Category: Essays

How attention, awareness, and repetition gradually reshape the mind

Announcement

The next Meditation Community series will be themed as the Neuroscience Edition. It will add a layer of neuroscientific explanation to traditional Buddhist meditation. The series will launch in autumn 2026.

Meditation is not about emptying the mind or achieving special states. At a basic level, it is a way of gently training the nervous system. Modern neuroscience helps explain why this works.

Attention is trainable
Attention is supported by networks in the front of the brain that help us focus, choose, and inhibit impulses. Each time you notice your attention has wandered and bring it back, you are exercising these networks. This is not a mistake. The moment you notice distraction is the moment of training.

The mind wanders by default
When we are not deliberately focused, the brain naturally activates what is sometimes called the default mode network. This network supports self-talk, memory, and imagining the future. Meditation does not stop thinking. It changes our relationship to thought, so thoughts are seen more clearly and held more lightly.

Emotion regulation comes from awareness
Strong emotions are generated in older parts of the brain. Meditation does not suppress emotion. By staying present with sensation and feeling, without immediately reacting, the nervous system gradually learns that emotions can be experienced safely. Calm often appears as a side effect rather than a goal.

The body is the gateway
Breath, posture, and bodily awareness influence the nervous system directly. Slow breathing and grounded posture support stability and recovery. Returning attention to physical sensation is one of the most reliable ways to steady the mind.

Repetition matters
From a brain perspective, meditation is training. Short, regular practice produces more lasting change than occasional intense experiences. Consistency matters more than depth.

In simple terms
Meditation trains us to notice without immediately reacting, steady attention, regulate emotion through awareness, and inhabit the body more fully. It is the slow education of a living nervous system.

On facilitation, letting go, and sitting together

When I started a meditation group at my workplace in 2019, I suggested to my two colleagues that it be “peer-led.” What I meant at the time was that I did not especially know much about guiding meditations, and their quick embrace of the idea suggested they did not either.

It turns out it is not hard to guide a meditation. Sit, relax, breathe, meditate in silence for a while, thanks for coming. Of course, there are many kinds of meditation. As our meditation group caught on, hundreds of people have attended, many of whom shared their own meditation knowledge, from music and visualization to yoga nidra and vipassana. I believe it was the peer-led quality of our organization that made so many people feel welcome, not only to join us but to share what they knew.

Meditation has not always been associated with this kind of peer-led or decentralized organizational structure. For much of its history, it has been transmitted through formal lineages, hierarchical institutions, and clearly defined teacher–student relationships. Authority was conferred by training, ordination, or proximity to a tradition, and the role of the teacher was to preserve and pass on a specific form with fidelity. Access to meditation often depended on geography, culture, language, and permission. In that context, meditation was not something one casually offered to others, but something one received carefully from someone authorized to give it.

In the meditation community in which I participated at work for the past seven years, and continue to participate, being peer-led was always treated as an essential quality. I understand now that this was not incidental. It may, in fact, have been the defining quality of the community itself.

That quality expressed itself in many ways. While a small number of people led most meditations, myself included, this is true of most volunteer organizations, and for familiar reasons. Still, there was always room for movement, and movement did happen. At different times, I and other active leaders were away from work for various reasons, and others stepped in, changing how things ran, along with the style and tone of the group.

Being peer-led also meant that sometimes nothing happened at all. No one signed up to guide a meditation. People showed up and improvised, or simply drifted away. At times it seemed as though everyone had lost interest and the group might fold. More often, it turned out to be just ebb and flow. With the turn of a season, the group would surge back into life again.

I intend this peer-led quality to guide more explicitly the design of this public meditation community, something like the prime directive of Star Trek. While there is a program design, I invite anyone who is interested to guide a meditation. Whether it fits a designated topic or not, we will make it work. Future phases of the program will offer opportunities for participants to join design sessions, as we explore research and artistic applications of meditation. Finally, while this community operates on my digital platform, I think of it as an open-source model, available to be branched should someone wish to start their own meditation community. I would assist and support this.

One last thing. I mentioned in the last sitting that, despite my best efforts, there may be an occasion when my power is out, my phone is down, and I cannot join a scheduled meditation. In that case, I invite anyone who is able to take the lead and guide a meditation. Perhaps only to say: sit, relax, breathe, meditate in silence for a while, thanks for coming. Such is the way of a peer-led meditation group.

