I recently came back from a meditation retreat. I've attended about four a year over the last two decades so this was about the 80th time I took time off to try to focus on spiritual practice. Despite all the years of meditation I remain a sweaty, braying egotistical jackass. But having a baby has made me think anew about the ways in which meditation and parenting are similar endeavors.
On the surface, the opposite would seem true: Meditation is a path to serenity and stillness, culminating in complete enlightenment. Parenthood is a whirlwind of chaos and poopie that makes you bald, fat and insane.
In fact you might think there aren't any similarities at all between a spiritual practice and having a child. If anything, having a baby would seem to make it more difficult to find time to sit down and focus your mind. You can barely find time to brush your teeth, and if you are me, you look like a cigar just exploded in your face.
But in a strange way, an infant can enhance your meditation practice. As meditators we train ourselves to watch our minds at all times, and now we have something external to be aware of 24 hours a day. Something we have to protect, just like we strive to protect our minds from negative thoughts and emotions.
Of course if you lose it with meditation it's ok. You can return to your breath. If you lose awareness with a child it could mean a trip to the hospital or worse.
But a baby gives you another great source of inspiration. We have a real reason to try to improve our behavior since we are now modeling for someone else.
Lev is 15 months old now, and in some ways he is like a baby Buddha, always perfectly in the present moment. On the other hand, if I try to take the remote away from him, he doesn't hesitate to bash me up the side of my head.
Today I was feeding him a bottle of milk, and trying to meditate while he cuddled in my lap. Mothers get to have the direct physiological experience of unity with the baby in the womb but for fathers, the closest we can come to non-duality is these quiet moments of being together, doing nothing special when without warning the extraordinary happens. Time seems to slow down to the point where you're not sure if it's moving at all. You feel your son breathing, and you are aware of the air moving in and out of your body, too, and you feel expansive, a creator of human life. But also incredibly small. And the paradox of reality dawns on you, that you have arrived at one of life's perfect moments. It's utterly unstable and yet you feel balanced, and the strange sense of calm a tightrope walker must have.
And then like a Zen master mixed with Rodney Dangerfield, Lev farts loudly and reminds you that all of nature is purposelessness and he needs a clean diaper.
One of my favorite Zen sayings is "Before enlightenment chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood carry water."
I take that to mean that while achieving liberation changes everything, we should also carry on as usual and not make a big deal out of it.
I think fatherhood is a lot like that. On one hand, your life now has new meaning and the most miraculous thing imaginable has happened.
On the other hand, you really need a shower.