7. meditations on frustration with meditation

considering the struggle of putting a term into practice

As of recent,  I’ve found a renewed interest in meditation. It’s often been suggested to me as something to attempt, usually to cope with anxiety. And as I spottily attempt to incorporate it into my daily life, I find myself running into a feeling again: frustration. A feeling of anger in the pit of the stomach, brought on by a sense of inability. It’s a strange thing to spring from meditation - in our most abstract conception of the practice, it is supposed to be highly accessible. It requires no training, no equipment, and no purchases of any kind. So why?

I would argue the seeming inaccessibility of meditation comes from a Derridean concept: the dialectic of the word. Perhaps this is just how I need to conceive of it, perhaps it is a major overcomplication of the idea - but bear with me. The concept of a “word” has a paradox within it. On its surface, the material form of a word implies a concrete meaning. It is a symbol that clearly begins and ends, both in sound and image. But the meaning is not concrete. It is fluid based on context and purpose. “Joy” means a myriad of things, and, as a symbol, can never fully express what it attempts to mean. A useful way to consider it is that words asymptotically approach a meaning. That means, no matter how close the word approaches meaning, it can never fully express it. 

In the case of meditation, the word is near impossible to define. Go to the dictionary, and we are directed to similarly vague words - contemplation, reflection, mental exercises. In the world of linguistic philosophy, this is intriguing. Yet, when put into practice, it becomes infuriating. One does not take up meditation for no reason. It’s taken up for the sake of finding some form of stability. And, I would argue, whenever we approach a practice for the sake of self-care, we have an expectation for a clear set of practices and a tangible result. But when we break past the surface level tangibility of a word, we suddenly have to face the chasm underneath.

And my expectations for a clear set of practices and results were magnified by precedence. My first interaction with meditation was during a summer trip to India. We were visiting family, some of whom I was meeting for the first time. At one point, struggling to sleep, a great uncle offered me some advice. He suggested lying in a position I would find totally comfortable, closing my eyes, carefully inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. Meanwhile, in my mind, I had to track the path the breath took throughout my body. In this mix of pure comfort and intense concentration, I would peacefully slip into sleep. I didn’t realize at the time that this was an extension of the practice of meditation. With that guiding hand and clear goal of sleep, I had a fulfilling experience. But, on one’s own, things become far more complicated.

Consider two experiences with meditations, each born from external suggestions. In my senior year of college I first faced frustration due to meditation. I had enrolled in a class taught by Suzan-Lori Parks. She told us we only had one homework assignment to be done each day: meditate. It had no true relation to our class, but it helped her with her own work. She suggested setting a timer for twenty minutes, sitting, and thinking without goal or aim. She specifically phrased it in regards to negative thoughts, describing herself barreling through anything frustrating her until the timer went off. She suggested that it offered a form of catharsis. Being a class for playwriting, the word catharsis had a clear dramatic meaning that I could understand. But her technique wasn’t clear. When I attempted her meditation, I was left with the feeling of “I don’t know what I’m doing”, stuck solely on visualizing how stupid I looked. I never came to the catharsis she suggested we would find.

The second suggestion came from my mother.  She offered a meditation that focused on - well - focus. It involved sitting for fifteen minutes at a time with your eyes closed. Inside, you focus on a single word, seeing it in your mind and repeating it to the rhythm of breathing with every single voice in your head. Every time your mind drifts away, you yank it back. In short, you train the strength of your focus. It’s supposed to provide a mechanic to steer away from racing thoughts that may be driving you insane. Clearly, there was a practice at play here - it was frustrating, but something to do. But it wasn’t clear what the takeaway was supposed to be. When I looked at other people who described their experiences with meditation, they described body highs, clarity, a “sense of peace” (a phrase never clear to me). And I usually opened my eyes to no difference in feeling. At most, a sense of confusion, as if running a quick check on my body and mind: “am I feeling any different? Did anything happen?”

Each of these approaches to meditation fulfilled one aspect of my expectations while failing another. Either I knew what I had to do, but had no way of judging the result, or I had no idea what I was doing and only knew how I was supposed to feel at the end. With my great-uncle, the guiding hand fulfilled a lot of my needs. Similar to the difference between childhood and adulthood, once you’re on your own, the responsibility of decision becomes terrifying. You attempt to pursue the meaning behind a word only to find yourself, in the face of that vortex of different interpretations, completely and utterly lost.

As I have tried to incorporate meditation into my life, I have found what made meditation hard actually makes it far more feasible: the Derridean concept of asymptotic meaning, and the memory of my great uncle helping me get to sleep. Learning to view the meanings of words as objects attempting to represent meaning is something one can apply to their life.  So much of life has no direct law or rule on how to approach it. We guess as we go, and only build practices to keep us sane based on past experiences. We can only learn to asymptotically approach our view of a perfect life, of perfect happiness, whatever those two phrases mean. But it is in the attempt that we carve out our own versions, our own definitions. To compare words to life, through continuing to approach the denotative meaning, we construct our connotative definition. To practice meditation, one must attempt and fail to at some point find their own practice and result. 

And part of that frustration is a form of blind trust. When I look back at accepting the advice of my great uncle, it was successful partly because of the childish trust I put into him. I didn’t question the technique, the result, or play any cynicism into it. I simply accepted and attempted - and, even if it had not worked, I still would have gained something from it. This is to say that part of dealing with asymptotic practices is trusting the process. To trust that something will form from it, something individual, something solely for you - but to allow yourself to fail, and learn, and try again.

I am only recently trying to meditate on a regular basis. Even then, I’m far from perfect. Typing this now, I can confirm I did not meditate today. And I could never give you a perfect technique - I have yet to find it. But the big change in my approach to meditation is the incorporation of frustration - noticing it, accepting it, allowing myself to try and find the little aspects that make me feel different following meditation. Perhaps sometimes the focus is too easy to fail. Perhaps now and then I let my mind drift, but I come back to focus, as if to remind myself it’s ok to wander in my life. And lately, when I open my eyes to continue the day, I feel less frustrated. I feel less worried about being perfect.