The quest for inner peace and a tranquil mind has led many down various paths, from silent retreats in remote monasteries to guided sessions in bustling city studios. My own journey, however, took a less conventional turn, leading me to an unexpected sanctuary: the ocean’s depths. My initial attempts at traditional meditation were fraught with frustration, marked by a physical discomfort that seemed to defy the very purpose of the practice. Yet, through perseverance and a willingness to adapt, I discovered a unique form of meditation that resonated deeply with my soul, proving that the path to mindfulness is as individual as the seeker themselves. This is the story of How—and Where—I Finally Learned to Meditate.
My first encounter with meditation was, to put it mildly, unsettling. The instructor’s gentle guidance, encouraging slow, deliberate breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth, triggered an unexpected and alarming reaction. Instead of finding tranquility, I felt a growing sense of panic, a desperate need for air that contradicted the very act of breathing. It felt as though my lungs were struggling, the air becoming thick and insufficient, a suffocating sensation akin to drowning on dry land.
This phenomenon, known as "air hunger," is a distressing feeling of oxygen deprivation despite taking full breaths. It’s not a typical experience in meditation, but for me, focusing on my breath seemed to activate this unwelcome response. The moment I became conscious of my breathing, my autonomic nervous system seemed to rebel, throwing my body into a state of heightened anxiety. This occurred repeatedly, each time reinforcing the negative association between mindful breathing and physical discomfort.
Faced with this challenge, I was tempted to abandon meditation altogether. However, I recognized the potential benefits of the practice and decided to explore alternative approaches. Knowing that breathing exercises are central to many meditation techniques, I opted for a pragmatic compromise: I would "fake it." With everyone’s eyes closed, I reasoned, no one would know if I wasn’t diligently following the prescribed breathing patterns.
With the hurdle of mindful breathing circumvented, a new obstacle emerged: my restless mind. In countless attempts to find inner stillness, whether in the serene atmosphere of a Miami spa, the exotic setting of a Balinese retreat, the familiar comfort of my mother’s home in Florida, or the energetic buzz of a New York City yoga class, my mind remained stubbornly active.
My thoughts were like a flock of birds, taking flight in a thousand different directions. A single word or image could trigger a cascade of associations, leading me on a mental odyssey from a tranquil beach to a clumsy penguin on a precarious cliff, to a long-forgotten classmate from kindergarten, or even to the whereabouts of a chair I sold on Craigslist years ago. In a futile attempt to regain control, I would try to retrace my mental steps, but the fleeting nature of thoughts always eluded my grasp.
Growing up near the beach, I had always taken the ocean for granted. The warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, where I spent my childhood, were a constant presence, a familiar comfort that I rarely paused to appreciate. My memories of the ocean are primarily sensory, defined by the cloudy saltiness of the water, the gentle embrace of the waves, and the muffled silence beneath the surface.
Even as a child, I preferred being submerged in the water, rather than floating on top or sitting beside it. While I appreciated the beauty of marine life, my primary attraction to the ocean was the unique sense of peace and tranquility it offered. Swimming pools, while enjoyable, simply couldn’t replicate the profound connection I felt with the sea. There was something inherently special about being enveloped by its vastness.
The saying "salt water heals everything" speaks to the profound benefits of the ocean. The minerals in seawater are believed to reduce inflammation and promote relaxation, while the salinity aids in wound healing. Moreover, simply gazing at the ocean can release feel-good neurotransmitters like dopamine and oxytocin, contributing to a sense of well-being.
Snorkeling has always been a cherished vacation activity, even in locations with limited marine life. Despite the initial discomfort of strapping on the mask and mouthpiece, the moment I slip beneath the surface, I am transported to another world. The sounds of the everyday world fade away, replaced by a profound quietude. My breath, initially erratic, gradually settles into a rhythmic pattern, the hollow sound of the snorkel becoming a constant, almost imperceptible presence. Within minutes, the stresses of life begin to dissipate, and my thoughts, once turbulent, begin to float gently.
Submerged in the ocean, I feel profoundly present, existing outside the constraints of time and space. It’s an all-encompassing experience, a merging of self and environment. The outside world ceases to exist, and I am immersed in a state of pure awareness. I often find myself reluctant to leave this aquatic sanctuary, feeling a sense of intrusion when another swimmer enters my field of vision, disrupting the serenity of the moment.
I imagine this is how my mother felt when I would impatiently interrupt her moments of solitude, seeking her attention with trivial questions. She would often retreat to a chair in the corner of her room, finding solace in quiet contemplation.
Unable to control my breath or quiet my mind on land, I now understand that I was searching for the wrong solution. I have finally learned to meditate in my own way. Suspended in the ocean, I have found a unique form of meditation that works for me. Looking back on my journey, my struggles, and my compromises, I realize that I was pursuing a conventional ideal when I had a personalized solution all along. This is How—and Where—I Finally Learned to Meditate.
The key takeaway is that the path to meditation is not a one-size-fits-all approach. It requires experimentation, self-awareness, and a willingness to adapt to individual needs and preferences. For me, the ocean became my meditation cushion, the waves my guide, and the silence beneath the surface my sanctuary. And now, I understand How—and Where—I Finally Learned to Meditate.
