Resting on the breath

The teaching

As the Buddhist tradition of mindfulness of breathing, from the suttas to Zen teaches it.

The seat

The old instruction begins with a place and a posture. The meditator goes to a quiet spot, the root of a tree or an empty room, sits with the legs crossed, sets the body upright and sets mindfulness in front of them, close at hand and ready. A chair serves as well as a cushion: the feet flat on the floor, the back upright without leaning on anything, the shoulders loose, the hands resting in the lap.

Zen teachers add the details of the hall. The ears are in line with the shoulders and the nose with the navel, the chin drawn slightly in, the tongue resting against the roof of the mouth, the lips and teeth closed, the eyes left open, lowered to the floor a little way ahead. The left hand rests in the right palm, and the tips of the thumbs lightly touch. Dogen asks only that the breath pass quietly through the nose. Nothing else is done to it.

Knowing the breath

The Buddha's discourse on mindfulness of breathing gives sixteen steps, in four sets of four. The first four belong to the body. Breathing in long, the meditator knows: I breathe in long. Breathing out long, they know: I breathe out long. Breathing in short, they know it is short, and breathing out short, they know that too. Then they train to breathe in and out experiencing the whole body, and then to breathe in and out calming the bodily formation, which is the breath itself, so that it grows quieter of its own accord.

Nothing in these steps makes the breath long or short. It is only known as it is. Teachers read the third step in two ways. The commentary takes the whole body to mean the whole of each breath, its beginning, middle and end; many teachers today take it to mean the whole physical body, felt as it breathes. Either way the attention widens without letting go of the breath.

Feeling, mind and the way things are

The second four steps belong to feeling. The meditator trains to breathe in and out experiencing rapture, the bright gladness that can come as the mind settles; then experiencing ease, a quieter pleasure; then experiencing the mental formation, which is feeling and perception as they colour the mind; and then calming it.

The third four belong to the mind itself: breathing in and out experiencing the mind, gladdening the mind, steadying the mind, and setting the mind free. The last four turn to insight: breathing in and out contemplating impermanence, then the fading away of desire, then cessation, and then letting go. The commentary says plainly that the first four steps are the beginner's work, and that the later sets belong to one whose mind is already steady. Nobody is hurried through them.

Counting

For the beginner whose mind will not stay, the commentary of Buddhaghosa gives counting. The breaths are counted, in or out, whichever is plainer, from one to ten, and then from one again. The count never stops short of five and never runs past ten. Below five the mind is cramped, like cattle shut in a small pen; beyond ten it begins to watch the numbers instead of the breath. When the count is lost, it starts again at one, without comment.

At first the counting is slow, like a grain measurer who fills his measure, says one, and empties it, and goes on in the same unhurried way. As the breaths grow plain, it may quicken, like a herdsman counting cattle through a gate. Zen halls teach newcomers the same exercise, counting each out-breath up to ten. The count is a scaffold, and when the attention stays on the breath without it, the counting is let go.

Following, and the point of touch

After counting comes following. The attention goes with the breath, but it does not chase the breath into the body. A mind that follows the air down to the belly and back up to the nose grows restless, the commentary warns. It gives instead the picture of a man sawing a log, whose attention stays where the teeth of the saw meet the wood, not on the teeth as they come and go. So the meditator rests at the point where the breath touches, the rim of the nostrils or the upper lip, and lets each breath pass there.

A second picture is the gatekeeper, who does not follow every traveller into the town and out again, but notes each one as they pass the gate. The breaths come and go. The attention stays at the gate.

When the breath grows faint

As the mind settles, the breath grows finer, and a time may come when it seems to have vanished. The commentary says not to get up and leave. The breath is still there. The meditator looks for it where it always touches, as a ploughman whose oxen have strayed does not search the whole forest, but waits at the pool where they come to drink.

To some, the commentary adds, a sign appears as the mind gathers: a light like a star, a touch like a tuft of cotton, a thread, a wisp of smoke. It comes differently to different people because each perceives differently, and it is nothing to chase. If something like it comes, the attention stays with the breath. If nothing comes, nothing is missing.

The wandering mind

The mind will wander, within seconds at first. The tradition names five hindrances that carry it off: longing for pleasant things, ill will, dullness and drowsiness, restlessness and worry, and doubt. Each is known by its name when it comes, and the attention goes back to the breath. Wandering is not a failure of the practice. Noticing that the mind has gone, and bringing it back without scolding, is the practice, repeated as often as it takes.

Drowsiness is met by opening the eyes a little wider, sitting up straighter, or standing for a few breaths; the Buddha's own advice to a drowsy disciple runs from recalling a teaching he had heard, to rubbing the limbs, splashing the eyes with water and walking up and down. Restlessness is met by counting again. Doubt is met by sitting out the time that was set and judging nothing until afterwards. Zen teachers say to let thoughts come and go without taking hold of them.

How long, and the signs to stop

Begin with five minutes, with a timer set so that the clock is no concern, once a day at a time that can be kept. Ten minutes is plenty for the first weeks; coming back each day matters more than length. The breath is never forced, slowed on purpose or held, because the instruction is to know it, not to manage it.

If dizziness, breathlessness or panic comes, or the breath begins to feel tight and strange, open the eyes, look around the room, feel the feet on the floor and move. Letting the breath go its own way again is the remedy. Some people find the breath a hard place to rest. For them the sounds in the room, or the feel of the hands in the lap, serve just as well, and every step above is the same.