The early days (and possibly weeks and months) of a new meditation practice have a certain comedic property.

There we are, trying to conjure up deep thoughts. We’re not sure what they should be about, but they’re undoubtedly deep. And we’re trying to follow the guidance and meditate ‘on the breath,’ counting the in-breaths and out-breaths (usually as pairs, up to ten, and then going back to the beginning). The problem is that we rarely get very far in our counting before we realise that our attention has wandered.

One, two, three… did I shut the freezer door?

One, two… and you’re dreaming about the holiday you’ve just booked; thinking about getting some new clothes; speculating whether parking at the airport would be sensible or whether to ask a relative for a lift. Minutes have passed, and you have been completely captured by your own thoughts. You didn’t actually stop the counting, but it had become just a background activity to your internal chatter. Having finally noticed, you tell yourself off, straighten up on your cushion, and begin again. One…

One, two… should I start learning Italian?

One… why did I snap at my sister? She didn’t mean to be rude.

This goes on and on. You’re really trying to sit calmly and quietly, but your mind won’t give you a break. Your stress level is on the rise, and that wasn’t in the plan. You realise that you haven’t been meditating at all; you’re hopeless at this meditation business, and when you glance at your meditation timer, you see that you’ve only got three minutes left.

Instead of meditating, you have been playing a variation of that child’s board game, Snakes & Ladders. With each breath, you have been methodically moving along the squares, getting the occasional boost from one of the ladders, but constantly landing on a snake that takes you right back. You’re not winning the game — you’re almost where you started. You start to feel exasperation. Don’t. This is everyone’s experience; it’s perfectly normal.

And you’ve actually missed the key thing: this isn’t failure at all. Noticing your distraction and returning to your breath is the practice at this stage. We all have to do it again and again and again. Keep an eye (metaphorically speaking) on the busyness of your mind. Notice when your attention wanders. Don’t worry about it or beat yourself up about it: it happens constantly. Just notice. Don’t join in with the thoughts, play with them, indulge them, or amplify them. Don’t judge them or yourself. Just notice. And having noticed, return to your breathing and start the count, again, from one.

Little by little, you begin to see the mind for what it is: restless, inventive, endlessly self‑referential. This comes not in grand revelations, but in tiny repeated moments of noticing. You fall off, you come back. You fall off again, you come back again. It’s not failure; it’s the practice. The mind is astonishingly good at grabbing your attention — it’s been doing that job for decades — and it won’t give up easily. But you don’t need instant results. You just sit there, looking serene as a swan on a still lake, while underneath… well, you know perfectly well what’s going on.

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One – Beginning Meditation

1. Daily (1 Jan)
   • Sitting each morning, not chasing enlightenment – just watching the mind do what it does.
2. Overwhelm (15 Jan)
   • Buddhism’s numbered lists can swamp a newcomer, but beneath the scaffolding is a simple, lived path you test in your own life.
3. Exhale (29 Jan)
   • Trying to meditate for the first time: the fancy cushion, the loud timer, other distractions, the mind chattering away. You notice a breath, a thought, a letting go – and that noticing is the practice.
4. Snakes & Ladders (11 Feb)
   • Early meditation feels like playing Snakes & Ladders: you count a few breaths, fall into daydreams, and start again. Noticing the distraction and returning is the practice – the falling off is the ladder.
5. Calm (25 Feb)
   • After a couple of weeks of sitting, the breath settles, and thoughts lose their grip. Counting falls away, ease appears, and you begin to taste calm abiding – not as a technique, but as the mind quietly gathering itself.