Schedule for Mindful Presence

While managing the department at Arad Communications, I realized I needed to improve my time management. At the time, I was mainly working and sleeping, feeling I couldn’t let go; a new department was being established, and I couldn’t afford to loosen my grip, or so I thought. There was this feeling that if I let go even for a moment, everything would fall apart. How I eventually moved past that belief is a story of its own, but this preface is meant to say that since then, I have learned to work with a weekly planning system rooted in long-term goals and to monitor that plan while continually refining both my workflow and objectives.

Years ago, as I was reviewing my goals for the upcoming week, it dawned on me that the thing I consider most important is precisely the one I do not assign concrete goals to in my weekly schedule.
I do practice mindful presence and meditate, but it just wasn’t part of my weekly schedule.

Now, as I write this, I understand it’s not coincidental. It stems from an old internal debate: can I treat this formless thing, the state of my consciousness, as a project with a set number of pages, clients, and deadlines? Can I establish goals for evolving consciousness and assess my progress? Beneath this lies a more profound question: Is there, in fact, such a thing as the development of consciousness?

In Western thought, consciousness itself is not typically seen as developing. Intelligence is assumed to be largely fixed, and development is understood primarily as a psychological process – involving shifts in perception, interpretation, behavior, and habits, focusing on psychological processes rather than a transformation of consciousness. These processes involve changes at the software level, not at the hardware level. From this viewpoint, the perceiving and thinking aspects of the mind remain constant; only their contents vary.

Eastern philosophies adopt a deeper and more radical perspective. For the Buddha, living a life free of fear requires the evolution of consciousness. Early Buddhism differentiates between ordinary, or lower, consciousness and higher consciousness, based on the mental states that arise within them. For instance, in higher states of consciousness, unwholesome mental states like anger, craving, laziness, low energy, or restlessness do not arise.

Furthermore, at higher levels of consciousness, wholesome mental states such as concentration and attention have a different quality than when they occur at lower levels. They function differently and at different intensities.

Early Buddhism not only confirms that consciousness evolves but also offers a route to achieve this – through the Noble Eightfold Path. This path includes practices such as right speech, right action, right livelihood, and right effort. Ultimately, your conscious transformation relies on your effort.

Right effort? The term “effort” can be misleading. This isn’t about forcing yourself or struggling, but about intentionally cultivating mindfulness: preventing unwholesome mental states from arising, releasing those that have already appeared, fostering wholesome states that haven’t yet manifested, and strengthening those already present.

In later Buddhist traditions and schools of philosophy, it was argued that although early Buddhism acknowledges there is no self (Anatta), the pursuit of enlightenment via the Eightfold Path tends to reinforce the illusion of a separate, active “I” that seeks self-improvement. The notion that one must strive to become something else merely reinforces the false idea of a separate “I” that must attain a different state. This belief in the existence of a separate “I” illusion is the root cause of all suffering and dissatisfaction in our psychological world. It is what ancient Buddhist referred to as “Avidya” – ignorance.

My first encounter with this critical perspective was through Satyam Nadeen’s book, “From Onions to Gems: A Journal of Awakening and Redemption.” In it, Nadeen recounts his awakening while imprisoned in one of the United States’ highest-security prisons. Serving time for drug production and trafficking, he describes the hellish environment of being the only white person on the wing, confined in a cell with about twenty black inmates, each with a cassette player blasting deafening rap music. This setting created a constant state of anxiety, fuelled by the fear of who might be murdered or raped that day.

In this context, Nadeen sought escape by immersing himself in reading, primarily focusing on texts from the Advaita Vedanta tradition. Developed in India during the 8th century, this Hindu school asserts that Brahman is the ultimate reality – limitless, unchanging, and beyond perception. It is the source, essence, and foundation of all existence, with everything else appearing as a temporary illusion. In Advaita, the self, Atman, is identical to Brahman. The core statement is “Atma Brahma Asmi” – “I am Brahman.” The true self isn’t the body, name, gender, or personal story. It is neither separate nor individual but the same as the eternal reality itself.

From an Advaitic view, the self is already free – always has been and always will be. The only thing obscuring this truth is ‘ignorance’ or illusion, which dissolves not by action but through understanding.

This isn’t knowledge in the conventional sense but a direct, living, immediate understanding: I am not the body, not the story, not the character. I am consciousness itself, the observer.
Like a cloud dispersing to reveal the sun that was always there, this insight doesn’t create liberation; it shows it.

