Author: Eric Kaufmann

I’m sitting beside Shayna in the chemo suite. The room is sterile and over-lit. Machines whisper and hum, until they go, “ping.” A nurse comes and goes as she changes bags on the IV pole, adjusting the drip of chemicals flowing into my wife’s arm.

She is calm. Brave. Holding my hand. I’m doing my best to be steady for her, but inside, honestly, I feel the stress – squeezing my chest, pressure behind my eyes, and a hollow dent between my solar plexus and belly button.

Hospitals are a dreary venue; the smells and bright lighting mix with a low drone of angst just beneath the surface of things. There’s no escaping it.

So I decide to turn inward.

I close my eyes and breathe. Not to escape – but to enter and attend. To flow my attention not out into the worry or the fluorescent flicker, but inward – down through breath, through heartbeat, through tension – toward something quiet, subtle, deep.

It takes several minutes as my mind keeps lurching after thoughts. What will happen? What if…? I keep bringing it back.

Eventually, I find it.

It’s not the breath. Not even the heartbeat. It’s something prior to those – soft as a whisper, but unmistakably there. The unmistakable sense of being alive.

To say that it pulses throughout the body isn’t exactly right. It’s more like light through water. It’s not tied to any emotion. In fact, it exists along with the grief, the fatigue, the dread. It includes them.

And to me, it feels like joy.

Not joy as happiness. Not joy as celebration. But joy as a quiet resonance of life itself. The felt sense of aliveness. I relate to this as bodiness.

I’ve been training this awareness years before cancer barged in. But that morning, with Shayna’s hand in mine and the IV dashboard counting down the minutes of infusion, I needed it.

Mindfulness is noticing what’s arising: thoughts, emotions, sensations. Watching all that dispassionately without getting tangled. It’s a practice of awareness, of stepping back just enough to see clearly.

Bodiness is a particular twist on mindfulness.

This is stepping in. Not watching the body, but feeling it from the inside. Not observing the breath, but inhabiting the breath. Not noting sensation, but resting as sensation itself.

I call it bodiness.

It’s attending to the direct, felt sense of being alive – not as an idea, but as a texture. Yes, it is subtle. A vibration. A luminousity. An energy field. Call it what you will, it is a presence that runs through the whole body like current through water.

And when I can find it – when I settle into it deeply enough – there’s something else there.

A quiet joy. Not happiness. Not relief. But the unmistakable resonance of aliveness itself.

You can find this shimmer anywhere. Not by escaping your life, but by entering it more fully.

Start simple:

Sit. Close your eyes. Let your attention drop below thought – below story – into the body itself.

Feel the breath. Not the idea of breath, but the sensation of breath. The coolness at the nostrils. The slight lift of the ribs. The softness of the belly.

Stay with it. Let it settle you. This is familiar territory.

Then go deeper.

Feel the heartbeat. Maybe in the chest. Maybe in the neck, the fingertips, the temples, the groin. Just the pulse. The rhythmic pulse of your heart circulating blood and life-force.

Then deeper still.

Let your attention spread. Feel the whole body at once – not part by part, but as a single field of sensation. The weight of your bones. The warmth in your hands. The pressure where your body touches the chair.

Don’t look at these sensations. Feel them from the inside.

What you’re looking for isn’t peace, exactly. It’s aliveness. I am moved to call it a shimmer, vibration, pulse, field. By whatever name, it is quiet. Steady. Joyful in a way that asks nothing of you.

It doesn’t depend on circumstances. It’s not a mood. It’s closer to the truth of being alive – prior to perspective or narrative.

It’s always there.

Even in the chemo suite.

Thankfully, it’s also there.

That morning, I opened my eyes and Shayna was still on the bed holding my hand. The machines were still beeping. The nurse was still adjusting the IV.

Nothing had changed. And everything had.

I wasn’t less afraid. I wasn’t less sad. But I was more here. I was bolstered to meet the moment without collapsing under it. Supported by joy.

That’s what bodiness offers. Not escape. Not transcendence.

A quiet and subtle, unshakable joy of being alive – no matter what life is dishing you.

Some years ago I was on a five-day intensive retreat (called sesshin). I had been practicing for many years by then. I’d put in the hours, sat through the discomfort, shaped my posture and breath with careful attention. I’d been, in my mind, steadily improving.

During one of the afternoon interviews (called daisan or dokusan), Joko, the teacher, looked at me after I asked her a question, and rather than giving me a satisfying answer, simply said, “Eric, you’re still trying to fix what was never broken.” Then she rang the bell – my signal to leave.

