“Mindfulness in the early Buddhist teachings is simply presence––presence of mind.”
–– Ayya Dhammadinna
A dear friend of mine from college––we were both eighteen when we met––and her husband, whom I met a few years later, have been meditating together every day since their adult son died eight years ago of a sudden, short, and tragic illness. In his dying time, he told them that meditation practice brought him some peace. So, upon his death, in their shared heartbreak, his parents too began to practice––as a way of staying connected with their deceased son, and with the possibility of touching whatever peace he may have experienced. My friends have not had a teacher, nor have they joined a sangha. We’ve talked about their practice only a few times over these years. Mostly it was in the beginning that they had questions. Primarily, they have used the guided practices on various meditation apps. When I visited with them this summer, they told me that they have never missed a day of practice and that they always practice together, never alone. I felt a deep intimacy between them, as well as a strong, inclusive openness to others in their presence. In practicing mindfulness, they intentionally sit near dukkha daily, in one of its most unbearable forms, the death of a child: and they embody a tenderness and a care for themselves and for others that is remarkable.
Recently, my friend emailed me with a question: What is the difference between meditation and mindfulness? It is a good question for all of us to consider. Most often we refer to our meditation as a “practice”: we are training the mind to be less reactive as we sit patiently through bouts of sadness, greed, anger, desire, boredom, and restlessness. We are not practicing to cover anything up. Instead, we are learning to meditate as a way of opening to the truth of every moment of our lives. And yet, almost paradoxically, we are engaged in this practice to have less suffering in our lives and in the lives of others. We cannot do this without the ability to have “a present moment awareness, free of judgment,” which is Jon Kabat-Zinn’s definition of mindfulness.
The comparable word for practice in the Pali language is bhavana: it means to cultivate or to grow. “What is it we are cultivating in our meditations?” asks Dharma teacher Gil Fronsdal in a recent talk on the subject of practice. This is another good question. The monastic teacher Bhikkhu Analayo speaks of planting the seeds of wisdom, and of “growing the tiny buds of the awakening factors, which are inherent in us all”; nourishing them “until they flower into our awakening.” The first of these awakening factors is sati, or mindfulness. Mindfulness is essential to being a good gardener. We have to know what is really happening in the gardens of our hearts and minds. We must remember and understand that we live within the parameters of the human condition. We age, sicken, die, and our loved ones die. Within these conditions, we have some ability to accept our situations and to act in ways that cultivate our actions towards the wholesome, the kind, the good––toward less dukkha in the midst of dukkha. Our untrained minds and hearts can forget and become reactive in ways that can make our situations worse. This reactivity itself is not to be feared or hated.
The word in the Tibetan language which is comparable to bhavana or meditation practice is Gom, which means “to become familiar with” or “to habituate” the mind.
Meditation is a practice of getting to know one’s own mind and training the attention to rest in a way that cultivates positive states, rather than trying to quiet the mind entirely. Gom implies a process of becoming acquainted with your thoughts, emotions, and sensations without judgment. It’s about familiarizing your mind with positive qualities like calm, compassion, and clarity, rather than letting it remain under the sway of stress or negative emotions. Gom suggests a gentle, welcoming process of befriending and understanding your inner experiences over time.
–– Response to an AI search on the word Gom
Our practice of mindfulness cultivates mindfulness, and mindfulness was never meant to be something we do only in seclusion––though a regular time set aside for cultivating a strong presence of the mind is necessary for most of us. In the earliest of the Buddha’s teaching on developing, establishing, and sustaining mindfulness, we are reminded often that we are called to develop this presence of mind as a steady state––“continuous mindfulness”––all the time! This state is to include first, an awareness of ourselves as vulnerable, temporary, and not in full control of things, but instead subject to a myriad conditions; second, an awareness of others in these same ways; and third, again in these same ways, an awareness of the lively world of both ourselves and others, where we co-create the world. We are all in this together.
Especially in these dark and confusing times––in our personal and our collective experiences––a balanced, steady presence of mind allows for the arising of grief and gratitude to coexist together. In a recent Dharma discussion at Bodhi College, I heard the wise teacher Ayya Dhammadinna say that whenever she sees or hears of people behaving cruelly towards others, she understands that there is not enough mindfulness developed in the person(s) doing harm. She led a meditation in which she encouraged us to pause and feel the direct awareness of our own bodies by recognizing a combination of the felt-sense of heavy and light. She then invited us to know that outward, in front of us, there are hundreds of thousands of people just like us, experiencing their bodies as heavy and light. Then we were to direct our awareness to our right, to immeasurable numbers of people; to our back; to our left; to below; and to above. She had us sensing myriad beings living with old age, illness, loss, and death––with varying degrees of presence of mind, just like us. Dhammadinna feels that perhaps all four of the Brahmaviharas arise from this developed presence of mind.
Perhaps the answer lies in honesty, in gratitude that does not ignore the pain, but instead inspires us to show up, to give, and to deepen our commitment to community. Gratitude that acknowledges privilege and transforms it into purpose. Gratitude that recognizes that our well-being is tied to the well-being of others.
–– JerriAnne Boggis, Director, Black Heritage Trails of New Hampshire
As our Upper Valley world darkens into winter and the year ebbs, may we all continue to cultivate and sustain our presence of mind, even as we become familiar with the truth of each and every moment in its arising––knowing always “how deeply our lives intertwine.” May mindfulness grow; may it stabilize the care and compassion underlying our communities.