The self-contradictory title of this piece is a reworking of a book title that’s been floating around the house for the past few months, an important addition to Nicola’s library of musical reference material: The Perfect Wrong Note (and subtitled, Learning to Trust Your Musical Self). Intrigued, I’d turned to the chapter entitled A Guide to Healthy Practicing — and was not a little surprised to find cited an old favourite of mine, Fritz Perls. Perls, variously considered as the father of Gestalt psychology, had a great deal to say about awareness and attending to the present moment. One of his many contentions is that our direction ‘from here’ (that is, from where we happen to be right now! ) is best determined by what’s going on, again, right now; that the ‘best’ pathway is a fluid, shifting, entity; and not something that remains fixed, once determined. Ignoring the most current information about our present position is done at our peril.

Confronted with a set of steps, we intuitively raise our leading foot to accommodate the change in topography — a self-evident adjustment that, executed seconds earlier, while crossing a flat floor would, at the very least look pretty weird. Pouring a beverage from its container is always a more successful endeavour if we’ve first placed a glass under the spout. What’s going on right now, determines, at these rudimentary levels the success or failure of our decisions. So why abandon these instinctive truths in more complicated circumstances? Good question!

This being ‘awake’ to the present moment is sometimes referred to as the continuum of awareness; and may be defined as ‘a flowing, nonjudgmental openness to events, . . an acceptance of how things really are (regardless of prior intentions)’ (p. 77, Westney, Perfect Wrong Note). Bears a striking resemblance to Kabat-Zinn’s definition of mindfulness practice: paying attention (in a particular way), in the present moment, non-judgmentally.

So what happens when we ‘make a mistake’, depart from the expected, hoped-for path, or, in Perl’s or K-Z’s terms, stop paying attention? I suppose it depends on the situation. A minor slip or trip and we ‘wake up’ pretty quickly, hopefully correct our balance (maybe look around to see if anyone noticed) and carry on, likely a bit more mindful of the unevenness of the terrain. A little more serious (say, if the balance doesn’t get restored and we actually hit the deck) and the ‘awakening’ may take a bit longer, the resolve a bit more lasting. (I still recall, years afterward, taking a flyer off the top step of a concrete flight of stairs, having slipped on ice, landing very heavily on my backside — ever so grateful to have it my gluteus maximus that took the impact rather than the back of my skull.)

But these are the physical manifestations. What might our responses look like if this was a ‘mental slip’? Regaining our ‘balance’ becomes a bit more complicated — but no less reactive or automatic. What happens when we’re trying to concentrate or perform a task in a particular, desired way — and have a distracted thought intrude, lose our concentration, or ‘make a mistake’? We might become frustrated, feel disappointment. Perhaps rationalize (‘well I am tired’) or blame the situation, the surroundings, even our companions. We might launch into interpretation (the why’s of the mistake) or analysis (not always a bad thing when determining where to go from here — but one that does take us pretty quickly away from the present moment!). We might evaluate, judge (too often ourselves — sliding into self-derogation, -criticism); depending on the perceived pressures and importance attached to the task, we might even panic. In one way or another, these are all automatic, reflexive responses — and all ones that distance us from the ‘data’, compelling us to stop paying attention to what just happened. How novel would it be to ask the question: ‘what’s that about?’ To, as the old saying goes, learn from our mistake. And just maybe foregoing in the process, the anxiety, anger, avoidance, confusion, distraction, or personalizing that too often accompanies unwelcome events, accidents — mistakes!

Trusting the process, the maxim of Human Potentialists, a school of thought closely aligned with Gestalt, maintains that not only are these events, these mistakes, needing to be noticed — but that they frequently represent the ‘most important unfinished business’ of the moment, surfacing to give us the opportunity to deal with them. And moreover, that failure to address this ‘data’ merely adds to our baggage, the thousands of unfinished, unresolved, unaddressed things that will re-visit until appropriately attended to. So why not now? ‘Gitter done’, in bumper sticker lingo! While we’re engaged in any of the bolded responses (above) — the ‘that was so stupid’ or the ‘what’s wrong with me, I know better’ — this internalized chatter moves us out of the present, into past rumination, future anxiety, freely associating our way right out of the here and now.

So the ‘things happen for a reason’ needlepoint on the wall is not necessarily an invitation to embark on a journey to find that reason. Finding the source of the Nile may have been an exciting and illuminating adventure — but it didn’t change the water as it flowed into Mediterranean. It may just be a cue to stay here, accepting and allowing what is . . . paying attention to the data, the ‘perfect (and timely) mistake’.

We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it is the centre hole
that makes the wagon move.

We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we value.
Tao te Ching, 11.

Pay attention to the silence.
What’s happening when nothing is happening in a group?
This is the group field.

People’s speech determines the content.
But it is the silence, the empty space
that reveals the group’s essential energy.
Tao of Leadership, 11.

