My Teacher Was Warmer Than Winter

When did you keep going when most people would have quit?

Photo by Michael Yantis on Unsplash

I was late.

I hastily removed my shoes and gently knocked them together to shake the snow off before throwing them on the rack. But before I could open the door I heard a terrible sound. The chime of the meditation bell.

The surrounding Arizona desert was frosted with light snow that had fallen overnight. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, and I’d woken up late for the first meditation session of a retreat I’d signed up for with my teacher. The meditation bell signaled the start of the session, and I’d missed it.

I couldn’t imagine trying to sneak in, even quietly, and risk interrupting the sanctity of the space. But I was burning with disappointment to be missing this first gathering and felt shame for the disrespect of my absence.

The meditation hall was an elegant, simple space, with the floor covered in orderly arranged zafus (a traditional round cushion used in Zen meditation), and a low dais my teacher would sit on at the front of the room. I’d been looking forward to these sessions and imagined having successfully arrived, my ankles comfortably nestled in the beige carpet, hands resting on my knees, the gentle warmth of my teacher’s smile that I would have received had I made it inside on time.

The entryway to the meditation space, however, was another scene. It was more of an after-thought shack with a concrete floor and corrugated sheet metal for walls sheltering the shoe rack outside the door. There were enough gaps and holes that some of the snow flurries outside were drifting around on the ground and a stiff wind could be felt on my legs, even with the rickety outer door of the ramshackle vestibule closed behind me.

The thought of just heading back to my room was unbearable.

I searched my imagination for a course of action that would get me on the practice train that had left me behind at the station. A whisper of the incense that was present inside the room escaped through some crack and the mood of the actual space—just a few feet away from where I was standing—filled my heart. I didn’t want to be apart from it. I wanted to stay as close to my teacher as possible.

So I sat down.

Right there on the concrete floor I crossed my legs, my bare ankle bones pressed against the unyielding surface, the frigid breeze of the winter morning rushing around my legs and lifting the sleeves of my light dhoti shirt designed for Indian summers, the bitter temperature already stinging the tips of my ears, nostrils and fingers.

“I’m not moving!” I said to myself, attempting to manufacture an inner authority that was stronger than the other voice in my head, which was saying, “You’re going to freeze to death!”

I turned my attention to the practice, placing my attention on the inhale and outflow of my breath and the actual sensations in my body. Every time my mind would offer me the label of “freezing” or “hard” or “painful” I’d put my attention back on the actual feeling in my ankles and on my skin.

Somehow ten minutes of the first hour passed and then the oddest thing happened—I had a few moments of feeling as though I was inside the room.

The hospitality of the room and the warmth of generosity I always felt with my teacher enveloped me and I felt totally at ease. My body relaxed. My ankles stopped hurting. I was present without the story about the craziness of meditating outside in the winter. I even opened my eyes for a second to check where I was.

Over the rest of the hour I was greeted by new layers and waves of the arctic elements, my thoughts riding each one like an enemy soldier, determined to intimidate me into accepting its dramatic assessment of the danger I was in, the disastrous decision I had made, the urgent need to bolt for comfort.

But I just kept sitting.

I wish I could finish my story by claiming that I had done a heroic thing, conquered a series of life-threatening forces, scaled the heights of an inhuman landscape—but when the hour finished I bowed in front of the door, the way I would have customarily bowed had I been in the room, stood up, and walked away realizing that a little bit of cold was no big deal.

What was a big deal, however, was staying in place long enough to experience the high drama of my everyday mind, attempting to eject me from a simple commitment—from participating in my life as it was in that moment. I saw how that’s going on all the time in my head, and how often I cave to that invisible dictator.

It was the direct experience of how we humans walk around all day long every day with one operative question running the show—how can I transform my experience of being human and stay comfortable at the same time?

The answer is, we can’t.

But the trap door at the bottom of the soul that grants us access to ordinary miracles of presence is caring.

When we allow ourselves to deeply care about a cause, a practice, a purpose, a person, relationship, or a potential we can sometimes bypass the gargoyles of comfort and find the capacity to stay with a challenge long enough to snatch victory from the jaws of the drama queen of our imagination.

I had missed the starting bell and had almost called it quits. But in reality, it was staying in place and being present for the concluding bell that mattered more.

What about you?

When did you keep going when most people would have quit?

That’s a moment that’s worth sharing a story about, and that’s what we’re here for. To find the stories that reveal something essential about us to both ourselves and to others, and to tell them.

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Saturday, Aug 24th, 9 am PST

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Here’s this week’s prompt.

When did you keep going when most people would have quit?

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