No Linen Pants Required
“The birds have vanished in the sky,
and now the last cloud drains away.
We sit together, mountain and I,
until only the mountain remains.”
— Li Po
It took me seven years in recovery before I gave meditation an honest shot.
Not a flirtation. Not a downloaded-an-app-and-forgot-about-it attempt.
I mean really sitting with it—long enough to realize I didn’t need to be good at it for it to work.
That’s what kept me away for so long—some unspoken rule that meditation had to look a certain way. Like I needed linen pants, perfect posture, monk-level focus, and a brain that could completely turn off.
Turns out, none of that’s true.
You can’t do it wrong.
The only mistake is not doing it.
For me, meditation has nothing to do with crossing my legs into a human pretzel or chasing some mystical state. It’s about presence—bringing my body and mind to the same place at the same time.
That’s it.
Simple. Not easy.
These days, most mornings I either sit on a cushion with a yoga bench, or straighten up in a chair. Sometimes I’ll fire up the sauna and sit in there instead. No candles. No chanting. Just me, a timer, and whatever my brain throws at me.
I aim for 20 minutes a day.
That’s the sweet spot I’ve landed on—not too short to feel pointless, not long enough to turn into an existential marathon. I also do micro check-ins throughout the day, especially when my Oura Ring politely lets me know I’m acting like a lunatic and suggests I breathe. I take the hint.
Once I started taking it seriously, I began with five minutes. That felt manageable—even on days when the mind raced and my calendar looked like a prep list for a busy Friday night.
Over the last couple years, I’ve even knocked out a six-hour meditation on a retreat.
Six hours. Stillness. No phone, no noise, no escape hatch.
Wouldn’t recommend it for Tuesday morning before work—but it showed me what’s possible when you really try to get present.
Back home, 20 minutes works.
You can do anything for 20 minutes. Even sit still.
What really sold me, though, wasn’t the science (even though there’s tons there). It wasn’t some dramatic “A-ha” moment on the cushion. It was on a hike.
Somewhere mid-climb, I dropped into my body—like it had been waiting for me the whole time.
I noticed the soreness in my feet first. Feeling a tad anxious, about my future condition on the hike back, I scanned my calves. My thighs. Checked in with my lungs to see how the breath was holding up. It was just a basic systems check, like a pilot flipping switches before takeoff.
And then the breeze rolled in.
I could feel every bead of sweat lift off each hair on my arms as the wind passed.
And in that instant, I wasn’t a man hiking through the woods.
I was the woods. The trail. The mountain.
I’d stopped trying to “be present” and accidentally landed there.
No effort. No technique. Just full aliveness.
That’s what a body scan does for me when I slow down enough to actually do it.
It lets the noise fall away. It brings the breath back online. It softens the sharp edges of whatever I’m carrying.
And it reminds me I’m not just in the moment—I am the moment.
If you’re curious—or just tired of feeling like a ticking time bomb all day—start here:
Body Scan: A 10-Step Guide to Presence
1. Find your seat.
Sit, lie down, lean against the wall—whatever works. Get still. Close your eyes if you want to.
2. Breathe.
No need to deepen or force it. Just breathe naturally. Let it do what it does.
3. Start at the top.
Bring your attention to your scalp, forehead, and temples. Notice what’s happening—tingling, warmth, tightness, nothing at all.
4. Work your way down.
Eyes, cheeks, jaw, tongue. Don’t fix, don’t analyze—just feel.
5. Neck and shoulders.
Scan for tension, heaviness, stillness. See what’s there.
6. Arms and hands.
From shoulders to fingertips, track any sensation—pressure, coolness, buzz, even numbness. All of it counts.
7. Chest and belly.
Follow your breath here. Feel the ribs expand. The stomach rise and fall.
8. Back and spine.
Move from the upper back down the spine. Let awareness sweep through.
9. Hips, legs, feet.
Hit every stop on the way down. Thighs, knees, calves, ankles, toes.
10. Zoom out.
Take in the whole body as one living, breathing field of energy. Just sit in it. Let it hold you.
Do this for five minutes or twenty. On the floor, in your truck, at the airport gate. Doesn’t matter where—what matters is when. And that when is now.
Meditation isn’t a performance.
It’s not about being calm, or holy, or getting it right.
It’s about remembering what it feels like to be alive—and letting that be enough.
When I forget, I come back here.
And sometimes—if I’m lucky—the birds vanish, the last cloud drifts away, and for just a moment… only the mountain remains.