Meditation as Medicine: A Critique

Abstract

T wenty-seven adults are arrayed at the front of a large, sloping lecture hall: some lying on their backs, some upright in free-standing chairs, some in the tiers of seats bolted to the floor. Most appear to range in age from mid-forties to mid-fifties. The lights are dim, most eyes are closed, and except for occasional fidgeting, everyone is silent and still. The instructor, a kindly psychiatrist who bears a striking resemblance to Santa Claus, has instructed everyone to focus attention on the ebb and flow of the breath, counting exhalations from one to eight, then returning to one. Each time the mind wanders off, the meditator should begin counting again at one: the point is not to get to eight, but to continually refocus attention on the breath. Toward the end of the evening, participants gather on chairs in a circle, each speaking in turn about her or his experience. One woman says she hates meditating, because her mind wanders constantly, and her thoughts are full of ‘‘mean’’ commentary about herself. A Vietnam veteran remarks that for thirty years he feared that ‘‘if I allowed myself to have the memories they’d kill me, so I fought them off like I fought the war.’’ Meditation has helped him to see that his thoughts will not kill him, and that facing the painful memories relieves the depression and anxiety caused by his avoidance. Another woman’s voice breaks as she remarks that part of her resistance to meditation emerges from a belief that ‘‘I don’t deserve happiness.’’ Scenes like this are being repeated in hundreds, perhaps thousands, of settings around the United States. They are part of a program called

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