Meditation hurts. That’s what most surprised me. When I made the decision to study Buddhism in Japan in an experientally-based program that involved getting up before dawn most days to meditate, I expected the boredom and frustration of staring at a wall for forty-five minutes. To be honest, I was terrified by the thought. Was I making the wrong choice in spending my youth doing, literally, nothing? Was I an idiot to stare at a wall when I could be discovering the rest of the world, and wasting my body by forcing it to be still? What satisfaction could there possibly be in wasting an hour that could be spent exploring, learning, or (as I would wish some mornings at 4 am) sleeping?

Those were my fears as I anticipated the many hours I would spend meditating in Japan.  So you might expect my surprise during my first day meditating, when I realized boredom would be the least of my troubles. First was the surprisingly difficult task of actually meditating while sitting and staring at the wall. It’s easy enough to daydream, which is what I would usually end up doing for 30 of the 45 minutes, despite my orders to myself to just be, to just experience sitting without volitional thought or action.

This was the first surprise, although I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone who has tried to meditate for longer than five minutes. What was more surprising was what, after thirty minutes of “meditation,” forced my thoughts away from my increasingly colorful daydreams. It was pain: an incredible, shooting pain that shot through my legs as they regained feeling and forced me to be aware of my body again.

At least I knew I wasn’t alone. After each session I would turn around on my cushion towards the center of the room and see my fellow practitioners rubbing their feet, stumbling as they attempted to get up and wincing as they took careful steps out of the zendo (meditation hall).  Two especially devoted practitioners who did two or three sessions of meditation each day found their pain extending beyond the cushion; just walking down the hall, we would sometimes see them catching a wall for support as one of their legs unexpectedly went numb.

I would later be told by the roshi (head monk or zen master) of the Soto Zen temple Hokyoji that this pain was the “Buddha’s love.” The pain that comes from prolonged sitting forces one to be a passive observer of the world for at least that moment, when one’s mind is entirely filled with that sensation. And I did, slowly, come to appreciate it, especially one day when, drawn out of my daydreams by a shooting pain in my right knee, I noticed the noise of the air conditioning. The next day, I noticed the sound of the cars moving outside our temple. One day, when I was completely absorbed in these sensations, I was even able to hear the faint song of birds between the passing cars.

Those moments are the most rewarding aspect of meditation, at least as far as I’ve practiced. To hear the sound of the birds and trucks outside and feel the almost imperceptible breeze of the air conditioner, and to be totally satisfied with those sensations, without thinking about what you’re going to have for breakfast that morning, or what people think of you, or what exactly you’re going to do with your life, is to find total, unconditional contentment in that moment.

And that sort of satisfaction is worth the pain.