended a year before.

During the silent retreat, over 100 hours, I practised just sitting with myself even if a storm was raging inside of me and outside in the retreat centre. I could barely bring my attention to breath or do a full Vipassana meditation, but I trained in just showing up for the sessions despite my body’s protests and a full-blown revolt of my mind.

I set the book aside, sat cross-legged on my bed, took the meditation posture - straight back and with an open heart (as Pema likes to call it)- and drew my attention to my breath. I could not find my breath, and what I found instead was an onslaught of thoughts, feelings, and sensations that alternated with feeling numb and zoning out. I felt like a drifting logwood caught up in the ocean in a mighty cyclone and thrown up and down with no mercy. 

I sat and watched the storm inside; I watched how challenging it was for me and how lost I was in the storm.

I sat with all this for some time when a tiny voice whispered, “You can’t even keep your attention on your breath; you better open your eyes and get up. This will not work for you.” I stayed because I did not know who would be there for me if I did not cultivate the courage to stay with myself right then.

When I finally opened my eyes, I noticed that the physical urge to kill myself was gone. I felt much calmer and clearer about what I needed to do. 

I came to the realisation that I needed emergency help in the present moment and not in the distant future when I could pull myself together enough to consult a psychiatrist or find a therapist. I took a deep breath, opened Google and searched for “24-hour suicide helpline in India.”

Based on Pema’s audiobook, this essay will explore three key questions.

1. What is the purpose of a meditation practice?

2. What are our motivations to practice?

3. What attitude helps establish a meditation practice?

What is the purpose of a meditation practice?

A glance at the Insight Timer app reveals countless meditation practices. Here, I clarify what I mean by meditation in the context of this newsletter and essay. 

Meditation is a practice aligned with the Buddhist traditions. In it, we dive into our habitual patterns and tendencies and uncover our real issues, which keep us stuck in a cycle of ignorance and escalating suffering.

Pema says, “Meditation is our support for learning to open to our discomfort. It gives us a way to move closer to our thoughts and emotions, a way to cultivate lovingkindness and compassion.” The intention in a meditation practice is to be open to discomfort and to to train in being with ourselves, with an open heart thus enabling us to move closer to others, especially the ones who trigger us.

This means a fundamental shift in how we approach the world, events, outer lives, and inner lives. It is training to see things as they are and to approach every single thing in our lives as our path of awakening. It is about learning to stay no matter what is going on—“Stay, stay, stay” with whatever is coming up and whatever we encounter.

Meditation is not an escape from reality. It is not where we go to “feel calm” in pain or turmoil. It is a practice of cultivating deep honesty and intimacy with ourselves so that we can see clearly, with kindness, compassion, and wisdom, what is actually going on within us.

What are our motivations to practice?

Understanding our motivation for meditation is crucial.  Suppose we seek to feel “calmer” or “peaceful” after meditation. In that case, practices following Buddha’s teachings may not provide that, though these states may arise through intense training as a byproduct of concentration and insight. The teachings are progressively about working with challenging emotions and letting go of any “states” we attach to.  The ultimate goal of a meditation practice in the Buddhist tradition is to progressively wake us up.

Sometimes, during a sitting, I have all the challenging emotions I have not given myself the space to feel during the day. They would hit me with full force, and I’d find myself sobbing while sitting, even if I began without a heavy heart.  As the session progressed, the sobbing would subside, and my mind would get hooked onto something else. Things keep changing, and nothing is permanent. This is one of our experiential realisations when we sit with ourselves long enough.

Expecting a specific state of mind from meditation can hinder establishing a regular meditation habit. I had to examine this expectation closely when I struggled to maintain a consistent meditation practice despite having life-changing and life-saving experiences with it.

What attitude helps establish a meditation practice?

Pema emphasises noticing the inner voice that resides in our heads. She urges us to become aware of this voice when we meditate. This inner voice is critical, judgmental, stern, harsh, and unyielding for most of us.

This is one of the first things we could start to pay attention to when we begin our sitting practice. What is the quality of my inner voice? What is the tone? What words do I use to speak to myself? How does it make me feel when I speak to myself like that?

I became aware of my inner voice during my first silent Vipassana retreat. When all else was quiet, and the sources of external distraction were removed, this voice unleashed its full force on me. I became aware that I had this inner voice that was unyielding, firm, critical, unhappy, dissatisfied, and harsh—the tone, voice, and language I had picked up during my time on this planet thus far.

When I became aware of it, my longing for a kind and compassionate voice started growing, and I was convinced that this voice would need to come from outside of me. But the more I learned to stay with my inner voice, the way it presented itself, and working with acceptance, the more I have been able to find a small opening in which I am trying to cultivate a warm, gentle, open tone and attitude towards myself.

How do I cultivate a meditation practice for myself?

In the past few years, there has been a lot of emphasis (going by the popularity of books and YouTube channels with habits and routines as themes) on habits. A habit framework involves setting up cues, routines and rewards (variations of it) to create, embed and sustain a habit or break it. In the case of meditation, a typical habit formation statement would be, “I will meditate for 15 minutes as soon as I get out of bed, and I will reward myself with x when I do my habit for the day”.

Pema urges us to cultivate maitri, which is developing unconditional friendship with ourselves. We can cultivate this not just in the meditation practice but also in how we approach cultivating the habit itself and in other aspects of our lives. We’ll explore Maitri in more detail in the next edition.

Reflect, Reflect, Reflect

Whether we are beginners or experienced practitioners, periodic reflection on our practice, attitudes, motivations, and expectations is essential and helpful. These aspects change over time, and reflection helps us understand what is alive in the moment and work with what is.

P.S. Thank you for subscribing and sticking with me. As a parting thought, I will finish this edition with a well-known Zen story. I’d love to hear about your meditation practice and what has worked for you.

Crossing the muddy road

Two monks were travelling down a path during heavy rain, and the rain was making the road muddy. They turned a corner and encountered a young girl in a silk kimono and sash. She could not cross the intersection in her attire.

One of the monks offered to carry her across the muddy road. The girl agreed, and he lifted her in his arms, helped her cross, and set her down. The other monk was troubled, for their monastic vows prohibited them from coming near women.

As they continued walking, the agitated monk asked, “You broke your vow. We’re not supposed to be near women or touch them. Why did you carry her?”

The monk who carried the girl replied, “I left her at the intersection. Why are you still carrying her?”

I’d love to hear from you, so do reply to this post or leave a comment!