“… what was never broken” clung to me as I returned to the sitting hall (zendo). It refused to leave me for the next few sitting blocks, and I found myself a bit confused and increasingly irritated. Hadn’t I been practicing to become a better version of myself? A more mindful husband, a more present leader, a calmer man? Wasn’t that the point?

Turns out, it wasn’t.

There’s a quiet seduction in bringing the self-improvement mindset to meditation. You and I live in a culture that’s addicted to becoming… better. Always better, always more optimized, always reaching for some future version of ourselves. And it’s tempting to bring that same mindset to the cushion – to grow, to fix, to evolve. But meditation wasn’t crafted as a technique for self-optimization. It was not about tuning your nervous system so you can perform better at work, or hacking your brain so you can be more creative.

Meditation is not self-improvement. It’s self-intimacy.

I’m loath to assign meditation as another method for upgrading the self. Rather, it is a radical act of stopping. A rebellion against the endless chase for self-improvement. It’s not about getting better; it’s about becoming more intimate, as Joko suggested, with who and what you already are.

The language of improvement is wrapped in inadequacy. And inadequacy is the essence of our ego-myopia. “You’re not there yet. Just a little more effort, a little more refinement…” It’s subtle, but it infects the whole relationship to practice. And the cost is that this pursuit blinds us to what’s already true: we are not broken. We’re not projects.

We are already whole. 

We are not perfect. But we are whole. 

Real. Worthy of love and presence not because we’ve improved, but because we exist.

Now let me be clear – this isn’t a free pass to complacency. Self-acceptance doesn’t mean we stop growing. It means we stop growing from a place of shame. Self-acceptance is fierce, awake, and compassionate. In self-acceptance we clearly see the parts of us that ache, that doubt, that reach and strive, and we meet them without needing to rearrange them. Without turning them into a fixer project.

Self-acceptance means stepping out of the war against myself. That was Joko’s invitation. And paradoxically that’s when the change I’d hoped for really took root – not because I was striving harder, but because I related to myself with honesty and compassion.

When I teach this, I often recognize the flicker of fear that I used to feel. “But if I accept myself as I am, won’t I stagnate? Won’t I just let myself off the hook?” No. In fact, the opposite. Self-acceptance creates the ground for real evolution. Not the cosmetic change of better habits or improved behavior, but the deeper shift of living in alignment with reality. With what’s true in this moment. With presence.

So I invite your next sit to be something deeper than another notch on your improvement belt. Let it be a radical act of self-welcoming. In fact, why not try this:

Find your seat and become rooted. Let the spine rise without strain. Relax and let the breath come home.

Now, instead of aiming to calm or concentrate, curiously notice what arises. Maybe restlessness. Maybe boredom. Maybe peace.

Welcome it all. Whisper internally: “This, too, is me.” No fixing. No improving. Knowing. Being.

And when the thought bubbles up, “I should be better at this,” recognize the voice of improvement and bow to it gently. Then return, again and again, to presence.

Over time, this simple shift from striving to seeing, from improving to accepting, is a quiet revolution.

It frees us from the tyranny of becoming. It opens the door to being.

And that, I’ve found, is the true medicine of meditation.

It’s Monday, and this morning, as I sat to meditate with our Monday group, I could feel the familiar tug of the week ahead – meetings waiting, tasks beckoning, the current of action already moving  under the surface. It would have been easy, quite automatic, to be carried off into planning and preparation. Instead, I noticed the pull, nodded inwardly at its persistence, and – gently, deliberately – chose to return to the breath.

No battle, no criticism. Just a quiet remembering: this breath, this moment, this choice.

Breath meditation is often described as simple – and it is. What is more simple than attending to the most elemetal function of our life? The very first action we took upon being delivered from our mother’s body was to take a breath. It is natural, with us our whole life, and happens all on its own. Yet within that simplicity nestles a profound invitation. Every time we return to the breath, we are practicing, and getting closer and closer to becoming, a conscious being at choice. I love this phrase – a conscious being at choice. It comes as close as I know to operationalizing enlightenment. This is exercising the core of awakening: the ability to see clearly what arises, and to choose, freely and compassionately, where to place our attention.

The mind spins its stories. The heart feels its tides. The body broadcasts its hungers. That is the nature of being alive. Our practice is not to extinguish these movements – what is life without mind, heart, or body? Our practice is to notice them – and to realize that we are not their prisoner. Remarkably, we are NOT fated or destined to roll blindly into our patterns. We are free, moment by moment, to anchor in what is steady, real, and alive within us.