The second of these quotes was written twenty-five years ago by my longtime friend, John Heider. The first, by Lao Tzu, 2500 years ago! Truths endure. For twenty years I would happily make the trek to meet with my friend, once, occasionally twice a year, to participate in his ongoing groups. These travels took me to California, Florida, and more recently and enduringly, Kansas. And the question occurred more than once (even to me!): what’s the magic that would take me thousand’s of kilometers to sit for three, sometimes five or even seven days, in a circle of a dozen or so folks — mostly in silence, just listening?

During our short feedback session, wrapping up Saturday’s silent retreat of a few weeks ago, and hearing about the experiences of many of the participants, I was reminded once again that, indeed there is something very special about the group space. One can sit, eyes closed, breathing — anywhere. One can walk slowly back and forth or round in circles — anywhere. Or stretch. . . or balance. But something is different in the circle.

‘Alone . . . but not alone’ was the way in which one of us described her experience. Sitting in one’s own, ‘protected’ space — but surrounded by like-mindedness, experiencing a shared purpose, focus. Coming into a group, particularly a large and unfamiliar gathering, it’s typically the uncertainties, the anxieties that dominate. One often feels alone . . . and most distinctly cut off from the other people. Perhaps this is projection — but I don’t think so. I frequently find myself, ‘taking the temperature’ of the assemblage, seeing where I fit in, wondering how I measure up, if I’ll be accepted (or, in the catastrophic, ignored, even shunned). All distractions, usually contrived in my own apprehension; and certainly detracting from the experience. Being welcomed merely for walking into the room and sitting down is a unique experience.

Close beside this observation were various comments on the shift in the ‘social climate’ that many noticed. The ease of not talking leveled the playing field for some. Coming into a group, knowing few if any, often applies a particular and peculiar social pressure, amplifying one’s natural style, temperament. The shy may become more withdrawn, awkward, uncomfortable; the gregarious, more ebullient, engaging, launching into hyper-social mode. We, in short become caricatures of ourselves, displaying only those extremes of our personality that, in more familiar conditions, have the ‘corners rounded off’ a bit. When ‘small talk’ becomes ‘no talk’, these extremes too are muted; the need, compulsion, reflex to participate thru’ speech — be it witty, sage, self-conscious, or forced (or, God forbid, boring!) — is removed. And we can let go of the ‘dance’ that preoccupies and steals our attention.

Many commented on the ‘life lessons’ — more life reminders — arising from walking the labyrinth. Even the luxury that walking in silence affords, of noticing one’s thoughts, feelings, sensations (good and bad — if I’m allowed an evaluative comment) around the simplest of experience, proved to be something of a revelation for some. Impatience, frustration, a (social) sensitivity to ‘holding things up’ (and the ever in the wings, ever so Canadian apology for same); the urgency to finish, the delay in start, the ‘should I pass or slow down’ — all were noticed. . . and quietly resolved or considered or just allowed. Action becomes reflection. ‘Fixing’, addressing becomes tolerance (maybe!). And we ‘sit with’ (or in this instance, walk with) a situation, waiting for it to evolve and change (as it most certainly will), released from the compulsion to act on it or even against it.

Metaphors presented to some. Observing the ‘illusion’ of being behind — or ahead — of another, as the labyrinth’s track circled back on itself, changed direction, became more central or more peripheral. And applying that observation to the often ‘competitive’ value we take into life situations; the measuring of how I’m doing in a comparative way (“if I’m ahead of so and so, I must be OK, right?”); instead of the intra-individual (the within self) perspective. The luxury of going at one’s own pace.

And finally, trust. Consider the last time you sat in a group of twenty-nine other people, awake and alert — with your eyes closed, no need or expectation to explain or account for one’s behaviour or choices.

I think I know why I found John’s groups so compelling, such a pull. These values and others all lived in the ‘hole at the centre’, in the group field.

So aren’t we all just a little ADD (Attention Deficit Disordered)? Don’t we all get distracted a little too easily and too often?

Let’s just have a quick look at what the big, burgundy book (aka, the psychiatric, diagnostic manual, the DSM-IV, in polite professional company) has to say:

1. fails to pay close attention to details.
2. has difficulty sustaining attention in tasks.
3. doesn’t seem to listen when spoken to.
4. doesn’t follow thru’ on instructions / fails to finish chores.
5. has difficulty organizing activities.
6. avoids or is reluctant to undertake tasks that require sustained effort.
7. often loses things necessary for tasks or activities.
8. is easily distracted by extraneous stimuli.
9. is often forgetful in daily activities.

Now, according to the Book, six or more of the above and you make the cut — as it were. Let me just think back (if I could only remember) to my last meditation session. Planned a workshop for tomorrow, thought about when the timer was going to sound, ignored the dog barking (then was irritated by the dog barking), reminded self to remind self to take back the soup pot before I went to pick up granola at the Slow Food Market — now was it this week they move to, oh, where was that new location . . . Hmm. Oh yeah — breathe! I just may qualify!

