Most of us struggle to stay in the present moment, but Jon Kabat-Zinn argues that it is in the here-and-now—not the there-and-then—that we find life and can awaken to the wonders the present contains. In this art of living book, Kabat-Zinn shows us how staying with the moment changes the way we approach our inner and outer worlds, and offers simple pieces of encouragement to help us stay “here” instead of drifting to “there.”

There is a cloud of forgetfulness that can fog up our vision and keep us from connecting with the deepest parts of who we are. When this cloud envelops us, we operate like automatons—moving, thinking and acting according to default settings. Wherever your absent-minded thoughts take you, they will never steer you to the present. The cloud never takes us to the here-and-now—only the then-and-there. The stretches of  cloudy awareness can extend for hours, days, years, or even the entirety of our lives. But anyone reaching out for “there” instead of being “here” will miss both.

Being present with yourself wherever you may be is at the heart of mindfulness. To sink into the awareness of what is around you and happening within you without leaping to snap judgments is the practice that allows us to accept what is, learn from it, and continue on life’s journey without getting stuck in the past or racing ahead to a future moment where we hope we will be happier and healthier.

At best, we are still only partially aware of how we live our lives, of our ambitions and drives, or how our actions affect those around us. Many people live their lives asleep:  so attached to what they believe about the world around them and their own internal states that they miss more than they realize. This dreamlike state is called mindlessness, and it usually harms us and those around us. The goal of mindfulness is to step into awareness of our mindlessness, to begin waking up.

You do not have to be a Buddhist or become one in order to gain greater wakefulness and awareness of what is going on around you and within you. This is precisely what the practice of mindfulness helps us achieve.

Yogis and sages have been cultivating this mindfulness over millennia and have a great deal to teach Westerners who view nature as something to be dominated and controlled rather than accepted as something we are part of.

The antithesis of mindfulness is taking life for granted and failing to notice all the depth and richness it contains, as well as the opportunities for growth and transformation. While the largely materialist Western culture could benefit from mindfulness practices, it is not simply a product of the East. It undergirds Taoism and Buddhism and yoga, but we also see the hunt for mindfulness in the Romantics and Transcendentalists like Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson—not to mention Native American tribes. What binds these disparate groups together is the desire to be fully present in life and relationships rather than passively and reactively being moved along by one stimulus or another.

Buddhism is not about becoming something else but being who you are. Buddha is admired because he was one who had awakened to his true nature.

Sometimes people teaching mindfulness will playfully instruct those practicing mindfulness, “Don’t just do something, sit there,” reversing an impulse that is so reflexive that it has become a common idiom. But meditation is not about sitting—in the lotus position or otherwise. It is pure simplicity. It is stopping and noticing. This is simple but not easy, maybe especially in a culture that struggles to slow down.

Your default is human doing, but step back into simply human being. Just watch the moment you’re in right now. Don’t try to change or alter yourself or control what is happening around you. Just observe. What do you see? What do you hear? What emotions rise up in you as you slow down?

When we decide to do something, we usually do so with the thought, however nebulous, that it will benefit us. There is something in it for us—otherwise why do it, is the unspoken logic. But when was the last time you did something for its own sake, not because you could efficiently squeeze maximum utility out of an activity or saw money-making potential or would see noticeable improvement in yourself or how you feel? Meditation might be the only activity that gives us a break from the continuous treadmill of stimulus and response, of craving and reward.

It is good to have at least one thing you do for its own sake, and meditation could be that thing for you. The purpose of meditation is simply to discover where you are in the present moment.

Throughout the day, take a moment to offer yourself the friendly reminder that, “This is it.” Accept what is in front of you. To be clear, this acceptance is not a resignation to fate. If anything, locating yourself in the present moment helps you untangle from the unending series of cause-and-effect, chain-reactive thinking and allows you to see the broader web of connection between things instead of the small subset of fragments your mind habitually drifts toward. As you practice telling yourself, “This is it,” you might just notice yourself responding to situations differently.

Many people project an image of strength and invulnerability in an attempt to protect their fragility. The grand paradox is that it takes a great deal of strength to admit weakness—to others and even to ourselves.

This mask of intimidation and unassailable strength is common among fathers in the immediate family setting and for people in positions of power. The problem with living like a rock that feels no pain is that others eventually start to believe the lie along with us and treat us as if it were true. They will see and interact only with the swagger and existential window dressing we put on display, and we will feel increasingly isolated, leaving ourselves wounded and in a prime position to wound others.

Pay attention to the moments when you find yourself self-promoting, trying to feed the image of strength, confidence, knowledge, or wisdom you are tempted to exhibit for others. You might even sense yourself improving in meditative practice and stillness and feel a compulsion to talk about it. Gently ask yourself whether your self-promotion is driven by a desire to evade vulnerability, to flee some unresolved sadness, or cover up anxieties.

Where there is sadness or loss, welcome those emotions instead of shaming them, shutting them down, or distracting yourself. Your greatest strength is to be mindful of what is happening around you. That is living from a position of strength; ruthlessly shutting down your emotions is not. Closing yourself off from what is coming up in the moment is the choice to stay asleep.

When people think of meditation, many envision someone sitting on the floor, legs crossed, back straight, eyes closed, face focused but calm. The posture exudes a sense of wakefulness, stability, and quiet dignity.

Ultimately, more important than the body’s stance is the mind's. You can be sitting upright and poised, but your mind is whirring and racing from one thought to the next.

Mental meditative posture begins with breathing, noticing the inhalations and exhalations.

Over time as you learn to stay with your breathing and pay attention in the moment, you can hold space for awareness of much more in the moment, but if you are just learning mindfulness through meditation, focusing on your breath is the best thing. Holding an awareness of too much too soon will leave the mind swirling and drowning. The present is full—fuller than we initially thought. Whether you take on more will depend on the level of motivation and dedication to training.

Try devoting five or 10 minutes a day to being simply present. Drop the expectations and judgments and plan for the time you have set aside. Your mind will inevitably drift. It may even drift a lot. That is fine. Let breathing be the anchor that keeps you connected to the present and prevents you from drifting indefinitely. Feel it as a nonjudgmental tug back to your breath and to the present moment.

Some people who are not used to sitting still and struggle to stay in the present hit their stride with walking meditation. In some monastic orders, seated meditation is coupled with periods of meditative walking. Just as you attend to the breathing in seated meditation, you bring your attention to walking: to the rhythm of the footfalls. Once you find the rhythm, you can bring attention to breathing too. The goal is not to arrive somewhere, but to focus on this footfall and this breath. It is easier to maintain this focus on the present when there is nowhere in particular you need to reach.

Sometimes the hurried pace of life infiltrates the way we move. How fast do you usually walk? Do you find yourself trying to hurry past people in front of you? What would happen if you intentionally slowed down your pace? Slow yourself and gratefully acknowledge the very fact that you can walk, remembering that many people no longer can or never could.

Whether you are walking quickly or slowly is not the ultimate issue; being present is. If you decide to walk slowly, it might be a good idea to practice where you will not be gawked at: an empty beach, field, or hiking trail. Even your living room will do. If you push a cart in front of you at the store, then you can slow down without being distracted by stares or your own self-consciousness.

You can practice casually as you walk to work or class, across the parking lot or to the store down the road. If you find yourself rushing or getting anxious, slow the pace down and tell yourself that you are here in this moment, and do not need to be there until there is here.