I’ve been thinking about mindfulness a lot recently. Or
rather I have been thinking a lot about how mindfulness is cropping up a lot
recently. It seems to be a bit of a buzz phrase, which is a shame because I
find there’s a lot of value in being mindful but its prevalence in the daily
media seems to be turning it into a parody of itself. I am thinking, in
particular, of an article I read about the ‘mindfulness of eating’ which was
referencing a new App by Headspace who seem to be turning the world mindful one
activity at a time. The idea behind mindful eating is centred on taking time to
experience and appreciate your food. Instead of just guzzling it down, take a
moment to appreciate the sight and feel of your food, savour the different
tastes and textures, hold it on your tongue, chew slowly, smell as well as
taste. There’s a lot of merit in this advice, in fact it brings to mind the
approach in Japanese fiction (not just Murakami, though Murakami readers will
recognise him here) in which the protagonist prepares a simple meal in an
almost ritualistic, procession-like manner to the point where even those who
would generally balk at the idea of pickled cauliflower are left itching to
take a bite. So I’m on board here, yet still I can’t shift that shuddery feeling
that comes over me every time I hear the term.
Perhaps it is the term itself that I struggle with the most.
It has a catch-phrasy tone to it. In the past I have dabbled, frequently, with
meditation. I enjoy meditation, though it was not always so. I find it
settling, peaceful. Perhaps it is because I am often so busy, often planning
every spare moment of my day - starting this, scheduling that – that even just
ten minutes of sitting and simply existing, without focus or intent, brings me
back to the experience of being...me. Not just a doing machine (I feel like
this often). When I read Ruth Ozeki’s marvellous A Tale for the Time Being I enjoyed reading about how old Jiko
helped Nao to develop a habit of sitting zazen
which is another word for meditation, though of a particular type as espoused
by Zen Master Dōgen. Yet this term mindfulness
seems somehow unfitting, and perhaps its wide ranging application (you can be ‘mindful’
in pretty much anything) is what discomforts me so greatly. I am sure it is
irrational, but there it is.
So whilst I have titled this blog ‘mindfulness’ I think it’s
more true to say that what I’m interested in here is present awareness or in more blunt Northern-Englandy terms ‘paying attention’. Whether or not you indulge in meditation (and
I’ll get onto that, bear with me) there is significant value as a writer in
spending time in this activity of paying attention to what is happening right
here and right now. I think as we grow older we spend a lot of time learning to
phase out the ‘unnecessary’, those things which are repetitious or commonplace,
those things that don’t contribute towards what we are trying to do, where we
are trying to go or what we want to achieve. We lose the childish appreciation
of the world, where each experience is seen as new and unique. It is called ‘growing
up’ and yet it seems a terrible punishment for growing older. For a writer such
obliviousness is a handicap; failure to observe, to feel, to experience even
the seemingly ordinary in life separates us from the richness of the world. It
is often in these hidden spaces, in the minutiae of detail, from which great
literature is born. One quality which unites all the greatest writers is their
ability to see and elucidate those things that other people overlook, adding to
it, of course, their unique perspective and insight and hopefully some sharply
written prose.
Being mindful is harder than you imagine, just try spending
the next ten minutes paying attention to everything that happens inside and
outside of you. It’s exhausting. It’s also especially difficult in a world which
seems to be moving, through the aid of technology, to a more virtual life
experience. Think about all those people you see walking through the streets on
their way to work in the morning, chatting away on their mobiles or walking
staring at the screens as they send a text message or read the latest news or
Facebook updates. This sight is now commonplace, and those of us who eschew
such technology (I despise mobile phones) have become adept at avoiding collision
with such people whose bodies may be present but whose minds are clearly inhabiting
some different plane entirely. I do not blame them. I don’t think people can be
faulted for becoming entranced with these magical little boxes which they did
not invent and never asked for and which allow you instant access a dizzying
array of things you never imagined existed or that you wanted. Yet I also think it is true that such
technologies go a long way towards separating us from experiencing the world
that we are in now; they engender a weirdly passive yet searching mentality, in
which we go seeking the next thing to absorb or to react to: a tweet that
enrages or a comment that demands a
response. I know this to be true because I have experienced it; I am not beyond
the allure of the internet, the way it instantaneously gratifies or outrages. I
have spent many hours reading twitter feeds or internet articles, checking for
e-mails or messages. Yet I also know it is dead activity, that to unearth my
creative and creating self I need to be here and present and alert to what is
happening.
I think this is perhaps why mindfulness has become such a thing recently, that people need gently
reminding that they are more than just all-consuming beings, being fed
information or experiences or goods at a distance. That it is easy to spend
your entire life reaching out for something, when the really valuable
experience is right here, in this moment, the one you are living. I recognise
the irony in communicating this via an internet blog. In a way I’m saying the
best thing you can do is stop reading and start feeling and experiencing. In a moment, of course, when you’ve finished
reading what I have to say. Pay attention.
This is what mindfulness is about, and perhaps I have not
explained entirely clearly why I think it is so important a tool if you’re
setting out to be a writer, perhaps because I think, at its root, mindfulness
is a valuable tool for life. But for a writer it is particularly valuable
because it enables you to take time to empty yourself of all influences, forget
the article that enraged you or the odd comment your mother left on your
Facebook post, and let yourself become open to what is happening right now. It
enables you to focus more closely on how you are feeling, unusual tensions in
the body or perhaps a general sense of sadness or joy. It enables you to notice
the little things: warmth, a soft breeze, an ache in your left shoulder (that’s
me), the sounds of the air conditioning or heating running through the pipes in
your building, the regular ticking of
your heart, the sensation of cloth on your knee, the way your body quivers
unexpectedly when you sit cross-legged, the way the mind wanders, how it roams
curiously seeking out experience, experience that, on the whole, you largely
block out. All these things become present and clear and suddenly you start to
see yourself forming from the blank space where your outward seeking –
defensive mind would normally be. Subjects, reflections, meaning begin to form,
not reactions but identity. Maybe your mind wanders to that argument you had
with your partner that morning and you start to see what it was about what they
did (or didn’t do) that enraged you, not the thing itself but the source of your
own insecurity, your fear. And the great part about meditating, about
mindfulness, is how it is not about dwelling on these things or judging, but
about acknowledging their existence. That’s all. Translate that activity into
story-writing and you have a path towards a great observational piece in which
you don’t judge or steer your characters too heavily but instead allow them to
unfold and create the story through their actions. Suddenly you have show not tell, that great and often
shared piece of writerly advice. And those little details are the difference
between writing that is superficial and a story that is authentic. Those little
details are what makes stories worth reading.
I wouldn’t recommend that anyone tries mindfulness because
it is cool or popular or the buzz phrase of the minute. It is more difficult
and in some respects much too scary to attempt lightly. When I tried it with my
daughter she found it very discomforting, and it has taken me many years of
trying before coming to feel at peace when meditating and I don’t doubt there
will be future occasions when no matter what I try I can’t settle to it. It is
not predictable or easy. But if you’re interested in becoming a writer, it is a
powerful way of revealing to you your own feelings, of being present and
observant and receptive to what the world has to say which makes it a valuable
tool and a worthwhile activity, even if only used occasionally.
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