The aforementioned workshop turns out to be a short chat about the benefits of a mindfulness practice with a group of teachers on their first day back after Christmas (is that OK to say?) break. As I began tossing around educator-relevant takes on my theme, a few things floated up during this morning’s sit (in between returning to the breath, of course). Likely they’re mostly new to the practice. So I needed a framework to orient my audience to this vast, varied, and largely misunderstood body of material. Glimmers of early creative writing tuition began to coalesce: Who, what, where, when, and why — the critical elements of any good story.

What is mindfulness? Well my old standby, Jon Kabat-Zinn says it most succinctly: Paying attention, in a particular way, on purpose, in the present moment, non-judgmentally. Almost sounds like the flip side, the polar opposite of the ‘accident waiting to happen’ (aka, our ADD-afflicted candidate; namely, ME). To dissect Jon’s definition a bit, the paying attention references the breath, the home base of most mindfulness practices. Something that’s always with us, always available. All we need do is attend to it, notice it.

In a particular way: through a regular, mindfulness practice. The cultivation of the ‘meditative habit’ — building in, as part of our daily routine, the room to sit quietly with the sole purpose of holding a focus — and, as will happen time after time after time, gently ushering ourselves back to that focus once we wandered away. Each time we’re distracted by some ‘extraneous stimulus’ (lest we forget number 8), noticing, observing that we’ve slipped away into some historic regret or some future fret, heard the dog bark, relived the emotional encounter with the ‘goof tailgating us’, felt the twinge in the lower back; and returning to our anchor, the breath. On purpose refers to the intention that we bring to a practice. Developing, enhancing our awareness of just how ‘automatically’ we typically go through our day — reacting rather than choosing. Learning to relegate the automatic pilot to Air Canada and taking explicit hold of the controls. More the purposeful traveller, less the ‘accidental tourist’.

And finally, in the present moment, without judgment. How much of our time is spent ‘somewhere else’ than where we are right now. And how eager we are to evaluate every experience, every encounter, to apply value label (good / bad, desirable / repugnant, appropriate / unsuitable).

Where, When. Largely your choice. In a quiet room, waiting at a traffic light, pulling weeds, doing the dishes; as a way to start your day or a contemplative period at the end of day’s ‘sentence’. In a group (lovely energy) or enjoying the solitude of time to oneself. No one right way, time, or place!

How (that would be the acronymic form of Who — a little creative license). In a more formal practice, adopting a relaxed and alert posture; sitting on a straight-backed chair, a zafu (don’t you just love that word: aka, a meditation cushion), cross-legged in a full lotus (long gone for this ADD soul!) Head, neck, back aligned to open the chest and facilitate breathing. Generally eyes closed (just less ‘distracting’), adopting a mindset of acceptance and allowing of whatever is going on around us and in us — physical sensation, emotional content, thoughts — and taking our attention to the breath and where we most notice it.

And then the Why. The (hopelessly) glib response is ‘just because’. One often begins with a ‘reason for meditating’ — stress, poor sleep, mood or anxiety issues, nagging or chronic pain, a scattered mind, addiction — but soon discovers that mindfulness is less a ‘tool’ and more a process, a habit. Meditating with a purpose, an identified end in mind is rather like exercising only to lose weight. Only when the means (sitting regularly) becomes the end, does the end become accessible — more a side effect, a consequence of the practice than a goal to be attained.

But I’ve gotten off track — distracted, one might say. It occurred to me, as I sat this morning, that there just might be some benefits to the charges of the teachers with whom I was going to be chatting. That just maybe, with ADD being identified with alarming frequency (not to mention the plethora of other challenging childhood issues in need of addressing before one can actually get down to the business of teaching — the bullying, the poor self-esteem, the flagging self-discipline, the stress of being a child, to name a few), there may be some benefit in having ‘my students’ do what they are naturally trained to do: teach. No better way to develop one’s own skill set than by passing the knowledge along. ‘Learning by doing’ an old mentor of mine used to call it — and doing is what mindfulness is all about!

At risk of providing yet another catalogue, the benefits of mindfulness in a young population (as they are for adults as well) are legion:

– Physical relaxation
– Improved concentration
– Increased control over thoughts. Observing and letting go vs. participating and being caught up in.
– Acceptance and tolerance of unpopular, distressing emotions vs. being victimized, ‘directed’ by them
– Increased compassion, tolerance, patience
– Improved self-understanding, self-awareness, self-acceptance
– Increased creativity
– Improved memory function
– Cultivation of the spirit (not limiting the education process to ‘mind’ and ‘body’)

These are not goals, parts of a curriculum to be taught and completed. These are the side effects of a mindfulness practice — regardless of age.

So indeed we all might be just a little ADD — and a little angry, a little fragmented, a little stressed, a little sore, a little depressed. This is a description, in one way or another, of a ‘normal day’ for most of us — including our kids. It is the life condition. It is what is. A regular practice doesn’t take away these naturally occurring states. What it does do is provide us the means to address them — not through avoidance, opposition, attachment, obsession. But through peaceful co-existence with the ‘full catastrophe’.