Memorable moments: Rushing to relax

A couple of years back, I signed up for a Buddhist meditation class. The goal was simple, yet profound: learn how to let all earthly cares fall away and finally experience true bliss.

One day, I found myself running a few minutes late. To make matters worse, one of the traffic lights on my route was playing up, causing a frustrating delay. Before I knew it, I was swearing at the dashboard and driving far too fast, my heart racing as I maneuvered through traffic to make it to the retreat on time.

Suddenly, the great irony of the situation hit me like a physical weight.

Here I was, getting myself into a frantic sweat and driving like a maniac, all so I could reach a building where I would be taught how to remain calm. I was sacrificing my peace of mind in a desperate attempt to go "learn" peace of mind.

In that moment of realization, I took a long, deep breath. I decided to become completely mindful of the present, letting go of the deadline and intentionally slowing right down. My state of being shifted instantly from panic to presence.

Then, something miraculous happened. From that point forward, every single traffic light between me and the retreat turned green. The congestion seemed to simply melt away, and I glided through the streets with effortless ease. Despite my earlier delay and my new, slower pace, I pulled into the retreat with ten minutes to spare.

It was a powerful metaphor for life: the harder we push against the world in a state of resistance, the more it pushes back. The moment we find the "bliss" within ourselves first, the world outside seems to rearrange itself to match.

Memorable moments: The potjie and the peaks

In 2015, I was backpacking through South Africa with my friend Chrisel. We arrived at a hostel nestled in the shadow of the magnificent Drakensberg mountains and discovered they had a potjie—the traditional, heavy cast-iron cauldron used for slow-cooking over an open fire.

We went to the local shop and loaded up on supplies: lamb, heaps of vegetables, and stock. Back at the hostel, I set about building the fire in the garden. It wasn't something I did often, and the pressure of "getting it right" started to mount.

As the oil began to sizzle, the stress took over. I became obsessed with the mechanics of the meal—searing the meat, tossing the vegetables, frantically moving everything around to ensure nothing burnt before the liquid went in. Chrisel told me to relax and leave it be, but I snapped back, convinced that one wrong move would ruin the entire day's investment. I was totally lost in the drama of the pot, my world shrinking down to a few square inches of bubbling iron.

Finally, after an hour of intense, fixated labor, the water and stock were added. The lid went on. The "crisis" was over; the stew just had to simmer for the next three hours.

I stood up, my body stiff from crouching, and finally looked up from the dirt.

The sight hit me like a physical wave. The spectacular peaks of the Drakensberg were looking down at me, ancient and unmoved. The trees in the hostel garden were swaying gently in a soft afternoon breeze. I could hear the rhythmic twittering of birds darting to and fro. It was a scene of absolute, unwavering peace.

I realized then, with a visceral jolt, that while I had been trapped in a self-made prison of stress and "culinary emergency," this peace had been present the entire time. It hadn't gone anywhere; I had simply tuned it out. I hadn't been mindful. I had been living in a mental simulation of a disaster while standing in the middle of paradise.

The Drakensberg didn't care about my burnt lamb, and the wind didn't care about my irritation. They were simply being. That realization remains the foundation of my daily practice. When the world feels loud or the "stew" of my life feels like it’s burning, I go outside. I look at the greenery, feel the air, and listen to the birds. By choosing my senses over my thoughts, I find the peace that was there all along. It’s the ultimate way to wake up.

Memorable moments: The cockroach koan

In Sydney, the cockroaches aren't just pests; they are armored invaders. They are enormous, incredibly fast, and—for me—a source of primal horror. They seem to possess a sentient malevolence that defies the usual "it's more scared of you" logic.

One afternoon, I found a particularly large specimen lying belly-up on the kitchen floor. It was perfectly still, its legs stiff and its antennae frozen. It was stone-dead. I saw this as a golden opportunity. I decided to use the power of mindfulness to finally conquer my phobia using this harmless, discarded shell of a creature. I would be the "aware space" for my fear.

I hesitantly scooped the carcass up and placed it on my upturned palm. I stood there, breathing deeply, feeling the tension drain out of my shoulders. I felt the dry, brittle sensation of the legs against my skin—a mere physical sensation, nothing more. I focused on the horror, welcoming it, observing it without judgment. Breathing in, breathing out. Gradually, a great, meditative calm washed over me. I had done it. I had transcended the insect.

And then the sucker moved.

It didn't just twitch; it wriggled violently, its prehistoric legs suddenly churning against my skin with a frantic, tickling energy. The "corpse" was suddenly very much alive and clearly offended by my spiritual experiment.

The "aware space" collapsed instantly. Like a scalded cat, I let out a blood-curdling shriek. My hand whipped upward with the force of a spring-loaded trap, launching the creature into the stratosphere. My journey into Zen ended in a frantic, undignified dance across the kitchen tiles.

People say mindfulness can change your relationship with your fears. They're right. Before that day, I was merely horrified by cockroaches; ever since, my horror has been massively compounded by the knowledge that they are capable of playing dead just to mock my progress toward enlightenment.

Memorable moments: The fool and the four-legged master

For years, I’ve dedicated myself to a spiritual practice of mindfulness. My goal is simple: to walk in nature, stay grounded in my senses, and eventually become a sort of Zen master of the "Now."

A few years ago, I took my dog, Mack, for our usual route. Mack was in his element—trotting, sniffing every bush with surgical precision, and living entirely in the moment. I started with the best of intentions, but somewhere between the first tree and the third park bench, I got sucked into the vortex of my own head. I was drafting work emails, calculating my to-do list, and reliving old arguments.

Suddenly, I "woke up." I realized I’d been mentally absent for fifteen minutes. I hadn’t seen a single flower or felt the breeze; I had been a ghost in my own body.

I looked down at Mack, who was currently savoring the complex olfactory profile of a blade of grass, his tail wagging in pure, unadulterated presence. I was instantly reminded of The Fool from the Tarot deck—the wanderer stepping off a cliff while his dog yaps at his heels.

I realized then that I wasn’t the Zen master in this relationship. I was the Fool.

The real master was at the other end of the leash—and unlike me, he didn't need a book on mindfulness to enjoy the smell of a good bush.