The Old Man and the Lake
Hopeless at meditation, I finally find mindfulness in a stranger
I know it takes a lifetime of practice. But meditation and me don’t play nice.
I still try. Calming apps, guided classes, steam room contemplation. Meditate? I got stuff to do. Like get jacked on coffee and fret about the future.
I recently participated in a 90-minute workshop that demonstrated a multitude of mindful techniques. One practice, aimed at acute awareness of our senses, involved holding three croutons in our hands. We observed the croutons for five minutes, noticing their colours, contours, pores. Then we felt the croutons for four minutes, smelled them for three, and tasted them for two. (The instructor spared us the listening part).
It was a fascinating, if not excruciating cogitation exercise. I did feel the odd wave of mindfulness, but ultimately my main takeaway was garlic n’ herb breath for the rest of the morning.
There is a large lake near where I’m temporarily living to work on myself. My buddy and I walk there in the morning. A dozen ducks greet us and the reflections on the water evoke our own quiet reflections.
All woo-woo wonderful, I know. But it’s the older man with the fishing rod I see everyday that really incites my mindfulness.
We simply sit quietly on that metal dock. It’s a silent ritual, our unspoken agreement sealed with only a nod. After around the 2-minute mark of looking across the lake, I experience a premature meditation without any conscious effort. Something is at work here.
Yesterday, I broke the silence, and talked to this man. He told me his name is Allan, and he and his wife moved from England to Vancouver Island five years ago after falling in love with the place while on vacation.
His grandson introduced him to fishing soon after. Now every early morning Allan casts his line, opens his thermos of coffee, and just sits. He tells me he doesn’t land a fish every time, but when he does, it’s purely catch-and-release. And if the trout cannot be released (say, if the hook is too injurious), he’ll feed the fish to the eagles that regularly drop by.
“I honestly don’t care if I ever catch a fish,” Allan says with his thick British accent. “I’m just here because I love to be here.”
I see that, while fidgeting through all those other techniques, I wasn’t a meditation deadbeat after all. I just hadn’t found the right fit. Allan, the melding of the sky and lake, the quacking ducks, and that unflinching fishing rod are the simple components of my contemplation.
I was a viking at meditation all along! Suck on that Maharishi!
(OK. That last statement wasn’t very spiritual. Rookie mistake).
The other day, I read something that really resonated:
“When you’re facing a significant fork in the road, or a choice about how to live your life, a better question than asking ‘What will make me happy?’ is ‘Does this choice enlarge or diminish me?’”
Allan enlarges me.
Alright. Stop that. I know that sounds dirty and wrong.
How about this: I have found a daily ritual of reflection that grounds me and helps keep me in the present, which enigmatically focuses the lens through which I see the day ahead.
Fish or no fish on my line.