Lisa’s trying to meditate.
Eyes closed. Legs crossed. Back straight. Breathing—in, out, in, out. She read the book. Watched the video. Set the timer for ten minutes. This is supposed to help. Calm the mind. Find peace. All of that.
In. Out.
Did I respond to that email?
In. Out.
No, back to the breath. Focus.
The breath. Right. In.
Out.
God, my knee hurts. Is it supposed to hurt? Maybe I’m sitting wrong.
Doesn’t matter. Back to breath.
In.
What was that noise? Is someone at the door?
No. Nobody’s there. You’re alone. Breathe.
In.
Why is this so hard? Everyone says meditation is relaxing. This isn’t relaxing. This is exhausting. I should be working. I have seventeen things on my to-do list and I’m sitting here doing nothing while my brain does everything and—
Breath. Back to the breath.
In.
Out.
I wonder if Tom’s mad at me. He sounded weird on the phone. Was I rude? I don’t think I was rude. But maybe—
The timer goes off.
Ten minutes.
It felt like an hour. And also like she didn’t meditate at all. Just sat there watching her mind run wild, yanking her attention from breath to email to knee to door to work to Tom to breath again, over and over, an endless loop of thought she couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow, couldn’t control.
Lisa opens her eyes.
“This isn’t working,” she says to the empty room.
But that’s not quite right.
It’s not that meditation isn’t working.
It’s that her mind isn’t working. Or rather, it’s working too much. All the time. Without permission. Without pause.
And she doesn’t know how to stop it.
Taming the Chaos
The mind is restless.
Not sometimes. Not when you’re stressed. Always. Constantly moving, constantly churning, constantly pulling your attention from one thing to the next before you’ve even finished with the first.
You sit down to read—the mind wanders.
You try to listen to someone—the mind interrupts with its own commentary.
You want to sleep—the mind reviews every conversation from the last week.
You want to focus on one task—the mind opens seventeen tabs simultaneously.
It’s not that you’re broken. It’s that the mind, left to itself, operates like this: chaotic, distractible, compulsive. Jumping from thought to thought, sensation to sensation, worry to fantasy to memory to plan, never settling, never still.
The Buddhist tradition calls it “monkey mind”—swinging from branch to branch, never resting.
Modern psychology calls it the “default mode network”—the brain’s baseline state of restless activity.
The Bhagavad-gītā calls it cañcala—unsteady, turbulent, difficult to control.
And it is difficult.
Because you’re not trying to control something external. You’re trying to control the thing you think you are. Your mind feels like “you.” The thoughts feel like “yours.” So trying to control them feels like trying to control yourself, which creates a paradox:
If you’re trying to control you, who’s in charge?
The answer the Gītā offers is radical:
You are not your mind.
You are the witness of the mind. The consciousness that’s aware of the thoughts, aware of the chaos, aware of the restlessness—but is not, itself, chaotic or restless.
And from that position—as witness, not as mind—you can begin to work with the turbulence instead of being drowned by it.
The Gītā Speaks: Your Mind Can Save or Destroy You
Lisa trying to meditate isn’t failing. She’s discovering what everyone discovers: the mind is difficult.
The Bhagavad-gītā doesn’t sugarcoat this:
“A man must elevate himself by his own mind, not degrade himself. The mind is the friend of the conditioned soul, and his enemy as well.” — Bhagavad-gītā 6.5
The mind is both friend and enemy.
When it’s controlled—focused, steady, aligned with your values—it’s your greatest ally. It solves problems. Creates beauty. Connects with others. Achieves goals.
When it’s uncontrolled—scattered, reactive, running wild—it’s your worst enemy. It creates suffering where none exists. Manufactures problems. Generates anxiety. Sabotages what you care about.
Lisa sitting there watching her mind jump from breath to email to knee to worry to Tom—that’s the enemy version. The mind dragging her attention everywhere except where she wants it.
But here’s the crucial insight:
“For him who has conquered the mind, the mind is the best of friends; but for one who has failed to do so, his very mind will be the greatest enemy.” — Bhagavad-gītā 6.6
The same mind. Friend or enemy. Depends on whether you’ve conquered it.
Not “destroyed it.” Not “eliminated it.” Conquered it—meaning: established mastery over it instead of being mastered by it.
The Wandering Nature
But how do you conquer something that won’t stay still?
The Gītā acknowledges the core problem:
“From whatever and wherever the mind wanders due to its flickering and unsteady nature, one must certainly withdraw it and bring it back under the control of the Self.” — Bhagavad-gītā 6.26
From whatever and wherever the mind wanders.
Notice it doesn’t say “if” the mind wanders. It says from whatever and wherever—assuming the mind will wander. Constantly. That’s its nature. Flickering. Unsteady.
The practice isn’t preventing the wandering. That’s impossible. The mind is designed to move, to scan, to jump from stimulus to stimulus. That’s survival machinery, millions of years old.
The practice is: withdraw it and bring it back.
Not once. Thousands of times. Every meditation session. Every time you try to focus. Every time you want presence instead of distraction.
The mind wanders → you notice → you bring it back → it wanders again → you notice → you bring it back.
That is the practice. Not a failure of the practice. The practice itself.
