The Bliss Trap & Swinging for the Fences

When I began trying to meditate I dealt with the common challenge that all novices face. It was boring. Instead of making me feel calm and peaceful, I felt either restless or sleepy. I assumed I was doing something wrong and doubted that the practice could help me. When I did force myself to sit, nobody gave me credit or validation. When I skipped meditation, nobody noticed or cared.

Thankfully, my sports psychologist was persistent, and kept me on track. I practiced haphazardly for six months or so before making it a non-negotiable daily activity, and finally noticed myself gaining some momentum.

I’m now in year six as a meditator, and the difficulties I face on the meditative path have changed. A challenge I currently deal with is what I call “the bliss trap.” I encountered the bliss trap on my first extended, silent meditation retreat. 

The first few days of the retreat felt much like a torture camp, but I gradually settled into the practice, experiencing various breakthroughs. In the evening of the eighth day I experienced true bliss. Wherever I placed my attention I found only a glow of sensations, and I scanned up and down my body with freedom and ease. My mind was clear, focused, present and happy, and I basked in a beautiful state of mind.

The usual 4:30 am cow bells woke me on day nine, and I immediately noticed that some of my old patterns of mind had returned. I wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but forced myself up and left for the meditation hall. I sat down to meditate, placing my attention on the top of my head, but instead of finding a pleasing cloud of sensations, it merely felt like my head again.  I was disappointed and spent the remainder of the day unsuccessfully trying to manufacture yesterday’s state of mind. But the harder I tried, the more frustrated I became.

I continue to have similar experiences in my daily practice. I spend the first hour of my morning meditating, and I sometimes meditate during my lunch break at work. Some days I sink into an surprisingly blissful state of focus and peace, while other days I feel restless and repeatedly glance at my phone, impatient for the timer to go off. Most days fall somewhere in between, with moments of calm focus, and moments of distraction and aversion. What’s been interesting to realize is how destructive the blissful days can be. 

During a lunch break I set my timer for 45 minutes and sat down. I planned to first focus closely on the breath to develop concentration, and then transition into the dzogchen style practice that Sam Harris teaches, consisting of wide open awareness and periodically looking for the “self”, or the center of consciousness. For whatever reason, I felt especially focused on this particular day, and dropped into the practice to an unusual degree. I basked in the beauty of consciousness without a “self”. My timer went off and suddenly I was reminded that I was me, and that I was at my lunch break at work. When I went to the break room to eat I experienced a wonderful afterglow of gratitude and happiness. Later that night, proud of my accomplishment, I called my brother to describe what had happened.

The next morning I sat down and did the same practice with the expectation that I’d experience heaven on earth again, but instead spent the hour in a state of distraction and frustration. This continued for the next couple of weeks - my practice continued to be lackluster and frustrating. It wasn’t until months later, after my expectations of bliss had finally vanished, that I momentarily experienced bliss again.

In the summer after my freshman year of high school I played for the Ashland Pilots baseball team. There were varsity players on the team, and the varsity coach often showed up at the games. I was anxious to prove my worth and show that I should be on varsity as a sophomore. I started the summer strong, spraying line drives all over the field and earning a position in the line-up every day.

In a July double header we faced a tough team, North Medford. I stepped up to the plate with one on and one out. I’d never hit a homerun on a men’s field in my life, in practice or in a game, and the North Medford field had very deep fences, so the thought of a homerun never crossed my mind.  I swung at a high fastball and connected perfectly, hardly feeling it come off the bat. The next thing I knew I was sprinting around second base with the third base coach smiling and telling me to slow down. As I slowed down I thought it must have been a foul ball, and when I saw the umpire circling his hand in the homerun motion I was shocked. I met my teammates at home plate and asked where the ball had gone. They told me it had cleared the left-center fence by a long way.

The experience of hitting a homerun was intoxicating. I replayed it over and over in my mind the night after the game, and I wanted to hit more of them. For the next couple of weeks the thought of hitting another homerun was ever-present, and my success at the plate diminished. It was worst when we played on smaller fields. Instead of focusing on putting a good swing on a good pitch, I was hunting for pitches I could pull over the left field fence. I fell into a mid-season slump, repeatedly popping up to the shortstop and rolling ground balls to the third baseman.

A few weeks later I was concerned about losing my spot in the lineup, and my focus shifted to just hitting the ball well. I changed my approach, and tried to hit line drives back at the pitcher. Again, as if by magic, I connected with a hanging curveball and launched another homerun over the left field fence.

***

I expect that true power hitters have the ability to ramp up their swings and try to hit home runs when the situation calls for it, without ruining their approach at the plate. But for hitters like me, trying to hit a homerun never works. All of my homeruns, except for one time in my senior year, came when all I was trying to do was hit the ball hard.

My experience in meditation is remarkably similar. When I meditate hoping to feel great, I never do. But when I pay attention to experience, without trying to change or improve it, I sometimes find myself in beautiful states of mind. The following is from a lecture by mediation teacher Joseph Goldstein:

“Our unfolding experience keeps changing - sometimes it’s pleasant, sometimes it’s unpleasant. But the practice of liberation is always the same. We’re not practicing in order to have some better experience, however nice or wonderful it may be. We’re practicing what the Buddha called ‘the heart’s release’. Really understanding that freedom is in the non-grasping mind.”

When positive states arise I try to pay attention to them without holding on to them. This is very challenging, because my tendency is to get excited and to get lost in thoughts about a positive experience; but I’m slowly getting better with practice.

Whether you’re in the batters box or on the meditation chair, it’s important to focus on correct practice, rather than fixating on a positive result.