That misery called meditation

My fellow meditators (referred to as “yogis”) actually made things worse. They hardly resembled beacons of love and joy. Instead, they walked around slowly, dragging their feet, faces blank. I began to feel that I was surrounded by zombies; I half-expected to see arms drop off. Sitting at dinner, surrounded by drooping humans, hunched over their plates, I imagined that I was at a banquet for the chronically depressed. I began to feel a physical, sinking dread at being around so much obvious misery. To think I could have been lying on a beach; instead I was trapped in a morgue. [What seven days of silence did to my head. – By Tim Wu]

A small excerpt from one of the most insightful descriptions of meditative practice I’ve come across. The author was realistic, engaged and in pain throughout the entire experience.

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