Don't fret. At no point will I claim that sitting transfixed like a half-uprooted parsnip for an extended period will summon multidimensional gnomes. Nor is this some ill-informed attempt at Buddhist evangelism.

These are my reflections — and it's worth noting that I approach this as a natural-born rationalist — on the profound changes I've undergone over years of mindfulness practice. And more recently, on my discoveries during a non-dual silent mindfulness retreat in Thailand.

Perched atop a tropical mountain, I found myself meditating in humble rags amid life-seeking farangs, chanting monks, and fist-sized spiders. We lived in silence, deprived of screens and other dispensable needs, abiding by Buddhist precepts. The long, sweltering days followed a disciplined regimen of Dhamma talks with walking and sitting meditations — all under the watchful eye of an earnest Frenchman, Pierre, and his big, ancient brass bell.

Let's dive into it.

Our Humble Quarters

Our dormitory rooms stood in rows of roughly six-by-eight-foot boxes made from thick plywood with no electricity. Each fitted with an iron-barred window looking out on jungly hillside slopes. My sleeping arrangement consisted of a wooden cot, a thin bamboo rollout mat, and a solid wooden pillow complemented with a too-short blanket made not of wood, believe it or not, but of fabric.

Its inhumane design easily passed for a throwback jail cell. Indeed, a feeling of déjà vu reminiscent of my adolescent lockup stints overcame me. Moreover, being limited to mere essentials and having my basic needs dictated by a nonnegotiable schedule felt equally analogous to my past detentions.

Along with the request to leave our valuables at the gate, we were strongly encouraged to refrain from reading and writing to further facilitate uninterrupted introspection. My spartan living quarters offered little wiggle room on the matter.

As I was setting up the essential mosquito net, I looked up at the cobwebbed, critter-infested ceiling and noticed openings at the top of each adjoining wall. I'm not sure what's worse: sleeping in a cell or a bathroom stall? Either way, it meant no privacy. And sure enough, the night offered an orchestra of nocturnal jungle life with the added instrumentation of coughing, snoring, and farting by some thirteen rough-sleeping men.

The Silence

At 7 p.m., Pierre's brass bell signified the official start of the retreat. We were not to utter another word. He even encouraged us to walk on the balls of our feet to muffle our footsteps. So, in total obedience, we strolled about like mute cartoon thieves for the remainder of our stay.

As the resonant ringing subsided, a mixture of awe and excitement with a palpable undercurrent of tension filled the meditation hall. We sat arrayed on the floor, melded in the enormous darkness, our gazes fixed on the pirouetting flame of a single tall pillar candle. It felt primitive, ritualistic, as though we were all awaiting our blood rite of passage into the belly of this ancient jungle.

Men on the left side, women on the right, with Pierre sitting on a wooden bench in a seamless Burmese position at the front.

He spoke a few choice words, followed by a run-through of the fundamentals of mindfulness. And so began our first meditation session under a bluish night sky to the constant wild callings of the jungle.

The silence aspect of the retreat was surprisingly easy. We were spared engaging in boring small talk or listening to disruptive assertions during the Dhamma talks. If there were any yogi beisserweissers present, they had to contain themselves. And thank the gods for that — or the mere mortals that facilitated the retreat. In any case, it felt liberating.

However, considering my history of panic attacks, I worried that committing to such extended periods of silence could exacerbate my anxieties and erupt into another episode. Instead, to my surprise, being confined to my thoughts yielded insight and equanimity. Whenever I fell astray mentally and found myself gazing into the jaws of negativity, I calmly observed each appearance it spat out. This allowed me to alter my relationship with my thoughts (more on this later).

While this might sound borderline schizophrenic, rest assured that I never entered into debates with my own mind, nor did it ever respond in a Roger Rabbit-esque voice.

This was purely a one-sided exercise.

Out of My Comfort Zone

By the first morning, my hips were aching, and my spine felt twisted. Suffice it to say that taking a beating from a piece of stagnant furniture did not help my ego as a nak muay farang (foreign Thai boxer). But then again, according to Pierre, the ego is an illusion. Ironically, my ego would not grant me solace in such thinking.

Despite my horrendous sleeping conditions, I kept daydreaming nonstop about laying flat on that torturous wooden cot. It felt like a reward in light of the daylong cross-legged meditations and attempts at inner pilgrimage.

We were forbidden to slouch or half-lay at any place of worship, which was everywhere except for our sweaty, uninviting dorms. In addition to my sleep-related body aches, I suffered constant muscle strains from spending entire days in an upright position on hard surfaces with little to no back support.

My "mountain woe," which, in hindsight, pales in comparison to actual hardship, turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It put into perspective how physically comfortable my life is. Apart from my strenuous Muay Thai workouts and trekking, I spend most of my time on cushy furniture (I work from home) with access to conveniences galore at the rub of a screen. Such that my privileges and comforts burden my well-being without strict routines and limitations. Western luxurious problems, I know.

