Personal Story: The Movement in Stillness

When I sit for my meditation time, one of the first things I want to do is get comfortable—reduce distractions in my outer world and in my body. I arrange myself in an easy, upright, supported sitting position. I briefly look around to acknowledge where I am, then close my eyes and tune into what I hear, acknowledging the sounds around me.

I then shift my attention to what's happening, what I sense inside my body. On the pathway to profound stillness, I allow myself the permission to wiggle and rearrange whenever needed to keep from becoming distracted, but gradually I become quieter, more still, in both body and mind. This has an important purpose: by stilling my body and mind without effort, without trying to control it, I can begin to notice the most subtle movements within.

I acknowledge the truth that, by virtue of being alive, I am in movement. I allow myself to become still enough to notice the details of this movement: my breath, my heartbeat, the circulation of blood. I sense these movements as tingling sensations, the beating of my heart. Where do I feel it? Just in my chest? Perhaps at other locations—my throat, my wrist, my groin.

My breathing—there’s a whole world of movement in each breath. Before I even get to the details of that, I notice the very act of sitting here, for these few minutes, and become aware of a very subtle, almost imperceptible movement, glacially slow, like if I were made of butter and placed in a room at room temperature. Over several minutes, I move from stiff, tight, holding to softer, rounder at the edges, maybe even melting a bit into my seat.

I may notice that the act of softening places where my habits have created unconscious stiffness helps my whole body soften. The softening happens over time, and over time becomes softer still. Then I wonder: where do I habitually hold myself together, and how does that soften? When I soften, I become aware of this softening in places like the cushion behind my back, my seat, the air floating in my head, or around my jaw, temples, or eyes.

Am I asking for a softening of my mind, of my thinking? A softer tone of voice with which I speak to myself? A softening of the habitual efforts to try too hard or to be good? Softening my trying, letting go of any effort to control or hold on has enormous benefits.