Shinto turns to cold squatting beneath freezing waterfalls in winter, standing in icy springs, or repeatedly dousing the body with frigid water — I prefer a winter river

Shinzen Young tells of his training in the shamanic tradition of Shinto, Japan’s pre-Buddhist tribal religion. Many tribal cultures seek visions of gods or spirits through prolonged exposure to extremes. In India, some Hindus practise the “five fires.” In North America, certain Indigenous traditions use the sweat lodge and the sun dance. These lean toward heat. Shinto goes in the other direction. It turns to cold squatting beneath freezing waterfalls in winter, standing in icy springs, or repeatedly dousing the body with frigid water.

For Shinzen, this meant approaching a cistern filled with half-frozen water, breaking the ice crust, filling a huge wooden bucket, and then squatting as he dumped the bone-chilling liquid over his bare skin. The water froze as it hit the floor. His towel froze in his hand. He slid around barefoot on the ice, trying to dry himself with a towel that had turned to a board. It was, for him, a horrific ordeal. He suspected that being a thin-skinned Californian did not help.

I prefer a winter river. There are always three stages. First, my mind tells me not to do it. It warns me that this is a threat to my life. I quiet the mind. Second, as I descend past my waist, I begin to hyperventilate. My body triggers its survival response, drawing blood toward the core. It lasts only seconds. Third, I adapt. After a minute, the cold becomes neutral, even spacious. I stay in for up to five minutes.

Beginners enter and exit quickly. They cannot silence the mind or allow the body to adapt. They fear death. Experienced practitioners settle into calm. They release the mind’s grip and the fear that shadows it. Immersed in the river, the sense of body and ego separation dissolves. They feel connected with everything. Samadhi.

Cold water immersion is a masterclass in meditation. In one minute, it teaches you to quiet the mind’s cry for comfort, a skill that carries into every hard thing in life. Or you could spend a lifetime sitting on a pillow. No doubt there are lessons in both practices.

A reflection on Buddha, Rousseau, and the two causes of suffering

You’ve heard the Buddha’s prescription for the cause of suffering: craving.

There is a classic Buddhist story that advises you cannot carpet the whole world, but you can carpet your feet — in other words, wear sandals.

“Where would I possibly find enough leather
To cover the surface of the earth?
But with leather soles beneath my feet,
It is as though the whole world has been covered.”

Likewise, it is not possible for me
To restrain the external course of things;
But should I restrain this mind of mine,
What need is there to restrain all else?”

~ From the Bodhicaryāvatāra, Chapter 5 (“Guarding Introspection”), verses 13–14, translated by Vesna Wallace and B. Alan Wallace (1997).

The advice is sensible and deeply consistent with the Buddha’s teaching. I cannot remove every object of inconvenience or temptation, but I can work with myself.

Reading a beautiful and profound book, Animals are People by Peter Morville, I came across this passage about Jean-Jacques Rousseau, an Enlightenment philosopher who believed humans are naturally good but are corrupted by society and inequality.

“That’s right, Jo. He sees inequality as the root cause of misery. He says that while ‘there is hardly any inequality in the state of nature,’ human society shows ‘the violence of the powerful and the oppression of the weak.’ It’s an echo of the aboriginal belief that the most destructive idea in existence is ‘I am greater than you; you are less than me.’ It’s a slippery slope. The belief in supremacy over animals primes people for supremacy over their fellow humans.”

Animals Are People, 11

Rousseau sees inequality as the root cause of suffering. The Buddha and Śāntideva locate the root in the mind. Who is right? Both are. One is the internal approach; the other is the external. Each has its strengths and each its limits.

The Buddha begins with the mind because every encounter with the world is filtered through attention, emotion, and habit. Even in a perfectly just society, an untrained mind becomes entangled in craving, aversion, and confusion. Śāntideva’s sandals metaphor is a reminder that we carry the world inside us. Suffering arises the moment we insist that reality conform to our preferences.

Rousseau begins with society because the world shapes us long before we know we are being shaped. Inequality distorts relationships, incentives, and self-worth. It teaches hierarchy and violence long before a child has the capacity to think critically about them. The injustices we internalize become the very cravings and fears the Buddha warns us about. To ignore this is to pretend the mind grows in a vacuum.

So the two views are not opposites but complements. Inner discipline protects us from being dominated by our reactions; outer justice protects us from being placed in conditions that breed those reactions. Inner work without outer change can drift into quietism. Outer change without inner work can repeat the same old patterns under new banners. A mature response to suffering requires both: clarity of mind and clarity of society, sandals and a path worth walking.

How to Meditate by Lawrence LeShan was a practical introduction

I picked up my first meditation book at age eighteen.

Growing up in a Dutch fundamentalist community during the 1970s and 80s, my reading options were limited to the carefully curated shelves of our Dutch Reformed school library. Fauns and witches in Narnia? Perfectly fine. Meditation, on the other hand? Far too weird. Later, in public high school, I explored a broader collection but never encountered a book on meditation. Occasionally, I ventured into the city’s public library, but my hometown of St. Thomas, Ontario—a conservative factory city—offered little exposure to unconventional ideas like meditation.