I invite Carl Jung to weigh in here as he wrote, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will rule your life and you will call it Fate.” Jung, having explored the concepts of destiny and patterns, suggests that unconscious influences shape our lives, often manifesting as seemingly predetermined patterns. He believed that understanding and integrating these unconscious forces was crucial for personal growth and realizing one’s true potential, essentially overcoming the illusion of “fate.”

So how does breath meditation help us overcome the illusion of fate? Because it cultivates awareness and choice. Breath meditation helps make the unconscious conscious because we note, in real time, what is arising. Choosing to return again and again and again to the breath is the real-time and real-world expression of a conscious being at choice. Conscious of what’s unfolding, arising, demanding, and compelling. And at choice about whether to be swept along in the compulsion, or to – gently and firmly – choose your path. 

As you take your seat this week, I offer this encouragement: Let each breath be an act of courage and curiostiy, a small and sacred choice to belong to this moment. 

And, while being curious, check in with yourself: What shifts in me when I truly remember that I am free to choose?

Meditation is often seen as a path to calm or insight. But for me, it’s something more personal – it’s a practice of becoming intimate with myself. When I sit down to meditate, I meet myself. I don’t meet some perfect version of me. Not some broken, shadowy version either. Just me – as I am in that moment.

Some days, I meet a restless mind that jumps from one thing to the next. Other days, I meet exhaustion, tension, doubt. And sometimes, I meet something quieter – stillness, ease.

Whatever shows up, it’s all me.

Meditation, to me, is a practice of becoming intimate with myself.

By intimacy, I mean feeling at home in my own skin – radiating warmth to whatever part of me is showing up, even if it’s anxious, angry, tired, or unsure.

It’s a bit like sitting in front of a mirror, but instead of just noticing what I see, I stay with it. I choose not to look away.

Of course, that brings up a big question: If I’m meeting myself, who’s the one doing the meeting?

This is where it’s helpful to conceive two aspects of us in meditation: the Ego-Self and the Observer-Self.

The Ego-Self is the part of us that’s full of stories and habits – how we define ourselves, how we make sense of the world, what we think we need to control or protect. It’s the part that says, I need to fix this, or I don’t like how this feels, or I need to prove something.

So when you’re sitting and making mental to-do lists, replaying a conversation, or imagining a better version of yourself, that’s the Ego-Self doing its thing. It’s not wrong – it’s just familiar.

The ego helps us function in the world. But when we are overcome with what I call Ego-Myopia – so caught up in self that we can’t see beyond it – we lose touch with the bigger picture. That’s when we forget there’s more to us than these old patterns.

That’s where the Observer-Self comes in.

Sometimes, in meditation, you’ll notice: My mind is racing right now, or There’s a tightness in my chest, or Wow, I’m feeling pretty overwhelmed.

The moment you see what’s happening instead of being lost in it, something shifts.

That part of us that notices? That’s the Observer-Self. It doesn’t judge or fix – it just sees.

I like to think of it like this: the Ego-Self is caught inside the storm, and the Observer-Self is the part that can stand outside and say, Oh, it’s storming. Shifting from being inside the swirl to being beside it is the blossoming of self-awareness.

During the pandemic I had a powerful experience of this very distinction. I was feeling intense anxiety, almost on the edge of a panic attack, to the point that I would wake up at 3am with damp sweat on my forehead. I felt an immensely compelling urge to escape – to move, distract, fix. But instead, on one such 3am witching hour, I left my bed and sat on the cushion. And I stayed with myself.

For just under two hours, I kept company with that anxiousness. I didn’t try to change it or talk myself out of it. I just stayed. Observer-Self activated, I met myself in that moment and stayed close.

And something shifted – not the anxiety itself, but my relationship to it. Staying put meant I wasn’t running anymore; I wasn’t hating or resenting the anxiety. After all, where can I run to, really? As I sat and met myself, I was there, with myself, and I felt the gap between me and anxiousness close. As the distance narrowed, the texture of my emotions changed, too. Where disgust and distain reigned, now trust and warmth arose, and my nervous system soothed.  

That’s intimacy. That’s the heart of this practice.

The awareness of the Observer-Self is powerful – but it’s not enough on its own. It’s like turning on a light in a room. You see what’s there, but you haven’t moved anything yet.

If I notice I’m being self-critical, and then immediately criticize myself for being critical, I’m just looping. The shift happens when I notice – and then stay. Gently. Without turning away. Accepting. Welcoming. Shunning the tendency to separate myself from myself. Becoming intimate. Integrating.

This is why I don’t subscribe to dissolving, killing, or getting rid of the ego. The ego isn’t a problem – it’s just not the whole of who we are. The problem is when we forget that we’re more than our ego story and we sink into our conditioned Ego-Myopia, and lose the space around it.

