Meditation teacher and therapist Tara Brach often refers to Biosphere 2, a huge glass dome built in the 1980s in Arizona for scientists to study the earth’s living systems in a closed environment.

She writes in Psychology Today, “As it turned out, when designing the [Biosphere 2,] the scientists didn’t account for the absence of wind. What they learned was, without enough wind to develop their [stress wood,] trees cannot grow.”

The takeaway: without some level of difficulty, we can’t grow into our full potential.

Or, put another way: as the ancient Roman emperor and philosopher Marcus Aurelius wrote, “What stands in the way becomes the way.”

This might be the hardest thing to remember when you’re meditating, to be grateful when your mind wanders from the present moment because it’s an opportunity to practice.

Gratitude is the last thing I want to feel when I notice my mind flitting away to worry about my loaded email inbox or what to make for dinner.

Instead of guiding my attention back to the sensations of my breath and body—which is the practice—I tend to judge myself for not being present, for not meditating the “right” way, for thinking “too much.”

That’s understandable. In our dog eat dog, individualistic, capitalist society, there’s so much pressure to get everything right, to be perfect. Especially since the economy—how we fulfill our basic needs in capitalism—has shifted towards using the mind more than the body.

We’re supposed to be on all the time, paying attention, making the right decisions, managing a perfect life. We’ve got decisions to make—healthcare plans to choose, cable packages to pick, Instagram profiles to curate, resumes to build, side hustles to manage.

If we’re not paying close enough attention, we might fall behind and miss out. Fall behind on what? Everything.

Here’s some good news: mindfulness is not about staying present 100 percent of the time, always, 24/7, 365. It’s simply noticing when your mind leaves and bringing it back—over and over again. It’s a practice.

This noticing is what develops your stress wood, your ability to stay present a little more often, especially when the shit hits the fan.

Your constantly wandering mind is the wind, which strengthens your mind’s muscle for showing up fully in your life.

More and more practice will allow you to handle stronger and stronger winds without getting swept away into your habitual patterns of escape (drinking, social media, etc.).

Your wandering mind is the way that stands in the way. Try having some gratitude for it.

Want to be more mindful?

I’ve come up with a cheat sheet to help you start and stick with a regular meditation practice. Get it for free here.

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In his recent book Why Buddhism is True, writer Robert Wright shares a frustrating yet helpful conversation he once had with a meditation teacher.

“So, you notice that your mind keeps wandering?” the teacher asks.

“Yes,” Wright answers.

“That’s good.”

“It’s good that my mind keeps wandering?”

“No. It’s good that you notice that your mind keeps wandering.”

“But it happens, like, all the time.”

“That’s even better. It means you’re noticing a lot.”

It’s easy to shame ourselves for not paying attention, “thinking too much,” being scatterbrained. But that shame just takes us further from the present moment.

When you notice that you’re having trouble paying attention, reframe the situation. Think of it as a small win. You managed to turn against some very powerful forces.

Like, very powerful. The human brain is built to be preoccupied. Our prefrontal cortex — the part that remembers and anticipates — is abnormally large compared to that of other animals.

Also, we live in a society that increasingly demands our attention.

Multi-billion dollar tech corporations are vying for our posts and likes to sell information about us to advertisers. Bosses send emails and texts 24/7. The 1 percent is passing off more and more responsibilities to the 99 percent.

Instead of a retirement pension, we have to manage a 401k (if we’re lucky enough to have one). Instead of universal healthcare, we have to fight with insurance companies. Instead of a full-time job that pays enough, we have to drive Uber, walk dogs, and give blood.

I love how political scientist Corey Robin puts it:

“We’re working way too many hours for too little pay, and in the remaining few hours (minutes) we have, after the kids are asleep, the dishes are washed, and the laundry is done, we have to haggle with insurance companies about doctor’s bills, deal with school officials needing forms signed, and more.”

Simply noticing that you’re not present is a small win that’s actually huge, relatively speaking. When you do, try to have some gratitude, as hard as that is.

No matter who you are or what you’ve done, you’re capable of being kind to yourself. As Pema Chödrön writes, “Even the most vicious animals love their offspring.”

Trying to be more mindful?

I’ve come up with a cheat sheet to help you start and stick with a regular meditation practice. Get it for free here.

Listen to the podcast version

I talked about this post on my podcast, Meditation for the 99%. Listen to it on Apple Podcasts, Google Play, and everywhere podcasts are available. Stream this episode below.

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As a writer, I can’t stand adverbs. But the scientist Jon Kabat-Zinn, who’s been called the “godfather of modern mindfulness,” has a point: mindfulness is being aware in the present moment non-judgmentally.

I didn’t get that “non-judgmentally” part until right in the middle of a seven-day silent meditation retreat when I was engulfed by a terrifying, yet familiar emotion.

Loneliness has always been my deepest fear. Even as an increasingly unapologetic introvert, I worry about ending up alone in a house somewhere in the suburbs watching The Wire reruns with no one to talk to about it.

But, four days into the retreat, loneliness became just another fact of my experience. Like the blue jay that chirped every morning outside my window. And the urge to turn my phone off airplane mode. And the taste of the stale coffee at breakfast.

I was in a small group of students meeting with a teacher in one of the rare moments we could talk. A woman talked through tears about grieving for her husband’s sudden death in a car wreck years ago.

After that, I was embarrassed, but I told the teacher anyway: I was feeling lonely.

She asked whether I could feel the loneliness in the body. “Where is it showing up?”

“My hands — they’re so heavy. It feels like I can’t move them,” I said.

Normally, that my hands felt like 1,000-pound boulders would’ve triggered shame. I’m a 33-year-old man who’s afraid of being alone.

Usually, I would’ve acted out to get away from the fear and shame. Like the one time I was solo camping in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, Oak Creek Canyon in Arizona, and I drove an hour to a bookstore in the closest town just to be around somebody, anybody.

But this time I laughed. Happy tears welled up in my eyes.

This time, the loneliness was just another phenomenon. I didn’t have to make it go away or wrong or a sign that I’m not a “man” or anything at all. I didn’t have to resist it — I could let it just be.

My heavy hands were also just another phenomenon. Just something to notice and observe.

That’s what mindfulness is — allowing everything into our awareness equally and fully.

Our shoulder itches, a bird chirps, we think about that email we need to send, our back starts to hurt, and on and on and on.

We let sensations, sounds, thoughts, whatever pass like clouds in the sky. We accept any and everything, even our unconscious, snap judgements about whether whatever happens is good or bad, right or wrong.

We pay attention non-judgmentally.

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Listen to the podcast version with more content

My podcast, Meditation for the Masses, is mindfulness for the 99 percent. Listen to it on Apple Podcasts, Google Play, and everywhere podcasts are available. Stream this episode below.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Google Podcasts | RSS | More