Meditation began gaining traction in the West during the countercultural movements of the 1960s and 70s. Often associated with hippies, alternative lifestyles, and a rejection of mainstream norms, it was viewed with suspicion in many communities. Rooted in Eastern traditions like Buddhism, Hinduism, and Taoism, meditation was often seen as foreign or strange in Western society. In my community, elders discouraged it entirely, which only piqued my curiosity as I grew older.

In 1983, as I neared the end of high school, my future felt predetermined. Many of my peers worked in local auto factories or pursued trades through college. I wasn’t sure what else I could do. Then a friend handed me a pamphlet from the school guidance centre about a youth volunteer program called Katimavik. In it, young people from across Canada—English and French speakers—would travel the country for nine months, volunteering along the way.

“Sounds weird,” I told my friend. Then I signed up.

The program began in Kingston, Ontario, which did little to challenge my assumption that Canada was just like my hometown. I worked on an archaeological dig and even met Brian Mulroney on the campaign trail for prime minister.

The second rotation, in Northwest River, Labrador, was transformative. I learned to chop wood, repair an axe, and operate a chainsaw. I travelled by boat along the Labrador coast and connected with Indigenous communities, even trying my hand at making mukluks.

Our third rotation brought us to St. Brieux, Saskatchewan. I volunteered at the local school library, where I stumbled upon a small book: How to Meditate by Lawrence LeShan. I checked it out.

LeShan’s book was a practical introduction to meditation. It explored various techniques from different traditions, emphasizing meditation’s transformative effects on personal growth, inner peace, and emotional resilience. His conversational tone and real-world examples made meditation seem both relevant and achievable. By demystifying the practice, he highlighted its universal benefits—improved focus, reduced stress, and a deeper sense of connection to oneself and the world. While there were a few eccentricities, such as cautions about extrasensory perceptions, I realized meditation wasn’t so weird after all.

I decided to try LeShan’s breath-counting technique. It’s a simple yet effective method: sit comfortably, close your eyes, and focus on your natural breath. Count each exhalation, starting from one and continuing to ten. Once you reach ten, start again at one. If your mind wanders and you lose track, gently refocus on your breath and begin again. This practice trains attention, cultivates mindfulness, and quiets mental chatter—a foundational exercise for beginners.

When I returned from Katimavik, I was apparently untainted and still acceptable to my family and community. Yes, I’d permed my hair, but I had no tattoos and hadn’t experimented with drugs. My brothers took one look at me and knew I was still a virgin. What they didn’t know was that I’d gained a new “mystical” understanding of meditation.

I practiced privately, using meditation to relax when I felt stressed or to quiet my thoughts before sleep. It remained a casual practice for decades. I read many more books on meditation, but LeShan’s remained a solid introduction and a practical guide. I’ve recommended it to many others.

Even today, meditation carries a lingering stigma in some circles. Media often portrays it in stereotypical or humorous ways—monks chanting “om” or people sitting cross-legged in robes—which reinforces the perception that it’s not for “normal” people. As meditation has become more mainstream, it has also been commodified—through apps, wellness retreats, and lifestyle brands. This commercialization sometimes leads to skepticism about its authenticity or seriousness.

Yet over time, as scientific research has demonstrated the mental and physical health benefits of meditation, and as people from diverse backgrounds have embraced the practice, its reputation as “weird” has faded. While a few stereotypes remain, meditation is increasingly recognized as a valuable tool for achieving clarity, balance, and well-being in today’s fast-paced world.

I am optimistic about the reckoning of truth and ignorance

The Razor’s Edge by Somerset Maugham is a philosophical novel. It tells the story of Larry Darrell, a young American traumatized by his experiences in World War I. Larry rejects the conventional path of career, marriage, and material success. Instead, he chooses a life of wandering and study, traveling to Paris and India. His journey leads him to a profound spiritual awakening. Maugham appears as both a character and the narrator in the story. At the end, he and Larry have a conversation about Larry’s experience and its potential significance for humanity. I quote a few pages of the text here because they provide context to a brilliant passage at the end that I have remembered for decades and that continues to influence my writing about meditation. I include the pages also because the text is both pleasant and inspiring to read.

“Larry had been silent for a few minutes, and unwilling to hurry him, I waited. Presently he gave me a friendly little smile as though he had suddenly once more become aware of me.