Meditation honors and cultivates that space. And in that space, the edges of the ego soften. Old habits loosen. And slowly, we find more room inside ourselves to meet all of us. We welcome us home to the intimacy of acceptance and belonging.

Over time, meditation has become less about doing it “right” and more about meeting myself fully, honestly, and with kindness.

So, keep showing up. Keep meeting yourself. Not to fix or perfect anything, but to be intimate with yourself – to become someone you know, someone you trust, and someone you love.

I began meditating out of desperation as my young life was spiraling out of control. And I was utterly convinced that I needed discipline, and that discipline meant force. I believed if I didn’t push myself, I’d never gain control of my mind or my life. So I sat rigidly, snapping at myself like a caffeinated drill sergeant who’s been stung by a Bee. The result? A practice filled with tension and self-reproach and dread. Meditation became something to endure, not something to return to.

On one particular chilly Wednesday night, my teacher said (for the umpteenth time), “Meditation is not about getting anywhere. It is about being here.” Maybe it was the cold, or my sheer frustration, but that evening his message penetrated. I treated meditation like a self-improvement project – something to endure, like a bitter pill, wincing as I swallowed it. I believed I was messed up and inadequate, and meditation was a means to fix something broken in me. But what if instead of wrestling my mind into silence, I simply sat with it – without acrimony, self-rejection, and forceful criticism? What if I brought some gentleness into my rigidity?

But was it OK to be gentle? Wouldn’t that be weak and enabling? So I peered closely at my thoughts, and realized that I equated self-criticism with self-discipline. I truly believed that if I didn’t push myself, I’d stagnate, falter, and fail to achieve anything. My inner critic was a harsh and demanding coach, but it was there to bring out the best in me; berating myself was the ONLY way to progress.

Does this sound or feel familiar? Am I the only one that concluded that I must be driven and pushed to achieve, to amount, to measure up, to reach my potential? Have you internalized this attitude and also believe that being extra stern with yourself is your ticket to success?

I admit that being disciplined is super important – it is key to an intentional and fulfilling life. But equating discipline with an inner beating generates more resistance and disappointment than peace and control. The more we criticize ourselves in meditation, the more aversive the practice becomes.

Imagine if every time you went to the gym, your trainer berated you: “You’re doing it wrong. You’re so weak. You’ll never get this right.” How long before you quit the gym? Now imagine a trainer who says: “You’re showing up. That’s what matters. Keep going – one step at a time.” You’d keep coming back to being pushed and encouraged, wouldn’t you?

Meditation is no different. If you perpetuate self-judgment and criticism, why would you return to the cushion, to the scene of the berating? But when we bring gentleness – when we allow ourselves to simply be – meditation becomes a space of refuge rather than scrutiny.

Shunryu Suzuki, my teacher’s teacher, offered a Zen antidote to self-criticism, non-interference: “Leave your front door and your back door open. Let thoughts come and go. Just don’t serve them tea.” Instead of battling thoughts, emotions, or sensations, we take note of them. The mind wanders? Notice it. Self-judgment arises? Notice it. No need to fix, correct, or fight – just observe with a curious, accepting presence. This shift isn’t just theoretical; here are four ways to make it real in your practice:

1. Shift your inner dialogue – Instead of, “I’m so bad at this,” or, “I don’t have the discipline for this,” or, “why can’t I just focus,” try, “It’s okay. Everyone’s mind wanders.” Speak to yourself as you would a close friend.
2. Soften your focus – Rather than gripping attention tightly, let it rest lightly on the breath, like a leaf floating on water.
3. Reframe meditation as an offering, not a task – You’re not meditating to achieve something. You’re simply showing up for yourself, in devotion to your life.
4. End with gratitude – Before you open your eyes, take a moment to thank yourself for practicing.

A sustainable meditation practice isn’t built on force; it’s built on care. When we remove the weight of expectation and continuously meet ourselves as we are, meditation stops being a battleground and becomes a place of ease.

So next time you sit, try this: be kind and gentle with yourself. Allow that the mind wanders, allow that thoughts build up and then crumble; arise and dissolve. Be a witness, not a judge. In doing so, you’ll find that gentleness doesn’t make meditation passive – it makes it sustainable.

As Alan Watts gorgeously quipped, “You are under no obligation to be the same person you were five minutes ago.” Let yourself be as you are, moment to moment. That is an exulted discipline. The rest will take care of itself.

This intimate conversation was recorded live from Eric’s meditation temple built besides his house in Southern California.

Eric shares his journey from being kicked out of college to finding meditation and his early Adventures integrating psychedelics into his meditation practice.