I sometimes get asked how I came to meditation, and what it’s all about. Meditation means different things to different people, and most of what people think they know about it is wrong.

It’s not just friends, either. Whether my client is a 62-year-old business owner, a 15-year-old student-athlete, or a college team, the problem is the same: people get caught up in their thoughts. They believe their thoughts. Their mind is untamed.

I used to picture some robed, cross-legged yogi floating in bliss — a state I was sure I couldn’t reach. What I’ve learned is that meditation is a simple, mundane practice that rewires the brain over time. Floating in bliss has nothing to do with it.

Here’s my story with it:

I can still picture it so easily. I drove my youngest to college. Moved his stuff into a funky little dorm room. Watched him quickly find his friends, walk away, drift into the quad, smile and wave goodbye. Exactly as he should have. I drove home. And I arrived at a place I’d known was coming for sixteen months: an empty nester, solo, widowed. Suddenly, the house felt foreign to me.

I’d stay busy by day — work, exercise, dinners out. Night was a struggle. I’d get in my car and drive, and drive, and drive. Once home, though, the heavy feeling would set back in like a thick fog. I endured the night, restless till sunrise. Disembodied.

Someone gave me a gift certificate for a meditation studio. I don’t remember deciding to use it. I don’t remember who gave it to me. It sat on the kitchen island for weeks. I didn’t throw it away. One day, I just went. I was what you’d call a “motivated student.”

I sat and listened to instructions I barely understood. Then we walked — slow, deliberate steps around the room — and something in me eased. A small unclenching. I didn’t go back to the studio, but I remembered that feeling.

At night, alone in bed, I found Thich Nhat Hanh’s voice online, guiding a body scan. Toe to head, twenty minutes, over and over, most nights for weeks. It seemed awkward at first, but I was determined, and trusted the process. Sports taught me that. It takes practice and dedication. I liked how it felt to lie there and just notice. I began to understand why it was helpful.

Then I read Sam Harris’ Waking Up, downloaded his app, and worked through the introductory course. Something clicked. More solid footing, less noise in my head, and a kind of steadiness I hadn’t had in years. I started to understand the science behind it too — simply, practicing what you want to become more of. Neuroplasticity. More still, more calm, more steady. It made sense.

I completed the 8 week Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) class and the Mindful Sport Performance Enhancement course. A couple years later, I enrolled in Jack Kornfield and Tara Brach’s two-year training program and became a certified meditation teacher. Now I guide individuals and groups, talk about it with anyone who’ll listen, and write about it for anyone who’ll read it.

It has become the most important practice in my life. It steadies me enough to do everything else — show up as a father, a friend, a colleague, a writer. Someone who sleeps well at night, takes life’s hits in stride, and keeps playing the game. I’m more accepting, patient and compassionate, with others — and myself. Embodied.

The research backs up what I felt in that room: study after study ties consistent practice to lower stress, better focus, steadier moods.

If you want to try this: sit for ten minutes, five to seven days a week, for a few months before you decide whether it works. Here’s how:

Find a quiet-ish place, and try to stick to a regular time of day. Sit in a chair or on a couch, a little more upright — this is intentional, after all. Close your eyes. Drop into your sense of feeling — your feet on the floor, your back against the chair, your seat on the cushion. Just notice what it feels like to be sitting. Then pay attention to your internal physical sensations — the tingles, pangs, heartbeat, that pain in your shoulder. Don’t judge them as good or bad. Just notice them — the non-judging part is really important. Then pay attention to what it feels like to be breathing — your chest moving, the air passing through your nose. Allow yourself to really focus there, but don’t expend too much effort — just sit and let it be noticed. Thoughts will come quickly. Notice them the same way you notice the breath. Just observe them, then return to noticing the breath. This is the practice of presence — noticing what’s happening in your body, becoming distracted by thought, then returning to noticing the body and breath.

We can’t control most of what happens to us. We can learn to notice the small moment we’re actually in — this breath, this cup of coffee, this walk around a room — and that’s enough to build a life on.

I can sit alone with my thoughts now. I just observe them. I don’t become them. Meditation is the practice that fixed that. In a way, it allows me to enjoy my life rather than predict my life.

Pascal wrote it plainly, centuries ago: “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” If that’s true, the reverse must be too — that the ability to sit with yourself might become your greatest strength.

And in some ways, I’m still where I started 11 years ago. One slow step at a time. And if I get off course, I just start over again.

If you want to try this yourself, I put together a short how-to as a PDF — the same steps above, laid out to keep by your chair.

And if you’d like to go deeper — talk through it, ask questions, whatever — email me. I’d be happy to set up a free 30-minute call. I mean it.

— Pete

Notes arrive on Sundays and some Wednesdays

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About me, and Practice Notes → here 
About Integrative Coaching → here 
About my book, The Why of Sports → here

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