FROM THE SEAT TO THE STREET

When I first started my journey with spirituality, it wasn’t noble or inspired. It was desperate. I was desperate… desperate enough to try meditation.

When I finally surrendered into the practice of meditation, I found a little relief, and that relief turned into a quest. I was searching for a state of mind where I wouldn’t be pulled around by anger, dragged down by worry, or caught in self-doubt. I wanted a formula. Something that would finally make me free.

So I went all in.

I meditated as much as I could. I asked all the teachers all the right questions. I took the courses. I went on the longest retreats I could manage while still having a young kid at home and a family to support. I was trying to meditate my way out of being human.

On one retreat, I sat for four hours straight. It was brutal, then magical, and looking back, a little dissociative. I was proud of myself. I couldn’t wait to tell the teacher. When I did, they smiled and said,

“That’s great. Although I’ve seen chickens sit all day, and they don’t seem very free.”

I didn’t get it. What I did get was angry. Then I got depressed. Then the familiar fear crept in:

I’m not a good meditator.

I’m never going to be free.

Which was painfully ironic, because those were the exact thoughts and feelings I was trying to get rid of through my practice.

Over time, I started to notice something uncomfortable. No matter how many retreats I went on, no matter how much I learned about the Buddha’s teachings, I still got caught in the same loops. Thoughts. Feelings. Unskillful behaviors, especially in relationship.

With my family.
At work.
With friends.
With the world.

Later, during a year-long mindfulness group facilitator training, there was a ritual taken from the Buddhist tradition that we practiced at the end of each session: the offering of merit. The sentiment is simple. We don’t practice only for our own well-being, but for the benefit of all beings. After our meditations, we offer the merit of our practice.

The teachers would randomly choose one of us each session to recite the offering. Maybe it was meant to keep us present. Maybe it was to help us find our voice. Or maybe it was just random. When they called my name, a part of me wondered if I had been chosen because I was special. Another part of me felt exposed.

When it was my turn, I remember feeling nervous. I also remember feeling less than. Not Buddhist enough. Not spiritual enough. Not smart enough. That old story I had been telling myself my whole life was right there in the room with me.

As I looked around at my peers, something quietly landed. Beneath the posturing, the language, and the credentials, many of us were carrying the same thing. There was a subtle flex in the room — which books we’d read, which teachers we’d studied with, how much we knew. Another version of striving. Another way of measuring ourselves that none of us were exempt from, no matter how “Buddhist” we thought we were.

Still, we all suffered. In relationships. With old wounds. With future worries.

Now it was my turn to prove my worth.

I recited the mostly scripted offering:

“May all beings be at ease. May all beings be free…”

And then something unscripted slipped out of me:

“May our practice ripple out, from the seat to the street.”

Those were the most sincere words I said that day.

Something about that line stayed with me. At the time, I barely understood the teachings. I honestly believed this practice was for smarter people, a belief that had shaped much of my life. But that moment planted a seed.

It wasn’t about what I understood.

It was about how practice showed up in relationship.

Relationship to myself.
To the people I love.
To the world.

For a long time, it was just a seed. I still struggled. I still sometimes found myself chasing states of mind and insights. But slowly, my path began to shift. My practice became less about fixing myself and more about creating a container of presence.

Through simple tools, shifting attention moment to moment, awareness of the feet, the seat, the sounds, taking a breath and looking around, checking in with my experience, including emotions and thoughts, something softened. As the mind settled, the container widened. Within that space, I could meet repetitive thoughts and sticky emotions with curiosity instead of force.

The thoughts and feelings weren’t enemies anymore. They didn’t need to be eliminated. They needed to be included.

That inclusion changed my relationship with myself, and that change rippled outward.

I still struggle. Fear and anger still show up. The difference now is that there’s more room to hold them. I’m less reactive. And when I do get stuck, I can often see it clearly, not as a failure, but as wisdom. As the teaching itself.

That’s when I knew my practice was no longer staying on the cushion.

It was moving, from the Seat To The Street.

With gratitude,

Joseph

Written by Joe Clements — meditation teacher, musician, and founder of the Sit.Feel.Heal. Meditation Center in Santa Cruz, CA. For weekly talks, meditations, and upcoming offerings, visitsitfeelheal.org.