Diverse and sundry masters all agree that the key to spiritual growth is “being present,” or “being mindful,” as the Buddhists call it. Teachers from Thich Nhat Hanh to Eckhart Tolle agree on this point. But what does “being present” really mean? Clearly, there’s an art to it, and it must be practiced. Being mindful is the opposite of multi-tasking, of driving while texting, and as such it goes against the hectic grain of modern life. The practice is the art of temporarily forgetting one’s future and one’s past, so that we can “remember” the present moment. If we can only put modern life aside for this moment, we will discover the beauty and the truth of the “now,” as Tolle calls it. Many masters have also noted that the future is uncertain and the past is wrapped in the gauzy film of unreliable memory: the present moment is all we are truly, literally given.
So there is an art to it; an art to being mindful or putting yourself front and center in the heart of the present, moment by moment. Meditation is a key aid in this. Another aid is music. Like meditation, a piece of music that speaks to us allows us to concentrate; it makes us concentrate, and when we give something all of our attention, without mental interruption, that is what is meant by “being mindful.” When you listen attentively to a piece of music that you love, or better still when you sing it or play it – when you give all your concentration to its subtle phrasing, its melodic line and under-pinning beat, its transitions from one musical riff to another, then you are being mindful. Is it any wonder that neuro-scientists like Oliver Sacks have discovered music’s power to alter the cellular structure of the human brain for the better?
Obviously, being mindful means being in the present moment, or one could say mindful to the present moment. But how do we define what we mean by “present?” One is both ‘present:’ here in flesh, ‘present and accounted for,’ and anchored in the present moment: not distracted by events of the future or the past, no matter how near in the future or far in the past. The example of attentiveness to music teaches us something profound about what the present moment really means. It is the unadulterated ‘now,’ but it is also the bridge between an immediate past and an immediate future. We could not appreciate the melodic line of a piece of music if our brains could not seamlessly splice together the present note or chord with at least a few of the preceding notes and a few notes to follow. The brain comprehends the arc of the musical phrase only by remembering the pattern of preceding notes and anticipating the future ones. In fact, one of the great pleasures of music lies in memorizing this arc as a song moves from stanza into the chorus. When we hum or whistle a “catchy tune,” it is because our brains have memorized a melodic arc. Keener still are the pleasures to be found in contemplating the subtle variations that great musicians insert into choruses when the listener is expecting no variation at all. This is the very best of improvisation.
The whole arc of a musical phrase is more than the literal present: it is the perceived present, or one might say the higher present, which seamlessly knits together the immediate past and future. Just as each of us has a higher self, each moment records a higher present. Small wonder that musical transitions in songs are called “bridges.”
In similar fashion, we are able to follow the story-telling arc of a motion picture only by mentally knitting together past and future frames into a recognizable pattern of present motion. Precisely how many instants or ‘beats’ of memory and pre-cognition are required of the human brain to appreciate a musical line or follow a story line? There must be material for a hundred PhD’s in that question.
The other night, visiting my elderly parents, I experienced what I think it really means to be present and mindful. As I was helping my mother into bed, a smile of quiet, loving recognition passed between us. In that moment, the scales dropped from my eyes and suddenly I was acutely aware of the absurdity of our roles as mother and son. I recognized that here was a dear friend with whom I had undoubtedly shared many lifetimes. Today we were (are) a mother and son, but I was quite sure that we had been brother and sister in another life and, who knows, maybe lovers in yet another. Most likely I had parented her in still another life, and who is to say whether I was the father or the mother? It really didn’t matter. What mattered was that we were and are soul-mates, two beings supporting and knowing each other across the millennia. Nor was this impression simply oedipal, because I felt the same kind of kinship with my father. The roles we take on, mother and son or father and son, help us toward our spiritual growth in this lifetime, but to really know and honor one another means discarding our roles, casting them aside. That kind of transcendence, recorded and described in the psychic past-life readings of Edgar Cayce, is what it truly means to be mindful.
