Why Everyone With a Health Challenge Needs a Contemplative Practice
© The Center for Contemplative Mind in Society
Concept & design by Maia Duerr; illustration by Carrie Bergman
Last Wednesday, I woke to a deep, dull pain all over my body. Something like flu symptoms, the aches throbbed, pulsed and hurt to the touch. I've been through this charade many times, and I've noticed that my brain immediately flipped into stress response. Within seconds of waking up and registering the pain, I panicked:
This can't be happening. I am going to have to be in bed today. I should ask for an extension on my deadline. I should cancel our dinner plans. I'm going to have to explain this to my clients. I'm going to be out of money this month.
Then I sat up in bed. I took some deep breaths and was able to observe the script speeding through my head. I was able to lovingly talk back:
Okay, slow down. All you have to do is breathe and get some hot tea. One thing at a time. Just notice where your body is holding tension. Just let it do what it wants. You're okay.
I got up, put on the kettle, took a hot shower, rested for a few hours and was able to work the second half of the day. I even got to a yoga class. The pain was there, but I worked with it - not against it. I actually was okay.
Tenderness like that has taken me a long time to cultivate.
Anyone with chronic illness knows how easy it is to throw your body under the bus when it wakes you up in pain. Anytime I find myself spinning in that chaos, I try to stop to remind myself that my body is always doing its best, and I should probably give it a break.
I've kept to a contemplative practice for years because of how it's transformed my relationship with my body. When you're living with chronic illness, your brain can begin to brew a lot of negativity and fear. Somewhere down the line it's easy to split off from your truest, loveliest self and only follow the voices of self-hatred, anxiety and fear that health will never, ever return.
Meditation helps. My contemplative practice looks a bit like this:
Some mornings, I get up extra early to spend time at a beautiful pond in a nearby park. I sit in my "scared spot" - a worn wooden bench - and simply appreciate the amazing landscaping.
Sometimes I sit on my cushion, set a timer for 20 minutes, and close my eyes. Mostly I'm just trying get to a place of "yes" - that feeling that, yes, I can accept this too.
Instead of scrolling the internet when I have 15 minutes before I have to leave, I'll turn off the lights and just sit on the couch in silence.
Contemplation is more about being than doing.
Deep belly breaths. Phone off. Talking to my tired body: "I completely love and accept you. Thanks for all you do for me. You are amazing."
No one can talk about contemplation better than Fr. Richard Rohr, so I've included some of his masterful reflections on the subject here:
"...We have to calmly observe our own stream of consciousness and see its compulsive patterns. That's what happens in the early stages of contemplation, which does not yet feel like prayer. We wait in silence. In silence all our usual patterns assault us. Our patterns of control, addiction, negativity, tension, anger, and fear assert themselves.
Most teachers insist on at least twenty minutes for a full contemplative 'sit,' because you can assume that the first half (or more) of any contemplative prayer time is just letting go of those thoughts, judgments, fears, negations, and emotions that want to impose themselves on you. You have to become the watcher, where you step back from those things and observe them without judgment. You separate from them and you watch them 'over there' until you realize that feeling is not me. I'm over here watching that over there, which means it isn't me.
Thomas Keating teaches a beautifully simple exercise to use in contemplation. Imagine yourself sitting on the bank of a river. Observe each of your thoughts coming along as if they're saying, 'Think me, think me.' Watch your feelings come by saying, 'Feel me, feel me.' Acknowledge that you're having the feeling; acknowledge that you're having the thought. Don't hate it, don't judge it, don't critique it, don't, in any way, move against it. Simply name it: 'resentment toward so and so,' 'a thought about such and such.' Admit that you're having it, then place it on a boat and let it go down the river. The river is your stream of consciousness.
In the early stages of beginning a contemplative practice (and for the first few minutes of each new contemplative experience), you're simply observing your repetitive thoughts. The small, ego self can't do this because it's rather totally identified with its own thoughts and illusions, which are all the ego has. In fact, the ego is a passing game. That's why it's called the false self. It's finally not real. Most people live out of their false self, so 'they think they are their thinking.' They don't have a clue who they are apart from their thoughts. What you are doing in contemplation is moving to a level beneath your thoughts: the level of pure and naked being. This is the level of pure consciousness. This is not consciousness of anything in particular; it's simply naked awareness."
I'd love to talk more with you about developing your own contemplative practice. The tree above is a wonderful inspiration that has expanded my appreciation of spiritual practice beyond seated prayer and meditation. Contemplation is anytime we are in the flow of compassionate noticing!
Which practice calls out to you?
What's holding you back from regular contemplative practices?
What mental scripts would you love to be free of?
