Meditation Sucks
Skipping stones works much better for me
After I returned from Scotland last year, I lied to my brother about my favorite part of the trip. It wasn’t my round at St. Andrews, golf’s birthplace. Nor was it seeing the cathedral that is the 18th hole at The Open championship. Or my drive (on the left side of the road!) through the lush, green mountains of the Scottish Highlands.
It was skipping stones into Loch Alsh.
I almost told the truth, but I stopped mid-sentence. I realized I would have to explain myself, but I knew that I couldn’t. There was no rationale for it being my favorite experience, and it was something I could have done a few minutes from home. I was a little guilty and confused, so I answered with another experience instead. Had I wasted my trip?
While on vacation last month, I skipped stones in an attempt to recreate what happened in Scotland. I finally figured out why that experience at Loch Alsh resonated: skipping stones puts me at peace. It allows me to enter a meditative state that I’ve otherwise rarely been able to achieve.
I’ve tried different forms of meditation over the years – sitting alone in quiet spaces, listening to Headspace recordings, yoga nidra videos on YouTube, and various breathing exercises. One of the more effective recordings I’ve found encourages listeners to:
“Watch your thoughts as they come to you, and then let them slowly drift away. Enter into a state of timelessness, right now”
I’ve never been able to follow these instructions. By luck or magic, this is exactly how I’d describe the way I felt that evening in Scotland.
While looking for rocks along the bay of the loch, my mind was still trying to work out whether or not to play golf or go hiking the next day. I continued on with my search. Now, instead of holding onto these thoughts, they slowly drifted away. Forty five minutes went by in a matter of moments.
I’m outside, in nature, knee-deep in the water, hands searching through the sand for a stone. When I pick up a rock, I am holding a piece of the earth. I’m grounded. I’m also connected to my childhood experiences at Lake Michigan, where I first learned how to skip stones. Subconsciously, I’m reminded of my family’s trips there each summer – they were typically marked with a joyous, relaxed atmosphere. The combination of 75 degrees, sunshine, soft sand beaches, and no phone service made it difficult for anyone to be in a bad mood.
As I begin searching for good stones worth skipping - flat and smooth, heavy enough to push through the water, but not too heavy to throw a good distance – my focus shifts to the present. After the search has ended, the throwing can commence. When I first learned how, I used to count every skip. Now, I’m not so concerned with the count. The act itself is fulfilling enough.
Once the rock has been skipped, the search begins again. After a few rounds of searching and skipping, my sense of time begins to erode. Before I realize it, it’s dark outside. The makeshift trail I followed from my hotel to the loch’s shore is hard to locate. My shoes get a little wet and muddy. I step on a dead jellyfish. But I am at peace.
Skipping stones gave me what guided meditations have not: an effortless way to quiet my mind. And that’s why, out of everything I did in Scotland, it’s the moment I remember most. Sorry for lying to you, Sam. I’ll tell the truth next time.
I can very much relate to this. I call it 'active meditation', and for me it's cooking or walking.
I love this piece and how you recognized your own version of meditation. Losing track of time is oddly restful!