‘When I got down to Travancore I found I needn’t have asked for information about Shri Ganesha. Everyone knew of him. For many years he’d lived in a cave in the hills, but finally he’d been persuaded to move down to the plain where some charitable person had given him a plot of land and had built a little adobe house for him. It was a long way from Trivandrum, the capital, and it took me all day, first by train and then by bullock cart, to get to the Ashrama. I found a young man at the entrance of the compound and asked him if I could see the Yogi. I’d brought with me the basket of fruit which is the customary gift to offer. In a few minutes the young man came back and led me into a long hall with windows all around it. In one corner Shri Ganesha sat in the attitude of meditation on a raised dais covered with a tiger skin. I’ve been expecting you, he said. I was surprised, but supposed my friend of Madura had told him something about me. But he shook his head when I mentioned his name. I presented my fruit and he told the young man to take it away. We were left alone and he looked at me without speaking. I don’t know how long the silence lasted. It might nave been for half an hour. I’ve told you what he looked like; what I haven’t told you is the serenity that he irradiated, the goodness, the peace, the selflessness. I was hot and tired after my journey, but gradually I began to feel wonderfully rested. Before he’d said another word I knew that this was the man I’d been seeking.’

‘Did he speak English?’ I interrupted.

‘No. But, you know, I’m pretty quick at languages, I’d picked up enough Tamil to understand and make myself understood in the South. At last he spoke.

‘What have you come here for?’ he asked.

‘I began to tell him how I’d come to India and how I’d passed my time for three years; how, on report of their wisdom and sanctity, I’d gone to one holy man after another and had found no one to give me what I looked for. He interrupted me.

‘All that I know. There is no need to tell me. What have you come here for?’

‘So that you may be my Guru,’ I answered.

‘Brahman alone is the Guru,’ he said.

‘He continued to look at me with a strange intensity and then suddenly his body became rigid, his eyes seemed to turn inwards and I saw that he’d fallen into the trance which the Indians call Samadhi and in which they hold the duality of subject and object vanishes and you become Knowledge Absolute. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, in front of him, and my heart beat violently. After how long a time I don’t know he sighed and I realized that he had recovered normal consciousness. He gave me a glance sweet with loving-kindness.

‘Stay,’ he said. ‘They will show you where you may sleep.’

I was given as a dwelling-place the shack in which Shri Ganesha had lived when first he came down to the plain. The hall in which he now passed both day and night had been built when disciples gathered around him and more and more people attracted by his fame, came to visit him. So that I mightn’t be conspicuous I adopted the comfortable Indian dress and I got so sunburnt that unless your attention was drawn to me you might have taken me for a native. I read a great deal. I meditated. I listened to Shri Ganesha when he chose to talk; he didn’t talk very much, but he was always willing to answer questions and it was wonderfully inspiring to listen to him. It was like music in your ears. Though in his youth he had himself practised very severe austerities he did not enjoin them on his disciples. He sought to wean them from the slavery of selfhood, passion and sense, and told them that they could acquire liberation by tranquillity, restraint, renunciation, resignation, by steadfastness of mind and by an ardent desire for freedom. People used to come from the nearby town three or four miles away, where there was a famous temple to which great crowds flocked once a year for a festival; they came from Trivandrum and from far-off places to tell him their troubles, to ask his advice, to listen to his teaching; and all went away strengthened in soul and at peace with themselves. What he taught was very simple. He taught that we are all greater than we know and that wisdom is the means to freedom. He taught that it is not essential to salvation to retire from the world, but only to renounce the self. He taught that work done with no selfish interest purifies the mind and that duties are opportunities afforded to man to sink his separate self and become one with the universal self. But it wasn’t his teaching that was so remarkable; it was the man himself, his benignity, his greatness of soul, his saintliness. His presence was a benediction. I was very happy with him. I felt that at last I had found what I wanted. The weeks, the months passed with unimaginable rapidity. I proposed to stay either till he died and he told us that he did not intend very much longer to inhabit his perishable body, or till I received illumination, that state when you have at last burst the bonds of ignorance, and know with a certainty there is no disputing that you and the Absolute are one.’

‘And then?’

‘Then, if what they say is true, there is nothing more. The soul’s course on earth is ended and it will return no more.’

‘And is Shri Ganesha dead?’ I asked.

‘Not so far as I know.’

As he spoke he saw what was implied in my question and gave a light laugh. He went on after a moment’s hesitation, but in such a manner as led me at first to suppose that he wished to avoid answering the second question that he well knew was on the tip of my tongue, the question, of course, whether he had received illumination.

