The Toilet Paper Episode

Meditation, Mothering, and Keeping Going

“The art of meditation is the ability to let go and begin again, over and over again.”  – Sharon Salzberg

Minds are like puppies – excitable, inquisitive, sniffing off in every direction except the one you choose. Even puppies who grow up to take on responsible jobs such as rescuing skiers from avalanches, or convincing flocks of sheep to move through narrow gates, or pointing out international travellers who’ve stitched contraband into their underpants – even those responsible creatures started out about as reliable as a windsock in a hurricane. 

The thing is, if you want a puppy to come to heel you must train it first. 

Minds are the same. 

training the mind

My mind was as biddable as a steer at a rodeo. If I tried to lasso it with a peaceful thought it tended to snort and buck and leave me in a cloud of dust. But I did believe in meditation and I wanted to give it another try.

I’d just been to a weekend retreat with the redoubtable Cecilie Kiwat and come back with some new tools and techniques. Also with the mistaken belief that if I quieted my mind sternly enough a new, improved me, a me shimmering in the glow of Enlightenment, would emerge. I’d never have to be this me again.

time to wake up

Armed with the fervour of the newly initiated, I set my alarm to go off twenty minutes earlier than usual. Next morning I shook my mind awake.

“C’mon,” I said. “It’s time to get up. We’re going to get Enlightened.”  

My mind looked quizzical. 

“We’re going to Awaken for the Sake of All Beings,” I explained. “We’ll start by cultivating Calm Awareness.” 

My mind still looked doubtful. 

“Enlightenment is like running a marathon,” I told it. “If you’re out of shape you have to do stretches and get fit and build up to it. I want us to tone up some spiritual muscle. We’re going to watch our breathing.” 

The quizzical expression gave way to doubt. 

“Come along,” I said in the same jolly tone that mothers use to explain that eating broccoli is good for you, “It’s only twenty minutes. It’ll be fun.” I dragged my poor, reluctant mind, still clutching the duvet, into a corner of the bedroom pulling it down beside me. 

time matters

Cecilie had been very strict about the importance of timing our meditation sessions. back to present reality before letting go into other dimensions.” 

So an important aspect of your practice is to select a particular length of time for the session, and stick to it. No stopping early because you’re not having a fun. No staying longer because you are. Even in long retreats the day is divided into timed sessions, each with a beginning, middle and end. 

Cecilie had recommended to start with twenty minutes. It is short enough to be achievable, yet long enough to settle into the practice and gain some insight.

So there we were, my mind and I, sitting together early (ish) on a Monday morning while the clock ticked loudly.

distractions

Ten minutes after we’d hit the cushion, and after I’d stood up to open the drapes then remembered I was meditating and sat down again, and after I had repositioned the cushion (several times) I heard my twelve-year old daughter get up.

She popped her head around the door to tell me the time. She’d got into that habit when a bout of clinical depression had knocked me flat a year or so earlier. I’d taken to forgetting to get up on school mornings. She enjoyed being first up and first through the shower. But she worried about her two little sisters, who needed more practical help than she did. 

perceptive support

Being a sensitive, perceptive child on this, the morning of my meditational debut, she put two and two together at the sight of me perched on a displaced sofa squab, gazing purposefully at the wallpaper. (It wasn’t really a debut. I’d tried meditation several times before. But I just knew this was the debut of a lifetime of perfect, uninterrupted daily meditation practice.) 

My daughter smiled, made a little ‘hug-you love-you’ sign, and went into the bathroom. 

A few minutes later I heard a quiet voice.

“Mum?”

I ignored it. 

Well, I didn’t ignore it exactly. I had a big debate with my mind about whether or not to answer. I won the debate on the grounds that Enlightenment probably requires Strict Silence.

“Mu-um?” 

The tone was more urgent, but still thoughtfully quieter than if I hadn’t recently been observed sitting on the bedroom floor, arms and legs stiffening into odd angles – not unlike, come to think of it, the desiccated daddy-long-legs I had spotted among some dust balls a few minutes into the session. When I’d first caught sight of the dead insect my mind had commented (not unreasonably) that it might be a good idea to get the vacuum cleaner out. I’d told it firmly (and somewhat ironically) to shut up and get on with being aware.  

“Mum? Mummee!” 

She never called me Mummy. Perhaps something was wrong. I glanced at the clock. I remembered the injunction that minds and puppies will not trust you if you say one thing and then do another. I had said I would meditate for twenty minutes. In another five and a half minutes I would have kept my word. I could then bounce through the door awash with maternal goodwill. 

I squinted my eyes and set my jaw and called my mind to heel.

not so simple

“MU-UM!”

A shout. The tone urgent. 

“Mum, there’s no toilet paper and I need some right now!”

Sotto voce I said to my mind, “Sorry, I forgot we had run out of toilet paper. I promise I’ll buy more before our next meditation session.” “How?” my mind responded. “It’s not payday til Thursday!”  

Fourteen-and-a-half minutes into my quest for Enlightenment, and I’d already tripped over not only the challenge of being interrupted, but also the constant anxiety about whether there was enough money for necessities. 

I leapt up in a fury, thundered about until I found a small pack of clean tissues in a coat pocket, thrust it through the toilet door and stomped back to my cushion.  

I did note however, that I had managed not to swear, scream, shout, or slam any doors. I wondered if fourteen-and-a-half minutes spent contemplating a dead spider and some dust balls could be the reason for that restraint. 

Perhaps meditation could show me thing or two after all.