For almost seven years I have committed to a daily meditation practice. Some days I am only able to manage a few minutes, other days I sit for a half hour. I go through minutes or weeks in which during meditation my mind wanders to television shows I recently watched, conversations recently had, things I want for myself, things I worry about, anything but attention to what is happening in the present. Recently I sat, after a long period, and became aware of an exquisite sense of discomfort and attention to the dark blankness that lay behind my eyelids. An acute sense of boredom came upon me.

“Ugh, I’m stuck in here with myself.”

The practice of sitting still and focusing on breath or observing myself sounds simple, but simple is not easy. A lot of the problems people create for ourselves seems to come from our resistance to simplicity. We have to train ourselves to become simple, which requires a surprising level of complexity. Every time the mind wanders from the practice, we have to invite our attention back again and again. We develop skills of will, self-observation, delaying gratification, enduring discomfort, emotional self-management, these complex subroutines that contribute to moments of stillness and inner silence that deepen and expand into rich presence.

Any skill worth cultivating requires such practice. When beginning a practice, we might be tempted to compare our clumsy first steps to the elegant performance of a master, but again any master has put in time and discipline to reach such grace and simplicity. Hours of practice forge that appearance of effortlessness.

To change ourselves requires such practice, discipline, and self-forgiveness. There may always be a part of me that feels disgusted with myself, that would rather be anywhere but in this body, in this life, but there is another part of me that knows sitting with all of this helps me to connect with something greater than the individual pieces, greater than the momentary discomfort, greater even than the self-loathing. Spiritual traditions point toward these greater realities and advocate practices and values to help people grow into them.

Making any change in our lives means confronting the ambivalence that keeps us stuck. Ambivalence is different from indifference, though often we use them interchangeably. Indifference means not caring at all, one way or the other. Ambivalence means caring very strongly in two opposing directions. “I really want to meditate this morning, and I really want to hit snooze and get more sleep.” No matter how often I go to the gym and value the benefits of regular exercise, a part of me wants to convince me that I’m not feeling up to the task and would be better served eating chocolate and resting on the couch.

Resistance will meet whatever it is we need to make our lives better — taking medication, going to therapy, reaching out to loved ones, eating well. That resistance is what helps us to become stronger. We do not develop muscle or aerobic health without pushing against a physical resistance. Our bodies and spirits need something to push against, and they also need time to rest. Too much of one or too little of the other both create problems. Ambivalence points toward the need to recognize these conflicting impulses and strive to find some way to honor both.

If I want to know myself, love myself, and be the most myself I can be, I need to sit with the part of me that gets bored, hates myself, and criticizes all my flaws. I need to practice bringing my attention back to the more that is happening now. There is always more than this problem, whatever problem holds your attention. There is always another breath to take. There is the firm support of the ground and the expansiveness of the sky.

Changing one’s self requires accepting one’s self as we are now. Worthwhile, deep, profound change comes from taking on a discipline and returning to it regardless of how one feels. It’s hard to exercise four times a week, but the benefits of maintaining that rhythm are healthier and longer-lasting than what comes from taking short cuts to force one’s body into a socially acceptable shape. This kind of discipline is imperfect. After seven years, my mind still wanders in meditation, and I forget to bring it back. Seven years is truly not that long, but the person I have become in that time has depended upon that foundation of cultivating inner stillness and self-observation.

I missed my weekly posting last week, and nearly allowed myself to miss this week’s. I am in a major transition between one phase of life into a new one, and many things are changing personally, professionally, and socially. All of this is positive movement toward my goals, and I feel an inner pressure to present only a joyful, confident face to go with this. There is a fear that if I show any sense of the underlying vulnerability, insecurity, and grief, then that may mean I’m defective, or made a bad choice.

While free writing, I wrote something like the title of this post, and realized one of the characteristics of change and starting fresh. There is a comfort in staying stuck in patterns, relationships, or circumstances, even the ones that no longer work, that are harmful, that inspire self-doubt and despair, or simply feel stagnant and need to change. There is a fear of what might happen if there is change.

Stepping into the unknown change takes courage. So does the steps after. We move into a new neighborhood and don’t know the people, don’t know where the grocery store is, don’t know how to get to all the things we need. We start a new job and don’t understand the politics, the job is new, the technology and responsibilities are different. We risk meeting a new person for friendship or intimacy and don’t know their sense of humor, whether a particular joke is a compliment or insult, where their pet peeves and preferences lie. And we have to do all this work to discover those things outside of ourselves while continually deciding whether to stay open and vulnerable in revealing our own  preferences, wishes, opinions, insights.