‘I didn’t stay at the Ashrama continuously. I was lucky enough to make the acquaintance of a native forestry officer whose permanent residence was on the outskirts of a village at the foot of the mountains. He was a devotee of Shri Ganesha and when he could get away from his work came and spent two or three days with us. He was a nice fellow and we had long talks. He liked to practise his English on me. After I’d known him for some time, he told me that the forestry service had a bungalow up in the mountains and if ever I wanted to go there to be by myself he would give me the key. I went there now and then. It was a two-day journey; first you had to go by bus to the forestry officer’s village, then you had to walk, but when you got there it was magnificent in its grandeur and its solitude. I took what I could in a knapsack on my back and hired a bearer to carry provisions for me, and I stayed till they were exhausted. It was only a log cabin with a cookhouse behind it and for furniture there was nothing but a trestle bed on which to put your sleeping-mat, a table and a couple of chairs. It was cool up there and at times it was pleasant to light a fire at night. It gave me a wonderful thrill to know that there wasn’t a living soul within twenty miles of me. At night I used often to hear the roar of a tiger or the racket of elephants as they crashed through the jungle. I used to take long walks in the forest. There was one place where I loved to sit because from it I saw the mountains spread before me and below, a lake to which at dusk the wild animals, deer, pig, bison, elephant, leopard came to drink.

‘When I’d been at the Ashrama just two years I went up to my forest retreat for a reason that’ll make you smile. I wanted to spend my birthday there. I got there the day before. Next morning I awoke before dawn and I thought I’d go and see the sunrise from the place I’ve just told you about. I knew the way blindfold. I sat down under a tree and waited. It was night still, but the stars were pale in the sky, and day was at hand. I had a strange feeling of suspense. So gradually that I was hardly aware of it light began to filter through the darkness, slowly, like a mysterious figure slinking between the trees. I felt my heart beating as though at the approach of danger. The sun rose.’

Larry paused and a rueful smile played on his lips.

‘I have no descriptive talent, I don’t know the words to paint a picture; I can’t tell you, so as to make you see it, how grand the sight was that was displayed before me as the day broke in its splendour. Those mountains with their deep jungle, the mist still entangled in the treetops, and the bottomless lake far below me. The sun caught the lake through a cleft in the heights and it shone like burnished steel. I was ravished with the beauty of the world. I’d never known such exaltation and such a transcendent joy. I had a strange sensation, a tingling that arose in my feet and travelled up to my head, and I felt as though I were suddenly released from my body and as pure spirit partook of a loveliness I had never conceived. I had a sense that a knowledge more than human possessed me, so that everything that had been confused was clear and everything that had perplexed me was explained. I was so happy that it was pain and I struggled to release myself from it, for I felt that if it lasted a moment longer I should die; and yet it was such rapture that I was ready to die rather than forgo it. How can I tell you what I felt? No words can tell the ecstasy of my bliss. When I came to myself I was exhausted and trembling. I fell asleep.

‘It was high noon when I woke. I walked back to the bungalow, and I was so light at heart that it seemed to me that I hardly touched the ground. I made myself some food, gosh, I was hungry, and I lit my pipe.’

Larry lit his pipe now.

‘I dared not think that this was illumination that I, Larry Darrell of Marvin, Illinois, had received when others striving for it for years, with austerity and mortification, still waited.’

‘What makes you think that it was anything more than a hypnotic condition induced by your state of mind combined with the solitude, the mystery of the dawn and the burnished steel of your lake?’

‘Only my overwhelming sense of its reality. After all it was an experience of the same order as the mystics have had all over the world through all the centuries. Brahmins in India, Sufis in Persia, Catholics in Spain, Protestants in New England; and so far as they’ve been able to describe what defies description they’ve described it in similar terms. It’s impossible to deny the fact of its occurrence; the only difficulty is to explain it. If I was for a moment one with the Absolute or if it was an inrush from the subconscious of an affinity with the universal spirit which is latent in all of us, I wouldn’t know.’

Larry paused for an instant and threw me a quizzical glance.

‘By the way, can you touch your little finger with your thumb?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ I said with a laugh, proving it with the appropriate action.

‘Are you aware that that’s something that only man and the primates can do? It’s because the thumb is opposable to the other digits that the hand is the admirable instrument it is. Isn’t it possible that the opposable thumb, doubtless in a rudimentary form, was developed in the remote ancestor of man and the gorilla in certain individuals, and was a characteristic that only became common to all after innumerable generations? Isn’t it at least possible that these experiences of oneness with Reality that so many diverse persons have had point to a development in the human consciousness of a sixth sense which in the far, far future will be common to all men so that they may have as direct a perception of the Absolute as we have now of the objects of sense?’

‘And how would you expect that to affect them?’ I asked.

