Resting

Resting is not concentrating. Concentrating points a beam at an object and holds it there, with a monitor checking whether you're still on target. The monitor is the self, so the harder you concentrate the more solidly there's someone concentrating. Resting goes the other way. You stop investing.

Receive, don't reach. Sound is already heard. The weight of the body is already felt. The room is already seen. None of this needs you to do anything; it was all arriving before you decided to attend to it. Resting is letting that be the case. Attention stays with what's already here — not because you're holding it there, but because you've stopped sending it off.

A thought arises. It will, constantly. There are three things you don't do with it: follow it (take its content as a lead and go), argue with it (push back, correct it, decide about it), or push it away (suppress it, replace it, try to stop it). All three are investment. Do none of them and the thought finishes on its own. They're short when nobody feeds them.

You will drift. You'll find yourself three thoughts down a storyline. The noticing that you drifted is the return. There's nothing to do after the noticing — no dragging attention back, no "ugh, again." That "ugh" is another thought being invested in. You were back the moment you noticed.

All day. Resting isn't a session. It's the default you keep returning to while working, walking, talking. Sessions are fine; they're not where it happens.

The fuel

There's a pull toward this — a wanting to wake up, to be done with the narrator. It's not a thought. It's felt, usually in the chest or throat. Keep attention on the pull itself, not on thoughts about it. When will it happen, am I doing this right, what if I can't — those are stations the train stops at. The raw wanting is fuel; the story about the wanting is a passenger. Resting with the pull is a different thing from resting without it: it stays alive instead of going flat.

What goes wrong

Comfortable quiet. Resting done well produces quiet, and quiet is pleasant, and it's possible to sit in it for years with the self fully intact — a calm someone, resting. This is the jam. The fix is a glance: who's resting? Go look for them. Resting is the ground; looking is the glance. Each needs the other.

Checking. Is it working? Am I resting right? Is the narrative thinner yet? The checking is a passenger too. Nothing is being measured. Drop it and receive.

Effort. If this feels like work, something is being held. Resting is the lightest thing you'll do all day. Nearly all the effort people spend on it is the effort of getting off the train and climbing back on. Stop climbing.

Blanking. Resting is not going dim or absent. The senses are vivid; the room is here. If it's gone foggy, open the eyes wider and let sound in.

What it feels like when it's working

Less effort, not more. Thoughts get shorter; you notice them finishing on their own. Things get done without anyone standing over them. Occasionally there's a moment where it's obvious nobody was riding the train. Don't do anything with that. Keep going.

Where it comes from

Dzogchen and Mahamudra (resting in the nature of mind, non-grasping), Zen's shikantaza (just sitting), Shinzen Young's Do Nothing, Loch Kelly's effortless mindfulness, Angelo DiLullo's one-pointed attention. Different vocabularies for the same withdrawal of investment.