By Kelly Branan

I want to begin with something very simple:
the sound of breathing.

Let’s start by listening to a few of our own breaths.

What do you notice?

What parts of your body feel loud right now?
Which parts feel quiet?

Before we do anything else, before we try to understand anything, before we try to be calm or wise or good Buddhists, let’s just notice that breathing is already happening.

No effort required.
No special skill.
No improvement needed.

In our tradition, we don’t sit for hours in strict meditation.
We don’t seek to escape the world through monastic stoicism.
We try to face each moment, seeing it as it really is,
Offering deep listening to those around us.

I like to see meditation as a form of deep listening.
And I want to offer this gently today:

Meditation is deep listening to yourself.

Nothing to fix.
Nothing to change.
Just listening.

Now, there is a BIG difference between listening and ruminating! Letting our thoughts run wild like a pack of wild kindergartners in a candy shop is not the way to inner peace! But sitting down with each of those thoughts one by one may go a long way to quieting the whole storm.

I still chuckle when I hear Joe say that he still sucks at meditating.
And that’s ok. It’s ok to suck at meditation.

In his book Dharma Breeze, Rev. Nobuo Haneda taught:

I believe enlightenment is just like a dragonfly. If we try to reach for it, it will go away. But if we become passive, it will come to us. If we become perfect listeners, it will be heard by us.

One of the great misunderstandings about meditation is that it’s about being perfectly focused.
That if your attention wanders, you’re doing it wrong.

But meditation is not the practice of never leaving the breath.
It’s the practice of coming back.

Over and over.
And over again.

Each return is the practice.
Each noticing “Oh, I’ve stepped away” is a moment of awakening.

If we were meant to stay perfectly focused, there would be no need to practice.

So let me ask you, gently:

When your attention wanders, how do you usually respond to yourself?
With kindness?
With irritation?
With humor?
With judgment?

Just notice that.

Because how we come back matters just as much as coming back.

The point of meditation is not to become good at meditation.

The point is to learn how to stay present in every situation.

Not just when the room is quiet.
Not just when we’re alone at the end of the day.
Not just when we’re emotionally regulated and spiritually ready.

But in spite of distraction.
In spite of noise.
In spite of discomfort.

Especially during these moments.

And this reminds me of a story, one you may not expect to hear in a dharma talk.

There’s a story told at the beginning of the ODESZA album, A Moment Apart.

A Russian cosmonaut becomes the first human alone in space, sealed inside a small capsule.
As he gazes out the window at the curvature of the Earth, he begins to hear a sound.

A clicking.
Persistent.
Mechanical.

He searches everywhere.
He checks every panel.
But he cannot stop it.

And the horror dawns on him:
He may have to live with this sound for the entire mission.

The clicking begins to drive him mad.

Finally, in desperation, he realizes something.
He cannot escape the sound.

So instead, he decides to fall in love with it.

He closes his eyes.
Uses his imagination.
And when he opens them again,

The clicking has become music.

Nothing changed externally.
Only his relationship to it.

The suffering isn’t in the sound,
It’s in the resistance to it.

That which you resist, persists.
That which you accept, transforms!

Let me ask you:

What is the clicking sound in your life right now?
The thought that won’t leave.
The feeling that keeps returning.
The irritation you’re convinced shouldn’t be there.

What does it mean to you to listen differently?

A quick word on idiot compassion…
We are not to be passive in all things. We are not to be the doormats for others to step on and abuse. We are to see things as they really are and when others cross our boundaries we are to act appropriately.

I am not asking you to fall in love with being abused. But there are many unharmful annoyances that we can see differently.

Zen teacher Shunryu Suzuki Roshi once said:

“When you are not disturbed by the blue jay, the blue jay will come right into your heart, and you will be a blue jay.”

Meditation is not about pushing the bird away.
It’s about no longer being disturbed by its presence.

And this is where we must clear up another misunderstanding.

Meditation is not about stopping your thoughts.

Your brain produces thoughts the same way your pancreas produces insulin.

It’s a function,
not a failure.

Try this for a moment:
Do not think about a pink elephant.

What happens?

The more you try to suppress a thought, the louder it becomes.

So the practice is not control.
It’s relationship.

Listening to your thoughts.
Listening to your feelings.
Inviting them into your awareness like inviting a guest over for tea.

Inviting them to teach you.

The goal of meditation is not to achieve some special state.
It is to become familiar with how your mind actually works.

And the posture that allows this is curiosity.

As the wise Ted Lasso once taught, “Be curious, not judgmental.”

So when something arises,
a memory
a fear
a craving
a grief.

You can say:

“I see you.”
“What do you have to teach me?”

And when it’s done teaching:

“Thank you. You may now go.”

Notice how this mirrors the breath.

We breathe in with recognition.
We hold with humble inquiry.
We exhale with release.