‘I can as little tell you that as the first creature that found it could touch its little finger with its thumb could have told you what infinite consequences were entailed in that insignificant action. So far as I’m concerned I can only tell you that the intense sense of peace, joy and assurance that possessed me in that moment of rapture abides with me still and that the vision of the world’s beauty is as fresh and vivid now as when first my eyes were dazzled by it.’”

The Razor’s Edge is a work of fiction. However, Maugham’s writing style blurs the line between fiction and reality. The novel is narrated in the first person by a character named “Maugham,” who closely resembles the author himself, adding a semi-autobiographical layer to the storytelling. Larry’s spiritual quest reflects Maugham’s interest in Eastern philosophies and mysticism.

Larry’s question and observations about the opposable thumb is a passage that has stayed with me for decades. Larry suggests that the opposable thumb probably began in a rudimentary form in a remote ancestor and became common to all only after many generations. He speculates that his experience of oneness with Reality could similarly become common—though he expects this will occur in the far, far future.

The concept of enlightenment is often treated as privileged, attainable only after decades of formal meditation practice, and perhaps only after many lifetimes. It is commonly assumed that enlightenment cannot be properly defined, and it is considered bad form to claim to have achieved it. While it may once have been rare, I propose that the frequency of such experiences may be accelerating. Larry had to travel and uncover spiritual knowledge from uncommon individuals and rare books. Since Maugham wrote his book, the internet has exponentially increased access to knowledge of all kinds, including esoteric knowledge. I suggest that the ongoing reification of enlightenment is an obstacle to spiritual growth.

Certainly, new opposing forces have arisen to enforce ignorance and darkness. However, the state of the planet compels evolution. Larry believes that the experience of oneness will eventually become a direct perception, akin to a sixth sense. In his transcendent state of consciousness, appearances became revealing. He experienced a sensory union with the earth: the mountains, the jungle, the mist in the treetops, and the sun on the bottomless lake. He beheld the beauty of the earth—a loveliness he had never conceived. I am optimistic about the reckoning of truth and ignorance.

Icing on the cake, “a helluva lot of extra icing”

I had the pleasure of a conversation with Nathan Vanek, a longtime meditation practitioner, teacher, and author (see bio below). On reading one of my recent essays on meditation, Nathan suggested that I was overthinking it. “It’s all good, but the reality is that meditation is very very simple, too simple actually. All forms, techniques, styles and approaches, to me, at this point, are spectacularly unnecessary.” I mulled his reduction and then began an inquiry. Below is a transcript of our online chat, copied with permission, lightly edited, while preserving its original meaning and tone.

“John: Is prayer a type of meditation?
Nathan: Sorry for my late response; I was still doing my morning prayers 😊. I would say ‘yes,’ prayer is a type of meditation. I would also add that meditation could be seen as a kind of prayer as well.

John: How about immersion in nature—walking in a forest, cold-river immersion, etc.? Are these all meditation?
Nathan: Sure. In my opinion, one could answer both ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ depending on how inclusive or reductive one wants to be at the time. For example, ‘meditation’ is just a word we’ve put on a state of mind—a state of relaxation and well-being, not to mention self-knowledge. So yes, those activities can all be considered forms of meditation. On the other hand, what do you do when you can no longer cold-water dip or even walk in the forest? Will you be okay? Do you have a tool to keep your sense of well-being intact?

John: Nature is always nearby—a walk in my yard, hugging my dogs. Nature is always close.
Nathan: Yes, but you know that little by little all our meditations are taken away. what then?

John: Are they taken away? We are nature; nature is always near.
Nathan: Yes, you’re basically answering your own question. Now you’re using the word ‘nature’ instead of ‘meditation.’

John: Is art meditation?
Nathan: Yes, although I must say it can also be rather frustrating at times 😀. When I paint, I’m aiming for a feeling—a great sense of fulfillment. It’s hard to describe, but it’s like a sense of relaxation. That moment when you think, ‘Ah, that hits the nail right on the head.’

John: What about thoughtful use of psychedelics? Is that meditation?
Nathan: Psychedelics? Well, LSD was definitely a precursor for me, so I can’t deny it. But they can also be counterintuitive, like shred the nervous system or worse. That said, as you mentioned, the risks can be minimized if used thoughtfully. Many people seem to like that ayahuasca stuff these days.

John: Meditation, prayer, nature, art … is it all about relaxation?
Nathan: Yes, I would say so: relaxation and well-being. I’m less inclined to include self-knowledge, and I’m definitely not inclined to include ‘enlightenment.’

John: So, meditation is kind of like a cup of warm milk?
Nathan: I’m vegan 😊.

