The Recipe

Last year, after returning home from a long meditation retreat, I was contemplating the instructions I was supposed to bring forth into my life from that point on.  I was advised to hone my new-found meditation skills for one hour in the morning, and another hour in the evening.  For many thousands of years, people who practiced Vipassana meditation deduced that these were the minimum lengths of time that one should sit each day in order for the full effects to blossom in your daily life.   Two hours a day, I thought??  They must be insane.  I immediately started to think of ways I could shorten those periods.  I was busy, after all.  I had to work full-time, and besides, all those people who came to that conclusion probably sat around all day meditating in silence.  They didn't have jobs, or real lives, I figured.  I will just do the best I can.  I promptly decided that 20 minutes sounded good enough.  Oh...and only in the morning.  Yep.  Done deal.

I remember telling my good friend Robert about my experiences at that retreat.  Having seen me just a few days after I returned home from it, he marveled at the clarity I seemed to have.  I knew that I did feel clear, and that something very powerful had taken place inside of me.  Robert stared at me in awe as I jabbered away about the whole deal.   He had been to many such retreats, and was excited that I found my own to be so enriching.  At the end of my sharing, I told him what he already knew: that the teachers had recommended 2 hours a day for sitting in meditation.  I laughed at this and confessed that there was no way it would happen, and that I just needed to be real about it.  Fair enough, he said.  But then he said something that has stuck with me since that day.  It went something like this:

"It's funny, isn't it Paul?  Someone tells us the recipe for happiness, and when we follow it we realize how true it is.  But then we always make up our own, don't we?  Why can't we just accept the recipe and stop making changes to it, even though we already know from experience that the original recipe is the one that will bring us the happiness we want?"

I still bring this up to Robert every so often.  He was, and is, so right on. 

I contemplate what makes me really happy inside.  Every single day, in fact.  I know we all do.  I come to various conclusions about things that need to stay or go, and what my recipe looks like each day.  It seems to change as life changes.  Some ingredients remain true, however, no matter what is going on in my day-to-day existence.  I mean, maybe some days that recipe includes a pinch of extra sleep, and others it includes a little extra dash of work.  There always seems to be one main ingredient that holds the whole dish together, however. 

I need to take care of my spirit. 

To me, this means watching my thoughts each day.  It means watching my moods.  It always means taking responsibility for those things.  It means correcting myself when I know I am headed down a path that leads me far from happiness and right into disaster.  It means being gentle with myself at all times, and correcting myself (gently) when I am not.  It always includes watching my interactions with others, learning, and staying aligned with my heart.  It means seeing things as they truly are, or at least as close as I can get to that truth in any situation.  In short, it requires a big heaping spoonful of consciousness.

Wait a minute.  That's it!  The main ingredient in my happiness is being conscious.  Staying present, which is the only place where I can be conscious of my surroundings and of myself.   This is the space where everything happens.   If there is one thing that has become obvious at this point in my life, it is the recognition that whenever I catch myself being unhappy, it is because I am not really interested in what is happening right in front of me.  My mind wanders, and I succomb to life in the faraway lands of past and future.  Sure, those places have their allure.  In fact, they can seem downright shiny and promising at times.  But they just don't seem to have any real , sustainable joy for me anymore.  As a result, I don't get caught there as much as I used to.

I found myself telling Robert the other day that I have come to a new understanding.  I have felt a different kind of happiness brewing over the last few years, one that I don't have to do anything to actually reach.  The best way I can describe it is that for the first time, I don't feel like the rug will be pulled out from under me.  When I feel joyous, it is not from something external.  It seems as if happiness is my birthright, and is always here for me in any given moment.  Nobody, and nothing, can take it away from me.  It isn't something I need to attain.  I don't have to do anything, be anything, or say anything.  I just need to accept my birthright,  unravel my tangled thoughts, and be here now.   Real happiness is happening now.  I just have to be present to taste it.  Even better, when it gets hard to just relax into that presence, I can always ask for help.  There lies another part of the recipe that is so important--knowing that I don't always have all the answers.  

And so, I must pay strict attention to this recipe.  I own it, after all.  I have tried many altered versions, seen what works and what doesn't.   I like to use bread as an example.  The recipe for a great loaf of bread must include yeast for the dough to rise.  In the same way, I need to remain conscious and present for my spirit to rise, even soar, each day.  I will know when I am following the right recipe based on how I feel.  I will check myself often.  Add a sprinkle of relaxation, or a half-cup of generosity if I need to.  Meditate for two hours, or two minutes, each day.  Whatever I want.  But I must be honest about the ingredients, and what tastes the best.  Choosing the right ingredients is key.  If I mix them properly, I will find the resulting joy to be delicious beyond my wildest dreams. 

Tasting is believing.

If I can taste real happiness, why would I want to try anything else?

I will ponder this question the next time I mess with the recipe.