Wise effort in my practice rises up from the ground without my having to do anything. I'm not weighing the time of day, whether I have the energy to sit, or what else I should do first. It's the sudden opening of a bud into a blossom. My legs carry me to a quiet place. There's an instinctive pause, an undoing. And regardless of how busy my mind is, there's a sense that not doing is exactly all I need to do.
When effort goes unwise, a self-improvement motivation takes over. I "should" sit. I "need" to sit. If I don't sit now, I won't at all, and that will be another day gone. My mind thickens with judgment and fear. The practice becomes another box checked, evidence of whether I am a good person or a bad one. So even the successful sit can lose its spirit, leaving me tired and punished. I stand up and go, "Well, that's that."
Along with the striving comes a scanning mind searching for what is right and what is wrong. It is incredibly adept at finding either. These thoughts rebound between the silence of awareness and the stories I tell myself about myself. One moment I am resting back into awareness. Then I am remembering a time I was deeply hurt and how it was someone's fault. Like a woodpecker, I draw back for a breath, parallel to the tree, suspended in non-doing. In another half-breath, I am drilling my beak into the soft bark, hammering away with self-righteous anger and fear.
I recently heard Tara Brach talk about the judgmental voice she calls "special person." I laughed aloud, because I have one too, and I tend to name my judgmental parts as well.
There's "Special Person," who arrives ready to narrate my singular importance and suffering. There's "Angry Amari," who finds fault in others to protect herself from wrongdoing. "Alone Amari" is very active these days. She notices how lonely she feels and finds infinite examples of others committing her to aloneness against her will. Then there is "Almost Amari," who swears everything is almost good enough. She just needs to do a few more things before things are okay.
When these parts show up, I try to welcome them. If I'm sitting, I note their arrival, offer them a seat beside me, and return to my breath. If I'm not sitting, I try to listen for the message beneath the judgment. The messages are usually important: a basic need for connection, forgiveness, or play. Finding the unmet need is uplifting and freeing, particularly because it is often a gift I can give myself. The gift of connection with a friend. The gift of imperfection. The gift of letting go.