John: Tea, then? A nice cup of tea?
Nathan: Here’s the thing: warm milk or tea, or nature walks, are great, but they’re not really going to do much for you unless you keep at them. Meditation practice is the same—you’ve got to keep at it. But with a clear understanding of the practice, your whole life can be positively affected: increased intelligence, energy, well-being. With the maturation of the practice, all these good qualities become an inherent part of you. In fact, at that point, you don’t even need to meditate—you will, but you’ll embody meditation. You are meditation. You can drink warm milk, cold-water dip, walk in the park—whatever. It’s all good.

John: I want to be clear on the qualities beyond relaxation. I get that one embodies meditation with time, okay. But what qualities are we talking about beyond relaxation, increased energy, and intelligence? Eating right and exercise do that. Well-being? Living ethically does that.
Nathan: Eating right, exercising, sexual continence, good company, living ethically—these are all part of having a clear understanding of the practice we call meditation.

John: What does meditation uniquely bring?
Nathan: It includes all of those. Put them together with a proper understanding of sitting meditation, practiced consistently, and the result is a greatly enhanced sense of relaxation, intelligence, a pervasive sense of well-being, enhanced intuition, creativity, and more.

John: Wait, is sitting meditation required? How about prayer, nature, or art? Aren’t those just as good?
Nathan: Haha, I think we’re back to the beginning. I would say no, sitting meditation is not required. All those things are great. However, I highly recommend including a practice of sitting meditation—or even slouching meditation.

John: Are you saying that meditation brings a little extra, like icing on the cake, so to speak?
Nathan: Perfect. Only I’d say it brings a helluva lot of extra icing. And it’ll always be there in your cupboard.

John: So, anything else they say meditation brings might just be mystical mumbo jumbo?
Nathan: Okay, in my semi-humble opinion at this point, I’d say, for our purposes, ‘yes.’ But that’s a whole other discussion, bud. And I need a cup of coffee—and maybe a piece of cake with some extra icing 😂.”

In summary, this conversation highlighted that meditation can take various forms, including sitting, prayer, nature immersion, art, and the thoughtful use of psychedelics—all of which promote relaxation, at least. When practiced consistently as part of a healthy and ethical lifestyle, these methods can foster sustained calm, energy, well-being, intelligence, and creativity. Sitting meditation (similar to connecting with nature) offers the advantage of being accessible in any circumstance.

To me, we are only halfway there. In our conversations, Nathan prefers to avoid terms like spirituality and enlightenment, tentatively agreeing that these concepts are, as I put it, ‘mystical mumbo jumbo.’ I would like to discuss how this view squares with his statement that with sustained practice, ‘you are meditation.’ I suspect there may be a whole other cake in the cupboard. But coffee called. To be continued.

Bio. Nathan Vanek has a long history as a student and teacher of meditation and eastern philosophies. He was a Vipassana Monk, Bramachari Yogi and lived in India for twenty-five years. In 1989 Nathan was awarded the honorary degree, Doctor of Meditation, by the Unnyayan Samsaad (World Development Parliament) sanctioned by the Government of West Bengal. He has published four books and taught meditation in several countries. He has lived and taught in the Gatineau hills since returning to Canada in 1998. Most recently, Nathan has turned his attention to creating art.

His most recent book, Unprotected Sects: The Secret Life of a Celibate Monk, is available from Amazon.

A spectrum ranging from silent, focused sitting to technologically enhanced immersive experiences

Meditation and related contemplative practices exist along a broad continuum, encompassing techniques that range from silent, focused sitting to technologically enhanced immersive experiences. Although often discussed collectively, these methods vary in their phenomenology, cultural origins, sensory modalities, and intended outcomes. Understanding this diversity requires a nuanced framework that can organize and compare different methods, explore their historical and cultural underpinnings, and consider the broader contexts in which they are practiced.

Inward-Focused Traditions: Silence and Simple Attention
One anchor point on this spectrum is the inward-focused meditative tradition that emphasizes quietude and concentrated awareness. Practices such as those found in Theravāda Buddhist Vipassana or Japanese Zen’s Zazen prioritize silent, seated meditation. In these traditions, practitioners center their attention on the breath, bodily sensations, or a single mantra, gradually cultivating the ability to observe thoughts without judgment. Historically rooted in South and East Asia, both Buddhist and Hindu lineages have provided the foundational principles for these techniques, which have since spread and adapted into secular formats like Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction. Phenomenologically, practitioners often begin by wrestling with distraction before achieving a sense of clarity, calm, and subtle insight into the nature of the mind.