Lisa thought she was failing because her mind kept wandering. But she was actually succeeding every time she noticed the wandering and returned to the breath. That noticing, that returning—that’s the training.
It’s Hard—But Possible
At some point, though, the difficulty becomes overwhelming. You want to quit. Want to believe it’s impossible.
The Gītā meets you there:
“The Blessed Lord said: O mighty-armed son of Kunti, it is undoubtedly very difficult to curb the restless mind, but it is possible by constant practice and by detachment.” — Bhagavad-gītā 6.35
Undoubtedly very difficult.
Kṛṣṇa doesn’t minimize it. Doesn’t tell you it should be easy. Says directly: this is hard.
But possible.
Through two things:
Constant practice — Not sporadic. Not “I’ll meditate when I feel like it.” Regular, repeated, patient effort. The mind gets trained the same way a muscle gets trained: through consistent use over time.
Detachment — Not fighting the thoughts. Not trying to force them away. But also not identifying with them. Watching them arise and pass without claiming them as “you.” The thoughts are weather. You are the sky.
Lisa’s ten-minute meditation wasn’t a failure. It was ten minutes of training. Every time she noticed her mind wandering and brought it back—that was a rep. That was progress. The wandering is inevitable. The returning is the work.
Living the Teaching: The Practice of Returning
Lisa tries again.
Not because the first attempt worked. But because her teacher said something that helped: “The mind will wander. That’s not the problem. The problem is when you don’t notice it wandering.”
So she sits. Sets the timer. Closes her eyes.
In. Out.
Breath.
And then: Did I respond to—
She catches it.
Not before the thought starts. But she notices: Oh, there’s a thought. I’m not breathing anymore. I’m thinking about email.
And then—and this is the practice—she doesn’t judge it. Doesn’t scold herself for failing. Just: Ah. Thinking. Back to breath.
In. Out.
Knee hurts.
Notice.
Ah. Sensation. Back to breath.
In. Out.
What if Tom’s—
Notice.
Ah. Worry. Back to breath.
Over and over. Fifty times in ten minutes. A hundred times. The mind wanders. She notices. She returns.
And something begins to shift.
Not that the mind stops wandering—it doesn’t. But Lisa starts to recognize something profound:
The thoughts aren’t her. They’re happening, yes. But to her. To the awareness that watches them. She’s not the thought about email. She’s the one noticing the thought about email.
This distinction—small as it sounds—changes everything.
Because if she’s not the thought, then she doesn’t have to obey it. Doesn’t have to follow it down the rabbit hole. Can just watch it arise, acknowledge it, and choose to return to breath.
The mind is still restless. But she’s no longer at its mercy.
She’s the witness. And the witness can choose where to place attention.
Practice: The Practice of Gentle Return
-
Choose an anchor. Breath is traditional, but you can use anything: a mantra, a sensation, a visual object. This is where you’re training the mind to rest.
-
Place attention on the anchor. Gently. Not forcing. Just noticing: “This is the breath.” “This is the sensation.” “This is the sound.”
-
Notice when the mind wanders. It will. Within seconds, probably. That’s not failure—that’s the mind being the mind. Just notice: “Ah, there’s a thought.”
-
Return to the anchor. No judgment. No scolding. Just: “Back to breath.” Do this a thousand times if needed. Each return is the practice.
-
Recognize the witness. The one who notices the wandering is not the wandering mind. That’s you. The consciousness. The awareness. The eternal witness. Rest in that recognition.
You’re not trying to stop thoughts. You’re learning to not be controlled by them. That’s the practice.
The Way Forward: The Mind as Tool, Not Master
Six months later, Lisa’s in a stressful meeting.
Her boss is criticizing her project. In front of the team. The old Lisa would spiral—He hates it. I’m going to get fired. Everyone thinks I’m incompetent. I should have worked harder. This is a disaster.
The spiral would take over. She’d lose track of what’s actually being said, consumed by the thoughts about what’s being said.
But this Lisa has practiced.
She feels the spiral start. Feels the first thought hook her: He hates it.
And then: Ah. There’s a thought.
She doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t try to force positive thinking. Just notices: that’s the mind, doing what minds do. Creating stories. Catastrophizing. Spinning.
And she chooses to return. Not to breath—she’s in a meeting. But to the actual moment. What’s actually happening right now?
Her boss is asking a question. A real question. About implementation details. He’s not saying she’s incompetent. He’s asking how Phase 2 works.
She answers. Clearly. Because she’s here, not lost in the spiral.
After the meeting, she notices something: the spiral still happened. The thoughts still came. But they didn’t take her. She saw them, acknowledged them, and chose to return to the present.
The mind is still restless. Still turbulent. Still offering a thousand thoughts she didn’t ask for.
But she’s no longer drowning in them.
She’s the witness. The consciousness. The eternal self that watches the mind without being the mind.
And from that position, the mind transforms from tyrant to tool.
It still chatters. But now she decides what to listen to.
And that makes all the difference.
Reflection
-
When does your mind feel most out of control? What triggers the chaos?
-
Can you identify the witness—the part of you that notices the mind wandering?
-
What would change if you practiced returning to the present a thousand times instead of demanding your mind be still on the first try?