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 scent of enlightenment

I had just returned from a Sunday spiritual retreat—a day steeped in meditation, mindfulness, and the kind of profound silence that makes you feel as though you’re floating six inches off the ground. By the time I arrived home, my calm was absolute. I was in an enlightened, Zen-like state, a "dispassionate witness" to the world.

Mack greeted me, though with notably less joyful abandon than usual. This was in the era before Liza, and I’d been forced to leave him with my housemate, Craig—a man with whom Mack didn’t exactly "gel."

Still wrapped in my blanket of peace, I remembered the laundry I’d left in the machine before the retreat. I went to retrieve it, carried it upstairs, and meticulously hung it on the clothes horse on my balcony. It was only then that a distinctly non-spiritual aroma began to pierce my meditative bubble.

I looked down. My shoes were covered. I looked at the floor. My bedroom was a minefield. The stairs, the lounge, the kitchen—it was everywhere.

The source, I realized, was the laundry room. Mack, perhaps voicing his profound displeasure at being left behind, had made a significant "deposit" right in front of the machine. In my enlightened haze, I had walked straight through it and proceeded to stamp my new, smelly reality into every square inch of the house.

"Shit!" I said—a mantra somewhat different from the ones I’d practiced that morning.

My school of meditation was all about "The Witness." Observe the breath. Observe the sensation. Do not react. So, as I spent the next hour and a half on my hands and knees with a mop and a bucket, I repeated my new focus: "Witness and don’t react."

It was the ultimate spiritual practice. I stood over the bucket, a dispassionate observer of the Pine O'Cleen, trying to remain grounded while the physical evidence of Mack’s indignation met my scrubbing brush.

I can’t say I passed the test with flying colors—there may have been some un-Zen-like muttering under my breath—but I was certainly less agitated than I would have been without the retreat. Mack had taught me a valuable lesson: enlightenment is all well and good, but in the real world, you still have to watch where you step.

Memorable moments: The prayer gong paradox

Mack was, in many ways, a spiritual dog—a natural Zen master of the "now." He was a creature of the light; if a single sunbeam pierced the shadows of my room, he would find it and claim it instantly. He even had a dedicated meditation practice. In my early days, I used to meditate lying on the floor with my feet up on the bed, and Mack would immediately come and settle his weight onto my chest and tummy, resting his head on my shoulder to soak up the chilled-out vibrations.

When a group of friends invited me to a formal weekend meditation retreat, I asked if I could bring my four-legged guru along. They were hesitant—retreats are usually strictly human affairs—but because Mack was so famously placid, they made an exception.

We arrived, and Mack played his part perfectly. He slipped quietly under my chair, a silent shadow of canine composure. We went through the formal preparations, grounding ourselves and sinking into a deep, collective calm. The room was heavy with silence and spiritual intent.

Then, Brendan picked up the striker and hit the prayer gong.

Now, there is one thing—and one thing alone—that makes Mack go absolutely ballistic, and that is a doorbell. To his ears, the resonant, metallic claaaang of the sacred gong wasn't a call to enlightenment; it was a high-priority intruder alert.

Mack didn't just wake up; he launched himself from under the chair like a furry missile. He began to bark uncontrollably, a frantic, rhythmic explosion of noise that shattered the "oneness" of the room into a million jagged pieces. The "semblance of calm" didn't just evaporate; it was hunted down and mauled.

I had to scramble to my feet, grab his collar, and drag my "Zen Master" out of the hall while apologizing profusely to a room full of people who had just been violently ejected from their third eye.

It was deeply embarrassing. I realized that day that while Mack was indeed a creature of the light, he was also a creature of the front porch. He proved that even in the deepest state of meditation, there is no sound quite as powerful as the one that tells a dog there might be a postman at the door.

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.

Memorable moments: The nightmare cure

In 2012, I decided to push myself well beyond my comfort zone by attending a Human Awareness Institute workshop—a weekend dedicated to intimacy, openness, and radical honesty. By the second day, the "radical" part truly kicked in: the facilitators invited everyone to shed their clothes and spend the rest of the retreat in the nude.

To my surprise, once the initial shock wore off, it felt remarkably natural. But as the workshop drew to a close, a familiar shadow loomed.

Since I was a child, I’ve had a recurring nightmare. I’m standing on a stage, giving a presentation to a large crowd, when I suddenly realize—to my absolute horror and humiliation—that I am completely naked.

I realized this was my moment. I could either hide in the back or face the beast.

I walked to the front of the room and stood, entirely exposed, before eighty people. I remembered my mother’s old trick for public speaking nerves: "If you’re anxious, just imagine the audience is naked."

I looked out at the room and realized with a grin: I didn't have to imagine.

I shared my story, the shame evaporated, and I walked off that stage a free man. It was the most successful presentation of my life—though I still wouldn’t recommend the dress code for a board meeting at Old Mutual.