Prayer and Divine Communion: The Contemplative Dimensions of Faith
Closely related to silent, introspective practices are those grounded in prayer and devotion. Across the globe, religious traditions have developed practices that calm the mind and orient it toward communion with a higher power. Abrahamic faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—offer structured prayers and silent contemplations that encourage humility, gratitude, and moral alignment. Sufi dhikr, Eastern Christian hesychasm, Jewish Kabbalistic meditations, and Hindu bhakti chanting similarly cultivate states of deep presence infused with reverence. In such contexts, cultural and communal frameworks shape not just technique but also the meaning of the meditative experience. Prayer and devotion, woven into the rhythms of daily life, can offer solace, moral guidance, and a profound sense of belonging, connecting the practitioner to an enduring spiritual lineage.

Engaging the Senses: Chanting, Music, and Guided Imagery
In contrast to silent sitting and prayer, some forms of meditation openly engage the senses through sound, movement, and imagery. Tibetan monks and Zen practitioners integrate chanting, bells, and gongs, while Christian monastic traditions have historically embraced Gregorian chant. Sufi mystics chant divine names (dhikr), and Hindu communities practice kirtan, a devotional singing of God’s names. Indigenous ceremonies often weave drumming, song, and dance to induce altered states of consciousness. These auditory and visual approaches act as powerful anchors for attention and emotion. Phenomenologically, they offer a warm sonic or visual “cradle” that can carry practitioners beyond ordinary awareness, often making them more accessible to those who find silent methods challenging.

Physiological Doorways: Breathwork and Nature-Based Immersion
Another significant category of practices uses physiological interventions to influence mental states. Breathwork, inherited from Indian pranayama and developed further in Western contexts like Holotropic Breathwork, manipulates the pace and depth of breathing to calm the nervous system or induce non-ordinary states of consciousness. Parallel to this, nature-based traditions, such as Japanese shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) or Nordic cold-water immersion, highlight sensory communion with the environment. Whether basking in a forest’s quiet presence, feeling the invigorating shock of cold water, or tuning into controlled breathing patterns, these methods illuminate how bodily sensations and environmental factors can swiftly and powerfully shift emotional and cognitive states. The result can be relaxation, awe, heightened alertness, and a renewed sense of connection to the natural world.

The Art of Presence: Creativity and Flow
Meditation can also occur through engagement with art and creative expression. In Zen calligraphy (shodō), Tibetan mandala-making, or Sufi whirling, practitioners merge artistic discipline with mindful attention. Cultures worldwide have long recognized that creativity can evoke “flow states,” where time and self-consciousness fade into the background. By entering these states through painting, dancing, or crafting, individuals experience a gentle dissolution of self-boundaries, a sense of unity with the creative act. Modern art therapy has taken inspiration from such traditions, using artistic activities as a secular path to mindfulness and emotional balance. These creative modalities produce phenomenological experiences of harmony, timelessness, and often joy.

Altered Consciousness: Psychedelics and Entheogenic Rituals
Some traditions and contemporary explorations venture into more dramatic shifts in consciousness using psychoactive substances. Indigenous ceremonies in the Amazon employ ayahuasca, while Mesoamerican cultures have historically integrated psilocybin mushrooms. Today’s “psychedelic renaissance” synthesizes these ancient traditions with modern psychotherapy and contemplative approaches. Properly guided, such ceremonies can lead to deep emotional catharsis, profound insights into personal and universal truths, and even encounters with what practitioners describe as the divine. Although these methods can be challenging and intense, they often yield transformative experiences that extend beyond individual cultural or historical contexts, influencing modern Western therapeutic and spiritual practices.

Modern Mediations: Technology-Based Techniques
The globalized and digital present adds a new dimension to contemplative practice. Virtual reality simulations, biofeedback devices, and neurofeedback systems offer data-driven methods for guiding attention and measuring progress. While less culturally embedded than traditional practices, these innovations draw on the conceptual frameworks of mindfulness and mental training. Users can track physiological markers, engage with immersive visuals, and potentially accelerate their learning curves. Yet the technological approach raises questions about authenticity, cultural appropriation, and the loss of contextual richness. The pursuit of measurable outcomes through technology must be weighed against the more integrated and value-laden traditions that have shaped contemplative practices for centuries.

Conclusion: Navigating a Global Tapestry of Practices
Silent meditation, prayer, chanting, forest bathing, psychedelic ceremonies, creative engagement, and technology-based mindfulness each represent distinct facets of a vast contemplative landscape. While these methods differ in technique, cultural backdrop, and phenomenological flavor, each invites individuals to explore consciousness, emotional well-being, and a sense of connection. Understanding their cultural origins and varying modalities allows practitioners and researchers to engage more deeply and respectfully with these practices. In a world where these once region-specific methods have become readily accessible worldwide, forging an informed and integrative approach may help preserve their cultural integrity, enrich the global dialogue on wellbeing, and unlock the full potential of contemplative exploration.