By Meisam
I have a 9-month-old baby, named Juniper. Ever since she was born, whenever I need to introduce myself, I catch myself hesitating, wanting to reply with “I’m Juniper’s Dad.”
I am very new to meditation. Earlier this summer, I started my awakening journey here when I had my first sit here at this Garden and this house. I’m very grateful for the chance to share my experience during this short time with everyone here, but also with a future version of myself, and with my daughter, when she is older.
In this short time, I have learned how challenging it is to set thoughts aside and simply stay with the breath. Fleeting moments of quiet mind happen, but they are rare and they are far apart. More often, a part of my mind acts as a relentless, restless intruder. It is endlessly curious, popping up with random thoughts, ideas, plans, and questions. Like: “What part of the human body is a thousand times smaller than the whole? What about a million times smaller? What about a billion times smaller?”
I’ve come to realize that this hyperactive part of my mind isn’t an enemy to fight; it is a part of me that unknowingly is seeking attention, seeking validation, seeking safety and love. It wants to be heard and to be seen. When I catch it stirring during meditation, I try to speak to it: I tell it “I am so grateful for your curiosity and ideas. Your thoughts are important. Your questions are important. But I want you to know… you are safe. You are loved. And right now, you can rest… just for a few moments. You’ll be refreshed after your rest. And you’ll wake up stronger” This part of my mind behaves like an exhausted baby who is resisting bedtime. It twists, and turns, and refuses to lie down. Learning to meet that internal friction with acceptance and reassurance rather than with frustration has been my first real step toward awakening.
Recently, when I tried to visualize this restless part of myself. This part of me appeared to me as remarkably small, and delicate, even fragile. Then I realized there is no separation. This delicate part is simply me.
As Juniper’s father, that realization brought a wave of worry: How can I be a good father and keep my child safe if I feel and I am so delicate inside?
The answer came quietly during a meditation, while breathing of all things. I just thought back to how Juniper came into this world. She started as an embryo (a billion times smaller than a whole human body). She grew in my wife’s uterus (an organ roughly a thousand times smaller than a human body, yet capable of expanding to protect and nourish an entire life). I don’t need to become an unbreakable wall too shield my child from everything. My role now is to be that kind of living vessel for her: a grounded presence where she can feel loved and safe, so she can grow to eventually become stronger than me, to have more compassion than me, and to carry more wisdom than me.
While I hold and grow that space for her, I cultivate my own strength. Each breath expands that foundation. During the meditation sessions, I imagine myself as pebble stone. Each breath, each exhalation sprays the thinest coat of rock particles on top of the pebble stone, growing it the tiniest amount. The thickness that a single breath adds is microscopic, imperceptible, but a thousand breaths can turn it to a rock, a million breaths can turn it into a bolder, and a billion breaths can turn it to a bedrock. That’s what I need to do for Juniper: focus on the breath, let go of the thoughs.
Hakone Zendo 