I remember the sensation I felt while reading Nadeen’s book – it was like slamming into a wall. “There is no one who decides and no one who acts,” Nadeen wrote, and I couldn’t grasp what he meant. So, who is responsible for making decisions, if not me? This question triggered a deep resistance in me. I wasn’t prepared to give up my sense of self tied to my achievements – the identity of someone who improves, acts, develops, and moves toward goals. Another question emerged: should I do nothing? Should I follow every desire, weakness, or harmful habit? After all, if there’s no “me” that acts, and nothing to do for freedom, then why should I bother trying at all?

I’m not raising these questions to indulge in philosophy, but to share with you and myself the process I went through to determine whether it’s possible or advisable to schedule ‘mindful presence’ as part of my daily routine. Although the question might appear simple, it is actually quite complex and carries significant practical consequences.

In response to my exposure to Advaita teachings, I tried to “do nothing,” including refraining from working on harmful habits, which, by the way, I see as closely connected to transforming consciousness. I let my addictions run free, followed whatever impulse arose. This way of living did not bring much joy.

Today, I understand the value of incorporating mindful presence into my schedule and practicing right effort, though I approach it cautiously. In starting this inner journey, I saw how easily the ego’s ambitions can dominate, driving motivation for achievement, growth, and expansion. When that occurs, the path quietly reverts to the same patterns I am trying to change.

Don’t get me wrong; wanting to succeed or create is perfectly natural. We are inherently driven to act and innovate. The key question is where our motivations originate and how we perceive the act of doing. Do we focus on the results? Do we appreciate the process? Is our self-image connected to outcomes? Or maybe we’re trapped in an internal struggle, filled with self-criticism, guilt, and outdated notions of failure? Most crucially, this cycle of expectation and obsession with the future distracts us from the present moment. While the future holds promise, the next moment often seems livelier and more attractive than the one we’re experiencing.

Much water has flowed in the Yarkon^[1] River since then, as I learned to refine my goals in the world of action – goals that grow from an authentic impulse rather than a desire to achieve something considered valuable. I learned softness, containment, to step away from self-criticism and guilt, and instead to observe, to learn, to surf impulses. Above all, I learned to let go of the demand for enlightenment, which was supposedly due by next week at the latest.

Today, I view Advaita texts from a new perspective. This shift is particularly interesting in relation to the maturation of consciousness. I believe I’ve grown sufficiently to understand these teachings more profoundly, in line with the clarity and insight Byron Katie refers to:

We never make a decision, when the time is right, the decision makes itself

The “I,” seen as a separate entity from the observing consciousness – an eternal intelligence – is actually a system of mechanisms and processes that generate outcomes, which then activate other processes. There is no single individual in control, like a pilot steering a plane; that is an illusion. Thoughts occur, but there is no “I” to own them. Instead, there is a witness who observes and is aware of these thoughts. This duality – thinking of another thought as “mine,” or the body as “mine,” or claiming “this body belongs to me” -is all an illusion.

To deepen this understanding and guide us toward awakening from the illusion of “ignorance,” later Buddhist traditions like Tibetan Dzogchen and Japanese Zen shift the focus. There is no need to “do” anything to achieve enlightenment because the very effort to attain it, the seeking of the future, is already a mistake. Awakening exists right now, when consciousness rests in its true nature. Any attempt to attain it, control it, understand it, or fix it is seen as an escape from the simple immediacy of the present moment. That’s why many teachers emphasize “non-doing,” staying present, and surrendering to the unfolding of things as they are.

“Non-doing” suggests a state of effortless awareness, yet in traditions like Dzogchen, Japanese Zen, and Advaita, practices such as meditation, studying texts, and dialogues with teachers are common. If consciousness follows its usual patterns, with automatic reactions and giving in to impulses and harmful habits, developing the capacity to remain in mindful presence becomes unlikely.

There is a beautiful parable by Ramana Maharshi, an Advaita teacher who lived in South India and is considered one of the most influential spiritual teachers of the twentieth century.

In recorded conversations between Maharshi and his students, published in the book Conscious Immortality, a student inquires: why, despite consistent practice, do I keep being drawn outward, losing myself in thoughts and distractions, repeatedly falling back into the same habits?

Maharshi responds:
“It changes through abhyasa, practice, and vairagya, non-attachment. However, it happens gradually. A mind that has been habitually outward-focused for a long time does not shift inward easily. It’s like trying to restrict a cow that has been grazing secretly in others’ fields into its own stall, even when the owner tempts it with fine grass and good fodder. It initially refuses. Then it eats a little, but its tendency to stray is strong, and it hesitates. When the owner repeatedly coaxes it, it becomes accustomed to the stable. Eventually, even if released, it will not wander.
It is the same with the mind. Once it findsה happiness within, it will not turn outward.
So it is with thought: it tends to wander outward, toward the world.
If you keep bringing it back inward, to the source of consciousness, it will eventually find its rest there.”

For Maharshi, effort is not a struggle, but a gentle invitation to return home.