by Gerald May

A Tibetan Lama was guiding a student through a visualization. "Now expand the image. Let it become very large," the Lama said. "I'm trying," the student replied, "but nothing is happening." The Lama shouted at him, "Don't try! Just do it!" Immediately, the image expanded.

Another Lama gave me similar advice. "When you sit down to meditate," he said, "stop trying to meditate. Stop meditating!" A Zen saying also warns, "The stillness you achieve by trying is always in motion." Another says, "Quit trying. Quit trying not to try. Quit quitting!"

It has taken a long time, but now I think I understand something about not trying. It is another thing nature has taught me. The first lesson, more than twenty years ago, went completely over my head. I had walked alone into the Sonoran desert in search of a perfect place to meditate. I found a flat rock in the shade of a small paloverde tree with a magnificent view of the desert, endless sky and gentle wisps of clouds. I sat on the stone, breathed deeply and closed my eyes, seeking inner stillness. The sounds of birds and insects invaded my consciousness, and my eyes kept opening to see the desert beauty. God forgive me--I thought those things were distractions and I fought them, my body tense on the rock, trying to be contemplative. I later wrote about that meditation as one of the worst of my life.

Over the ensuing years, I tried different ways to be contemplative. I also tried not to try to be contemplative. I tried to quit trying altogether. It all made me very tired. Then I began spending longer times in the wilderness alone. It gradually became clear to me that authentic contemplation is given, not achieved. In the wilderness, prayer just is, prayerfulness is the way things are. The trees do not try to be trees; they just are what they are. They do what they do.

In solitude in a mountain forest this past January, God drove the point home. I sat by the morning fire and thought, "It's time to make breakfast." As I rose to get the food, I was overcome with fatigue. It was as if I were almost forced to sit back down by the fire. After a while I thought, "I can't just sit here all day; I must do something." The same thing happened; I was taken back to just sitting. God was like a Zen Master saying, "Don't just do something; sit there!" Still agitated with nothing to do, I tried to pray. I sat up straighter, closed my eyes, and tried to turn my attention toward God. It was just like the desert so many years before. The harder I tried, the more distracted and tired I became. Finally a tender feeling came to me, like a voice saying, "Please stop struggling with yourself. I love you. I want you to just be who you are and let me love you." With that, trying stopped. I was finally just me. Prayerfulness was. There were no distractions because God was everywhere. My mind thought some things, my eyes sought beauty here and there, my body moved as it needed. Later, long into the afternoon, it was time for breakfast.

It would be easier if our culture did not so idolize striving. We are taught to strive for mastery everywhere, and many of us know no other way to express our desire. If we truly care about something, we feel we must strive for it. But to strive is usually also to seek mastery. For me, trying means getting behind myself and pushing, struggling against myself to make something happen the way I think it should. It means taking things into my own hands, even when I am trying to be open to God, trying to be contemplative.

As Rose Mary Dougherty points out, Jesus does not tell us to try to become like little children. Nowhere does he tell us to strive to love our neighbor, struggle to do good, or work at praying. He just says, "Do it." The theological point seems to be that truly good things come into our willingness by grace, "by a gift from God, not by anything you have done" (Eph. 2:9). This is not only a warning against taking things into our own ego-hands; it is also an affirmation of God's infinitely trustworthy goodness towards us. Jesus proclaimed it repeatedly in exhorting us to pray for what we need, to seek God first, not to worry or be afraid.

For me, trying is a fifty-year habit, not changeable by will power. Life had to teach me that trying does not work. I had to fail repeatedly in my strivings, even in trying not to try. Then God had to break through to me at a time and in a way of God's own choosing to really show me about not trying. Now when I am given the grace, I pray instead of trying. I pray for complete availability for God, for being love, for protection when I am afraid, for what I think I want or need. Sometimes, when striving starts again, I relax a little, just remembering God's presence and goodness. I come back to the here and now, being me just as I am, wanting God in the midst of--and more than--whatever else I want.

Obviously I cannot recommend trying to put any of this into practice! But lightly consider not adding any trying to what is already going on. Experiment with allowing yourself to be led. Might it be possible to put some of your striving energy into praying for what you want? Bring your desires and willingness to God instead of taking things into your own hands as if you were on your own. We are not on our own. We never have been. God's loving mercy is freely given here in this very moment, ready to be trusted. It is everywhere and in every moment--even in the greatest tragedies.

Maybe we all have to go through trying to be contemplative. It does express our desire, and maybe it teaches us something about what contemplation is and is not. It certainly teaches us about self-will. But there comes a time when trying is finished, a time that is given. This summer I'll be going into the desert alone again. I'm sure I'll want to be contemplative. I hope and pray that I won't impose my ideas and efforts about contemplation on whatever God has in store for me there. If my eyes seek the beauty of the sky, if my limbs want to move over the land, if my thoughts want to roam, I hope God will save me from the arrogance of calling such things distractions. I want to be who I am in the wilderness as it is, with God as God chooses to be. This is also what I pray for right here, right now.


Gerald May served on the Shalem staff for over 30 years before his death in 2005. His books and his newsletter articles continue to guide and inspire.