I’m not a believer in getting rid of fear, if only because I have not discovered the way. For me, courage is this recognition of the fear and vulnerability and continuing on regardless. I have done it before and survived. Now I might think well about my past jobs, relationships, and lives, and even miss some of the comfort and joy of them, but I was just as scared and vulnerable when I began those.

Perhaps this is only scary for some. I have met people who seem to thrive on such change, but I only know their outward faces and did not know what was in their hearts.

What is your sense of the life that you long to live? Is there within you some image, some feeling, some idea, some sensation that speaks to you of what you desire, what you would work for, what you hope to make of yourself?

For some, this image of desire is fleeting and hard to find. For many it arrives by disguise as inflated fantasies or fears, daydreams of being discovered as the next big rock star, fantasies of fighting on the front lines against evil, even nightmares of being chased by something repulsive. These fantasies might be overblown images attempting to get our attention to what in our lives desperately longs for attention, energy, and work. The repulsive monster could be the life-fulfilling project that you’ve avoided. The fight against evil might be simply engaging in an honest but confrontational conversation with a loved one. With these seemingly mundane activities, though, is a sense of being alive that calls uniquely to you.

When life feels like it is a shambles, chaotic, and spinning out of control, tapping into this sense of possibility can be redeeming. We can sense into how action or inaction leaves us feeling. A step may be terrifying for good reasons or misleading reasons, but does moving into terror fill life with color, excitement, and vitality? Does engaging in another angry diatribe leave you feeling drained, despairing, and overwhelmed? These senses of life can guide us to what feels meaningful and rich. When we don’t know where to go, we can tap into that life we hope to have, and imagine what next step can take us closer.

Sometimes sensing this possibility is painful, bringing up feelings of shame or self-abuse for failing to achieve something, or thoughts of it being impossible, or all the millions of genuine authentic-looking reasons that interfere with moving forward. All of these arise as traps to keep us locked within our own prisons of thought and expectation. A rich life is not one of untroubled happiness. Sometimes we have to shake things up a bit, step into conflict and mess, upend the gentle restrictions we’ve allowed into our lives.

That sense of possibility and desire helps. Knowing where I want to go helps me to get oriented and direct my actions toward enlivening purpose. My values and sense of life feed the engine of living that makes everything else easier. As humans, I think we can tolerate distress when we believe deeply that we are choosing to do so to promote something important to us. Hell is suffering without purpose.

Imagine in yourself there is some sense of purpose. Perhaps a word, a sensation, or an image, something stripped down to its barest essence. You might be gifted with a clear, comprehensible, coherent map of your destiny, but that is not necessary. Even a simple word like “peace” or a sense of energy and relaxation can trigger growth. We can let this carry us through distress when things get hard, and we can thread this quality through every moment of our lives if we are willing to choose it, over and over.

Today I can stretch to include more of myself. I notice the urge to choose between and cut away, dismiss, or marginalize something. A part of me wants to say there is only one correct version of reality and the rest are deceptions, lies, or pathology.

I notice my mind racing, trying to figure things out. I notice restlessness, the urge to act and do something, the belief that doing something will dispel the restlessness and bring me peace. I notice that acting and doing and thinking seem not to bring peace but support the cycle.

I do not need to reject my mind, my activity, my busyness. Right now, I can take a breath into my center, and imagine I can drop my awareness into my heart. My heart carries another truth. My heart longs to experience this moment in all its juice, complexity, pain and delight.

I can take a breath and drop deeper into my body. My body that wants food and water, wants to be active and wants to be still.

What would it be like to imagine holding these parts together? What lies between the instinct to act and the longing for rest? What would it be like to feel both disappointed and grateful? Can I allow myself this completion? Can every part of me have a place at the table?

Within these seemingly conflicted and contradictory parts of self is a wholeness. We can connect to this wholeness by noticing first the feelings of division, the apparent contradiction and conflict. If we can tolerate this, we can feel into the emptiness and space between parts. That emptiness is the fabric of Being, that which makes us whole. Within that space is stillness, silence, emptiness, the dark matter that allows the stars to shine.

Do not be afraid of feeling divided. Invite your conflicts and contradictions closer. Let them speak, and take a breath, and imagine you can sink into the space between them.