The reason I meditate daily, as I’ve written before, is because it clarifies the path to internal peace for me.

When I notice I don’t have peace internally, I know where to look. My spiritual practice has made that path well worn. It’s familiar now.

Peace is generated internally—in that direction.

The physical world, on the other side of my eyeballs (described previously as the “land of sharp edges and twisted knots”), enters my awareness through my bodily senses.

I can see things.
Hear things.
Smell things.
Taste things.
Feel things.

I think we have other senses, too, although they’re harder to describe.

Have you ever felt the energy in a room change when a certain person walks in? Maybe someone arrives carrying anger, and suddenly everyone seems a little more tense. Or someone filled with joy walks in, and the entire room seems lighter.

I don’t know exactly what to call that sense, but I think we’ve all experienced it.

I’ve been told some predators can sense fear. I’ve also spent enough time around horses used in therapy with veterans and first responders that I’m convinced they can see right through our bullshit. They seem to sense authenticity—or the lack of it—better than most people.

But I’m not here to talk about horses.

Truthfully, I know you feed one end and horse shit comes out of the other. That’s about the extent of my expertise on equines.

So take everything I say with an appropriate grain of salt.

Whatever that “sense” is, I believe we all influence one another on a spiritual level. We project something into the world, and other people feel it. Whether that’s psychology, physiology, or something else entirely, I don’t know. I just know I’ve experienced it enough to pay attention to it.

Every once in a while, I do something during meditation to strengthen my awareness of attention itself.

I’ve come to believe that the only thing I truly control in life is where I focus my attention.

And I can only truly focus on one thing at a time.

I can focus on my thoughts.

Or I can focus on my breath.

But not both simultaneously.

The more I meditate, the more obvious it becomes that I am not my thoughts.

Those thoughts are simply what I happened to be choosing to focus on at the moment.

“The thoughts are over there. I am over here, now paying attention to my breath instead.”

Toward the end of the third phase of my meditation, I open my eyes.

On the next breath in, I focus only on what I can see.

“That book.
That candle.
That shoe.
That picture.”

I hold my breath for a moment.

Then I slowly exhale, feeling the air leave my lungs.

As my attention shifts to my breathing, I become almost oblivious to what my eyes can see. It’s as if my vision quietly fades into the background.

On the next breath in, I focus only on what I can hear.

“That wind.
That bird.
That wind chime.
That car over there.”

Again, I hold my breath briefly, then slowly exhale.

This time, everything I could hear begins to fade while my attention rests on my breath.

Next, I notice smell.

Usually I can’t smell anything at all.

So instead I notice how freely the air moves through my nose.

“Are my sinuses clear today?
Is my nose a little stuffed?”

Then I return to the exhale.

Next comes taste.

“Did I brush my teeth?
Does my mouth feel dry?
Can I taste anything at all?”

Again…

Back to the breath.

Finally, I do a slow body scan from head to toe.

“Does anything hurt?

Can I feel my shirt?

My watch?

My socks?”

I’m continually amazed by how much I can feel once I intentionally direct my attention toward it.

The sensations were there all along.

I simply wasn’t noticing them.

On the final breath, I usually close my eyes again and intentionally cultivate love.

I picture people I care about.

I silently wish them well.

I try to let that feeling grow.

Whether there’s something special happening in my heart or simply in my brain, I don’t know. I just know I finish my meditation in a different place than where I started.

I genuinely believe this practice benefits me.

One benefit is simply becoming more aware of the present moment.

I never realized how easy it was to feel my socks until I actually tried.

Another benefit is described beautifully in the Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 2, verses 62–63:

“While contemplating the objects of the senses, a person develops attachment to them. From attachment comes desire. From desire arises anger. From anger comes delusion. From delusion comes loss of memory. From loss of memory comes the destruction of discrimination. And when discrimination is destroyed, one is lost.”

That progression has always fascinated me.

Notice that it doesn’t say our senses are the problem.

It says dwelling on the objects of the senses is where the trouble begins.

To me, meditation is practicing the ability to choose what I dwell upon.

I can notice something without becoming attached to it.

I can notice a thought without chasing it.

I can notice anger beginning before it becomes my identity.

I can notice desire before it starts writing the rest of the story.

I think that’s worth practicing.

I’ve also wondered whether this explains something about the way our brains work. My understanding is that the brain can react to sensory information incredibly quickly through systems involving the amygdala—sometimes before our conscious thinking has caught up. If a tiger suddenly appeared while I was peacefully listening to a wind chime, I’d probably want my attention redirected immediately.

That seems like a pretty useful survival feature.

Or maybe I’m completely wrong.

What do I know?

I just do the dishes around here.

Anyway…

Have a great day.

I love you.

And thanks for reading.