The memories I hold of that little orange book are faint, almost like something from a long-ago dream.
At the time, I was practically oblivious to its existence and had given it no more than a thoughtless glance. How long did that book with the photo of the blazing sun on the cover lay on my mother’s coffee table? I’m surprised I remember it at all.
That book was a Penguin 60s Classics edition of “Buddha’s Teachings,” translated from the Pali by Juan Mascaro. I could never have imagined then that more than a decade later I would cross paths with that book again in prison, and that it would change my life.
Imagine the suffocating dimensions of a cell: the faded white walls with yellow and brown stains, the scratched-out mirror, the metal toilet. And the isolation, and the time. There is so much time. Never before have I confronted my mind so directly. In here, my thoughts assail me. My worries and troubles storm like a dark cloud, twisting my reality into something bleak, filling me with despair.
Yet the one thing that keeps me grounded is family. Since my first week in jail, my mother has been sending me letters. In almost every one, she jots down quotes from the Buddhist scripture. I had never shown interest in Buddhism, but she continued to send them, as if she were dropping seeds in the ground that she somehow knew would sprout. For a while I read them, but I never took them very seriously.
That is, until the day I stepped into the prison library and saw something that made me stop: that familiar orange hue. It was a thin and small book compared to the others.
As I pulled it free, I tried to remember where I knew it from. When it clicked, I was overcome by waves of nostalgia.
I immediately checked it out and hurried back to my 50-man open dorm. With only a few feet of cubicle space to share with my neighbor, and a perpetual clamor around me, it is often hard to think straight. But as I sat down to read the teachings of Buddha the noise melted away.
A few days later, I found myself laying flat on my slim mat with my eyes closed, listening to a guided meditation, which I had stumbled upon in much the same way I had encountered the orange book. Inmates at my facility are given tablets with access to podcasts and e-books, including this meditation.
Very quickly, I fell down a rabbit hole, studying the mind, philosophy and spirituality. I learned classic Buddhist teachings: the idea that attachment leads to suffering, and the impermanence of everything. These notions perfectly explained my experiences. If I have to be in prison, why not find a way to be happy and truly live right here in this moment, despite the misery? Because life is finite, and there’s no telling how many moments I have left.
As I listened to the man’s voice through my earbuds, my perception shifted. I tuned out the noise around me and focused on my breathing. When thoughts appeared, I made no effort to follow them. I just let them go. The mind can be chaotic and restless, but I tried to enjoy it the way it was.
Even as I understood the theory behind the art, there was nothing easy about meditation in practice. Meditation requires work and focus, and usually somewhere quiet, which is a rarity in prison. But to this day, I most often meditate lying flat in bed, pretending to be asleep so no one disturbs me. Some mornings, I wake up early and go to a secluded bench in the recreational yard.
Unfortunately, I’m unable to fully devote myself to meditating in such an unstable environment. I worry I might miss breakfast or count time, when corrections officers make sure everyone is accounted for. And when I’m practicing, I feel awkward and judged every time I notice somebody nearby.
Buddhism is truly a misfit at this prison. Here we have many religious services: Christian, Muslim, Catholic, Asatru, Moorish Science, Wiccan, Rastafarian and Native American. But there is nothing for anyone who wants to meditate.
Meditation is for everyone, not just Buddhists. Everyone can benefit from learning what their mind is like beneath their everyday thoughts, or thinking about how they relate to their thoughts. In a place like prison, where mental health is a significant problem, and where we’re detached from everything we love, it’s important to be able to find happiness in each moment, regardless of our environment.
I’d be grateful if we were all offered 30 minutes of silence, even once a week.
Perhaps I’ll eventually try getting a meditation service started. I feel I owe it to the practice, because when I’m scared, frustrated or sad, what I learn through meditation is what gets me through the storm.
For so long, my thoughts held so much power over me. I would follow them wherever they led me, often to places I never wanted to be. I don’t want to live like that anymore.
To meditate is to live an examined life, where not a second is taken for granted. Meditation showed me how ephemeral everything is, and I want to share that revelation with everyone around me. Our lives may sometimes look dark and hopeless. But just like a fleeting thought, one day this too shall pass.
