Terrifying, Dangerous Freedom: Staring At a Wall to Meditate
We’ve all heard the phrase “watching paint dry” used to describe something as boring or tedious.
But what if watching was the point?
This was one of the many - many - thoughts I had the first time I tried a Sōtō Zen meditation practice introduced to me by my friend and fellow woo-dude, Justin Pickul. After he described it, I was actually excited to try - because it takes all kinds to make the world go ‘round, even folks who enjoy staring at a wall.
Maybe once you try it, you’ll be one of those folks, too!
Gaze and be amazed!
Justin explained that to do this practice, you find a fixed point on a wall and then let your gaze rest there for a set amount of time. He recommended deep breathing and mudras, and we decided to swap journaling prompts after the time had ended. We agreed to just write to the prompts for a set duration without stopping to think or edit.
We did this practice at the same time, but were apart. When it was time, I set my timer for 30 minutes, and with my favorite mudra in hand (ha!), I got busy doing nothing.
I mentioned that I had a lot of thoughts during this sit. Some of them include an intense excitement about the fact that cinnamon exists and a great love for the pockmark on the wall I’d selected as my focus. At different times, 30 minutes felt both like a long time and not very long at all. Just before the timer went, I felt like I could have stayed in that space forever.
While we went for 30 minutes, I’m sure a shorter duration would work. After all, 30 minutes might seem like a lot of time if you’ve never meditated. This practice can meet you where you’re at, so if you’d like to try it, don’t feel confined to these guidelines.
But then you might not fall in love with the pockmarks in your wall like I did.
Or cinnamon…
If you’d like to try this practice yourself, here are the prompts Justin sent. Below them, I’ll include both my unedited response and a slightly tidier version. As you’ll see, I kinda combined all four prompts into my response.
Prompts:
It might be dangerous to… (repeat this line for every 3 or 4 sentences)
A Stillness entered the forest… (just write and follow the thought)
Free form on the qualities of water.
As a child, I didn’t like…
My unedited response:
It might be dangerous to live alone. You'll forget you don't need people to make you happy. You can get used to the sound of your silence and not have to worry about the disharmony of others' silences. It might be dangerous to keep your boundaries rigid. More and more there will be less people you let through. And it might be dangerous when you realize how little you needed them in the first place. Because needing can become needy oh so quickly. As a child, I didn't like how needy my mother was. It wasn't her fault, but it wasn't my responsibility. And it might be dangerous to become that detached to our traumatizers. Because if we can detach from the injurers AND the injuries, what is left? It might be dangerous to be that free, to allow yourself the freedom to be free. It might be dangerous to start giving yourself permission to be exactly as you were created, to be as innocent as you were before the programming started. It might be dangerous to travel back to that innocence with your newfound detached maturity. Or it might be empowering. It won't be like it never happened - water isn't dissociating from being water when it's frozen into ice. Instead, it will be like someone cast you in a role - violently, dangerously, unfairly. But you can choose to stop playing. Or you can choose a different interpretation, like how ancient Persian poems can only ever be rendered in English. Unless you speak the native language, you'll only ever be able to guess at the intent behind the interpretation. It might be dangerous to realize the native language has always been forgiveness, and you can be as aware as Jesus, Buddha, Vishnu, etc., but without forgiveness, it's hollow, performative approximations. Yes, you have every right to feel victimized; you have the free will to choose that role. But if you claim to have even an iota of awareness, you must understand that forgiveness is the only role to choose. And it might be dangerous to be so unconditionally forgiving, because more and more, your expectations of others will drop to zero. Your outlook can be positive, but the outcome can always be unremarkable. And so you might follow stillness into the woods one day. It might be dangerous, because you might want to stay.
My edited version so it looks nice and purrdy:
It might be dangerous to live alone—not for the obvious reasons, though. Not because you’ll be lonely, but because you might figure out you’re not. You might start liking the sound of your own silence and wonder why you ever tolerated the clamor of other people’s dissonance. You might get too good at keeping your own company, too comfortable not having to explain yourself. You might find yourself so at home in your own solitude that the idea of inviting anyone else into it feels like vandalism.
It might be dangerous to keep your boundaries locked up tight. The longer you hold them firm, the fewer people you’ll let in. And then one day, you’ll realize just how little you needed anyone to begin with. That realization? That might be the most dangerous thing of all. Because needing is like quicksand: one step, and you’re already neck-deep in needy.
As a child, I couldn’t stand how needy my mother was. It wasn’t her fault—life had bruised her in ways she couldn’t hide—but it wasn’t my responsibility, either. So I detached. And here’s the thing about detachment: it’s a blade that cuts both ways. If you can free yourself from the people who hurt you and the scars they left, what’s left?
Freedom. Big, terrifying, dangerous freedom. The kind that whispers, “You can do whatever you want now.” The kind that lets you be who you were before the world told you who to be. Innocent, unprogrammed, unscarred. But here’s the twist: getting back to that innocence with the wisdom of all you’ve been through? That’s not just freedom—it’s power.
It doesn’t mean you forget what happened. Ice doesn’t forget it was water, but it doesn’t cling to that memory, either. It transforms. You were cast in a role—unfairly, maybe violently—but you don’t have to keep playing it. You can walk off stage. You can write a new story. Or reinterpret the old one—like ancient Persian poetry, where every translation is a guess at the original intent.
Maybe the original intent has always been forgiveness. Without it, all the awareness in the world is just a hollow performance. You can choose to feel like a victim—no one can take that from you—but if you dare to call yourself aware, forgiveness is the only real flex.
And forgiveness? That’s dangerous, too. Because it clears the slate. It drops your expectations to zero. You stop expecting anything of anyone, and suddenly, their silence doesn’t clash with yours anymore. Your outlook lightens, your load disappears.
One day, stillness might call you like it’s the only sound left in the world. Maybe you’ll find yourself in the woods, where the silence isn’t empty but alive—its rhythm natural, effortless. It’s the kind of silence you harmonize with instinctively, without trying. Like exhaling. And the longer you stay, the easier it gets, until you realize that staying isn’t a choice at all. It’s just what happens when you stop resisting.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
Or maybe, it’s the safest.
