The Boats We Can't Control

I spent the morning after the Fourth of July sitting beside a quiet lake in the Poconos.

The water was almost perfectly still. Glass-like. Every so often, a boat would pass in the distance, sending ripples across the surface. I immediately thought of the mind.

For years, I've studied meditation and yoga philosophy. One of its most familiar images is that of a still lake. The ripples, called vrittis—the fluctuations of the mind—make it difficult to see clearly. When the water settles, we see what has always been there. But as I watched the water, something occurred to me.

The boat wasn't mine.

The ripples weren't created because the lake was doing something wrong. They were simply the natural response to something passing through.

I wondered how much of my own inner world is stirred in the same way.

A difficult conversation. Someone else's anger. Fireworks that frighten my dog, Jagger. Thoughts about the future. So much of what creates ripples in my mind doesn't begin with me. Yet I often act as though it's my responsibility to stop every boat from passing.

How exhausting.

The boats will continue to cross the lake. Life will continue to move, whether I'm ready or not.

Maybe the practice isn't trying to prevent the ripples. Maybe the practice is remembering that, beneath the movement, the lake never loses its nature.

As I sat there, I watched each set of ripples slowly dissolve back into the water. The lake never fought them. It simply returned to stillness.

I drove back to Brooklyn wondering if I could do the same.