Open Meditation

I’ve practiced and taught meditation for decades. I’ve tried many approaches, studied with teachers, practiced alone and in groups. And yes—it helps. I felt calmer, clearer, less reactive. But it was always work. Even once the posture stopped hurting and I stopped scolding my wandering mind, meditation still felt like effort.

For beginners, here’s the usual starting point: sit with your spine straight—on the floor if you like, but a chair works just as well. Shoulders over hips, head balanced, body upright. Then choose a focus, most often your breath. Feel the air at your nostrils, in your lungs, then leaving again. Some people count breaths, repeat a word, stare at a candle, or use beads. Whatever the object, the idea is the same: give your mind one thing to hold, and keep returning to it when distractions pull you away.

And they will. The itch on your ear, the noise outside, the story in your head. You notice, drop it, and come back. That’s meditation. Boring, even frustrating at first—and that’s part of the training.

The problem is expectation. We imagine something dramatic should happen: white light, floating, mystical visions. More often, nothing happens. You sit, struggle, finish, and maybe feel a little calmer. You wonder if you did it wrong. I’ve felt that too, even after years of practice.

One morning in Oregon, I discovered something different. I carried a blanket and cushion down to the Deschutes River and tried to meditate outdoors. It was beautiful—but noisy. Birds sang, wind rustled, bugs buzzed, a fish splashed. I closed my eyes and tried to block it all out, but I couldn’t. I grew annoyed.

Then I noticed the river. Its sound wasn’t regular, but it had a rhythm—rising, cascading, fading, then starting again. I thought: What if I focused on that instead of my breath? It worked, in a way. Because I couldn’t control the river, all the self-criticism about “doing it right” disappeared. I just listened. The river, the wind, the birds, my breath—all of it blended together.

And that’s when it shifted. I stopped trying to shut things out. I opened the doors wide and let everything in.

The Back Door to Meditation

Imagine standing on a hillside above a cocktail party. You hear the hum of many conversations, but can’t pick out the words. Occasionally, a laugh or exclamation breaks through, but mostly it’s just a warm, rising and falling sound. That’s the feeling of what I now call Open Meditation.

Instead of narrowing your focus onto one object, you soften it until you’re aware of everything at once. The river, the wind, the birds, the bugs—all included. Sensations of touch, too: the ground beneath you, the breeze on your skin, the weight of your clothes. Even vision, if you let your eyes blur and take in your whole field of sight.

At first it seems impossible. But then, suddenly, it works. The chatter fades, not because you excluded the world, but because you allowed it all in—so much that no single distraction can pull you away.

That morning by the river, I stopped “doing meditation” and simply was in it. Thirty minutes passed like no effort at all. What I found was the most natural, fulfilling practice I’d ever known.