1 August, 2023.

Today the conscious mind would not yield.  A frustrating sitting, after a few in which I felt some advance in my understanding.  I say the conscious mind, but it was not the usual burden of snaking thoughts and fears.  I had no sense of trouble, nor of troubles.  Except that I knew I was conscious of every moment in a way that interfered with any possible goodness I might have from it.  Conscious, rather than aware.  Awareness is a word that seems compatible with some of my best experiences of meditation.  But consciousness meant that every step I took in hopes of enlightenment was preceded by my own presence, my own intention.  If I tried to concentrate on the Tao, I was conscious of the Tao.  If I tried to move my consciousness to the hara, I was conscious of the hara.  I was conscious of the better and the shallower breath, conscious of the circle I wanted my hands to make.  In the end, I felt shut out, and also locked in.  Only for a few brief moments was this discomfort shaken, when I thought—consciously—of death, and of how close we have come to death in our lives this year.  Perhaps all that happened in those moments was that consciousness briefly stepped aside for a wave of fear.  But it returned to centre stage and to the limelight immediately after.  The Musica Tipica Giapponese played on, and though those tracks gave me pleasure, at no time did I feel the ease I’ve known lately when consciousness genuinely yielded, dispersed.  I’ve no idea why today should be so different, so much less satisfying.  But it must be another step on the staircase, whether up or down.