This doesn’t mean forcing it to leave.
It means releasing your grip.
This is an invitation to leave,
not an eviction notice.

I’m not saying it’s as quick as that. Some mental knots have been tightening in your mind over the course of a lifetime. But letting them relax little by little is the first step in letting them go.

Some knots will come and go and come back again!
And that’s ok too.
Be patient with your teachers.
Stay curious to find out where they will lead you.

Here’s an example:

This past summer I auditioned for my dream role: Archibald Craven in The Secret Garden. This has been my favorite musical for more than 30 years and I knew the songs inside out and backwards. I felt so connected to the character through my own loss and grief. I was sure that the part was mine for the taking.

I prepared my song for the audition, gave it just the right amount of feeling and sincerity. And when the time came I gave it my all and really felt like I nailed it. I walked out of there certain that I had shown them that I had what it took to play the part.

When I got the email notifying me that I had been selected for call-backs I was confused when they asked me to read/sing for some smaller parts, not the leading role that I had set my heart on.

I told myself that it was ok. That I could accept not getting the role and move on. But with every rehearsal there was a pain I felt for not being selected. It was like being hired to serve dinner at your crush’s wedding. I was suffering.

So I sat with this feeling. I let it work its way through me. I discovered that it was wearing several masks. First was the mask of injustice. Obviously the directors were friends with the guy who got the part. That soon faded to self-blame. If only I had sung my song louder! That mask also faded to show the real feeling below it all: fear.

I was afraid that I was too old for the part. That I had missed my chance. That I was indeed of the nature to grow old and nature was indeed doing its best work with me. The truth was that I was too old for the part and I was really resisting that idea.

I have to say that it was a hard personal lesson to learn. But giving space to my feelings to teach me the lesson was the key to letting go of that suffering, and more importantly, not being able to fully enjoy the moment of being in the musical.

This is a small and simple example. But that is the process.

Let me ask:

Have any of you had similar experiences?

Meditation is about observing without immediately making meaning.

We are meaning-making machines.
We label.
We interpret.
We narrate.

We fear that which we cannot fit within our narrative.

But sometimes, the most radical act is simply to observe.

There is a story of the Buddha and his attendant Ananda.

The Buddha is thirsty and asks Ananda to fetch water from a nearby stream.
Ananda goes, but some carts have recently passed through.
The water is muddy.

He returns and says, “The water is undrinkable.”

The Buddha says, “Go again.”

On the second visit, the mud has settled.
The water is clear.

The lesson is simple and profound:

When left alone, the mind settles itself.

Not through force.
Not through problem solving.
But through patience.

So ask yourself:

What within me might become more clear if I just sat with it?

Meditation doesn’t end when the bell rings.

It trains us to slow down.
To appreciate.
To not waste the small moments of our lives.

Dogen Zenji, the great Zen teacher and temple cook, taught that one should not waste a single grain of rice.

Not because rice is especially sacred.
But because every moment is sacred.

Each breath.
Each step.
Each interaction.

This is where the breath becomes our teacher.

The breath keeps us in the present moment.

There is no way to breathe a breath from the past.
No way to borrow one from the future.

All we have is this breath,
in this eternal-now.

And notice how fleeting it is.

You can only hold it for a few seconds.
The oxygen gets used up so quickly!
You are forced to let it go.

Just like everything else.

Your breath can be fast or slow.
Shallow or deep.
Held with anticipation.
Released with a sigh, or sometimes an ugly sob.
It powers our voice,
our ability to to sing,
to yell,
to whisper an “I love you!”

It is your breath.
No one can breathe it for you.

And there’s a reason the breath is connected to the heart.

When the breath is rushed, the heart races.
When the breath softens, the heart follows.

Let me ask you:

What is the quality of your breath right now,
and what might it be telling you?

There’s a Zen story of a worm eating its way up through the inside of a bamboo stalk.
It gnaws and gnaws, endlessly working its way up.
From one node to another seeking an escape from its vegetative prison
But only finding one empty space after another.

At some point, the worm stops,
Alone in the dark stillness it finally notices,
A crack in the bamboo wall that will lead to a new world.

Many of us live this way.
Gnawing.
Grinding.
Working harder in the rat race.

Meditation invites us to stop gnawing long enough to see the opening.

So let me ask:

Where in your life might effort be obscuring insight?

When we stay with the breath, something quiet happens.

The breath becomes a prayer.

Not a prayer asking for something.
But a prayer of presence.

Breathing in, I am here.
Breathing out, I let go.

This is not an escape from life.
It is an intimate, face to face, meeting with it.

Each breath says:
I belong to this moment.
And this moment belongs to me.

So as we close, I invite you, not to do anything special,
but simply to notice:

Right now… you are breathing.

And that is enough.

May each breath be a prayer.
May each return be an awakening.
May you fall in love with the sound you cannot escape.

Namo Amida Butsu