“With the ideal comes the actual.”
—Jiyu Kennett

t would be wonderful if whenever we sat down to meditate, everything was silent, we had insightful experiences, and the Universe co-operated.

But that doesn’t typically happen. While we can do everything in our power to make conditions ideal for meditation – the blank white wall to sit in front of, the disturbance-free zone where no one bugs us, the loose-fitting clothes to feel comfortable – there comes the point when we have to admit we have no say about what ultimately happens.

Sometimes it can be discouraging. The cat discovers us, and we become a lovely scratching post. The workers on the street begin jackhammering. We think the Universe is conspiring to hint that we should quit meditation (at least for now) and move on to something else.

Yet, we sit through it all.

Because we realize that the ideal isn’t the point of meditation or practice. Zen meditation trains us to be with “what is,” and what is can be less than ideal.

At the Zen monastery, we were encouraged to stay seated in the meditation hall no matter what. The impulse would arise to move, scratch that itch, or leave because we’re feeling nauseous. But if we had to throw up, we were told to stay in the hall. Just throw up. There was a guide in the room to be sure all of us were safe to meditate. It was symbolic of the attitude of mind necessary to endure the voices that would thwart us at every turn.

So we really do our best: We tell others around us not to disturb us, we move the cat bed to the other room away from where we meditate, we create ideal circumstances knowing that the results will be what they are.

It is one of the huge gifts from a meditation practice: Understanding that we will be adequate to our life experiences. Even if it’s challenging. Even if it’s painful. We’ll be fine. We have no control, and that’s okay.