center of attention
“Do you teach?” The question caught me off guard. I was in the small interview room of an old Benedictine monastery we rented for a meditation retreat. After days of silent practice, I was meeting one-on-one with the teacher to talk shop.
I’d just explained a bit about what I was facing in my personal practice. Instead of providing me with answers or tips, he asked me if I teach. “No” I replied, “I don’t teach.” Before I even finished the sentence, he shot back.
“Why not?” I tried to explain that I wasn’t anywhere close to mastering meditation. I was still very much a student. I wasn’t ready to trust myself with such responsibility. Teaching is intimidating in any context but especially in meditation, where the role is quite literally to guide another person’s mind.
“You don’t have to be on the fiftieth stone to help someone get to the fifth. Find out what’s holding you back.” With that, he dismissed me. He didn’t even bother to answer my practice questions. I was at a loss.
Over the next 24 hours, the wisdom of his question became painfully evident. Why was I not willing to try helping other people meditate? I’d been soaking up the gifts of my teachers for over a decade, why was I too scared to share them?
I was so worried I’d lead someone astray. I was worried what my friends and family would think. I was worried about how dorky I’d come across. I was worried how egotistical it would seem. Convenient excuses. Selfish excuses. In that moment, I decided not to let my ego get in the way of trying to help someone.
Certainly there is real responsibility in teaching. Teachers do need to be careful when guiding others, and I still have a long way to go. But teachers don’t need to know everything. They don’t need to have all the answers. In fact, the most important thing for a teacher to know is what they don’t know. The three wisest words any teacher can say are ‘I don’t know’.
On that retreat, I realized that learning to teach was an essential next step for my practice. It was a step into less selfishness, more humility, and accepting uncertainty. The week after I got home, I created a flyer, posted it in the lobby of my apartment building, and started a free meditation group for my neighbours. It was shaky at first, but I found a groove eventually.
Fast forward a few years later. I’m sitting on my trusty meditation bench on a raised platform in the backyard of a rented mansion with a full film crew pointing sophisticated cameras at me. I’m wearing a lapel mic. There’s a team managing light and sound, and I’ve even been patted down with makeup to stop my sweaty head from shining so much. I feel self-conscious, distracted, and awkward.
All of a sudden, the slate claps. “Action!”
Whoa. That’s a first. Just like in the movies. Yet there’s not much action going on here. I’m sitting still. In a way, doing nothing. Yet also, doing exactly what my teacher told me to do. I’m offering guidance on a few things I’ve learned over the years. But who am I to be guiding other people? And who are those other people? There’s no one actually here in front of me. Just the film crew and a hypothetical future audience.
It’s funny. Meditation has made me less self-conscious, less distracted, and more authentic. I credit these practices for making me less selfish than I was when I started in my early 20s. Yet here I am, trying to teach these same practices in an ocean of self-consciousness. I’m teaching attention activism at the center of attention. The hypocrisy overwhelms me pretty quickly.
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved being the center of attention, but it always makes me self-conscious. It’s an addictive cocktail of excitement and fear. When I was younger, it usually led me to drink too much. Now it’s leading me to ramble. I’m talking too fast with a sort of frantic energy. Very not-mindful.
At some point, I find a rhythm when I remember the teacher who pushed me to teach. This isn’t about the intimidating camera crew or the bougie set they selected for the shoot. This isn’t about trying to control how I come across. This isn’t about me at all. This is a chance to give back to my teachers by paying it forward. It’s a game of broken telephone, and my job is to make sure that telephone isn’t too broken.
I decide on a simple motivation: I hope at least one person finds this useful. In that moment, I notice the grip who’s been working the set all morning. He looked stressed during setup. Now he’s sitting on an apple box and meditating with me! In my mind, I let go of all the distractions and focus on him. I’m looking at the camera, but I’m imagining speaking only to him. All of a sudden, I find my sea legs. I find the space to slow down. The whole situation starts to feel a lot more natural.
Don’t get me wrong, the waves of self-consciousness about this project never went away completely. In fact, I’m feeling pretty self-conscious today as the course goes live to the public. I loved writing it. Recording it was scary. And now, seeing images of myself popping online raises all kinds of vulnerability and self-doubt. Yet even in this moment, I find peace when I remind myself that it’s not about me. The lesson is clear: Teaching isn’t about the teacher, it’s about the student.