Dwelling Without Intention

The Buddha was called Siddhartha Gautama and lived around two and a half thousand years ago in what is now northern India and southern Nepal. Tradition tells us that he came from a princely family. His father wished for him to assume his position. Yet one night, Siddhartha left his family and his former life, became a wandering monk, and sought out well-known teachers. What he learned did not bring him lasting satisfaction. Eventually, he gave up this form of searching. He sat down under a tree and resolved not to leave that place until he attained the freedom he sought.

In this gesture, we can understand the meaning of sitting. The Buddha settled in one place and ended his search outside himself. Sitting thus means: stopping, pausing, letting go, coming to rest. Later, certain schools developed fixed forms of sitting, together with the idea that only a precisely prescribed posture could lead to liberation. In Japan, Zen practice took on a military-like rigor in some practice halls. Thus, what was originally a simple act of sitting could become an absurd exercise. Yet in Japan itself, the shikantaza of the Sōtō school took a different approach. Shikantaza roughly means “just sitting” or “dwelling without intention.” It emphasizes that sitting is not a means to an end, but the practice itself.

When we sit down, therefore, we should not view it as a mere formality. We allow ourselves a break from our activities, goals, concerns, and fears. We sit down and pause. In doing so, we attune ourselves to the original gesture of Buddhist meditation and create the conditions to enter a meditative state simply and without strain. In German educational language, sitzen bleiben—literally, “staying seated”—has a negative connotation: someone has to repeat a grade and does not move on. In meditation, however, it means consciously perceiving unpleasant thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations rather than avoiding them. 

We observe them mindfully and with care. A thought can trigger a feeling; a feeling can in turn give rise to thoughts. Bodily sensations can also influence this interplay. Perhaps we notice tension in our back or an unpleasant sensation in our knee. Perhaps I don’t need to get up right away and end the meditation. Perhaps it helps to speak inwardly to this discomfort: “Oh, hello. I have noticed you, and I’m going to attend to you now.” This acknowledgment alone can make a difference. Sometimes, however, the appropriate response is simply to adjust our posture slightly. In doing so, we gradually discover how to relax. 

In traditional teachings on mindfulness, too, the practice begins with the body and the breath: Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in; breathing out, I know that I am breathing out. And then: Breathing in, I am aware of my whole body. Breathing out, I allow my body to come to rest. 

This is only partly about our own doing. We do not need to intervene, manipulate anything, or force a specific form. As our body relaxes, our concentration can deepen. We direct it toward the present moment—the here and now—and toward everything that arises within it. That is all we need to do.

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