I'm not planning on swapping my soft mattress and beautiful wife for a clunky cot and a fat spider anytime soon, but I intend to be more mindful of the comforts I have earned and been gifted. And to acknowledge both the decision-making and sheer luck (and the ability to capitalize on that luck) that has brought me to this current moment.

None of which I will take for granted anymore.

Secular and Accessible

I'm no self-proclaimed guru who blogs about the virtues of asceticism on a 16-inch MacBook Pro while dressed in cashmere harem trousers paid for by affiliate links. I do not claim to be anywhere near reaching enlightenment (or that I understand it, really, to any degree).

But, joking aside, due to the profound insights I have gained through mindfulness, I dare assert that it has a place in nearly everyone's life. However, don't just take my word for it. Empirical evidence of the potency of mindfulness is readily accessible to anyone who commits wholeheartedly to the practice.

Furthermore, the extent to which you can become mindful doesn't hinge on your willingness to embrace metaphysical or occult tenets. It can be practiced independently of the underpinnings of religious dogma or ancient Eastern philosophy. You needn't chant mantras to a deity with an elephant head for it to become effective.

All that is required is paying attention. This may seem over-simplistic, perhaps even condescending, but ultimately, that is the practice.

The Mindfulness Practice

Practicing mindfulness has changed the way I engage with the world. Its mechanics, extending beyond the symbolic sitting practice, have enhanced my self-perception, how I negotiate anxieties and panic attacks, even my marriage, and more.

I've learned to stop and fully appreciate moments, even the most mundane, instead of constantly racing towards the next "running cone" in life. And that thoughts don't hold a birthright primacy over my current mood but that my consciousness exists independently of internal and external distractions, including thoughts.

Regaining Control

We often traverse life, absorbed in thought and encroached by unexamined emotional impulses. Acutely conscious of our irreversible pasts and hypothetical futures, we still neglect the present moment — the only time truly under our control — leaving us at the mercy of some mysterious undertow within our minds. Mindfulness counteracts this predicament by breaking the cycle of automaticity and acting as a buffer between us and intrusive thoughts.

You needn't accept everything that enters your consciousness at face value, much less identify with it.

You decide its level of agency.

Objective Observation

With sufficient practice, it's possible to experience something best described as centerlessness. In this state, which you may only occasionally glimpse, your sense of self — the kernel of existence where thoughts and feelings appear to materialize inside your body or behind your face — becomes less pronounced.

Think of it as a homogenized continuum, where thoughts rise and fall unbound by emotional entanglements. This perspective enables you to observe their transient nature with nonjudgmental clarity. And you'll find that while you cannot control the content of your consciousness, you can influence the emotional currency you assign to it.

This realization can be life-changing.

Employing the Tools

While immersed in a breath-focused meditation in a lush sala, nestled between verdant mountain slopes and adorned with hand-painted Buddhist legends, negativity overcame me, disrupting an otherwise tranquil experience. The intrusion felt out of place, as though it emanated from some deeply buried reserve of resentment.

Rather than lingering on each thought, I observed their comings and goings. Most turned out to be surprisingly ephemeral, with little to discover beyond pondering their origin, which, for the most part, traced back to sh*t-slinging impish little boggarts spawned from irrational fear and self-destructiveness.

Despite my three-quarters-hearted enthusiasm for long-form introspection (and matching garments), I failed to extract any substantial meaning from this negativity. All it brought was unnecessary suffering.

Nonetheless, this experience proved to be a valuable lesson (and may have raised my level of enthusiasm closer to four quarters). Not once did I grant these intrusive thoughts unbridled access to my mood. I dropped back, disengaged, and observed each thought as it arose and dissolved into the same nothingness. Even when it weighed me down, I didn't sink deep, let alone drown in misery. Instead, I promptly resurfaced, refocused on my breath, and felt the ensuing negative emotions dissipate.

This doesn't imply embracing a state of apathy but instead recognizing the fundamental nature of such thoughts and simply watching them see themselves to the door.

This principle extends to stronger emotions, too. While volcanic rage is neither an appropriate means of expression nor fitting within a civilized society, well-managed anger or discontent can motivate you to address injustices and self-neglect or make crucial changes in your life.

Remember, mindfulness is a tool for expanding your awareness and accepting and learning from its content, not some massive steel broom that sweeps away anything that feels remotely uncomfortable. There is much to be learned from the discomforts of the mind.

The key is to avoid succumbing to the looped thought patterns that reignite and amplify, in this case, your anger, from one moment to the next. Instead, strive to access a primary, open consciousness in which the inherent significance and lifespan of thoughts and feelings, prior to the coloring of your lingering attention, are no more enduring than a passing breeze.

In other words, you give them meaning. Or, like Pierre said, "fabricate them into a prolonged experience."

On the contrary, employing these contemplative tools has made it easier for me to notice and fully embrace moments of bliss. I cannot overstate the wonders of such clarity.

Winged Dinos and Tropical Fruit

Each morning saw a cool mist stretched over the ridges with the odd crowing of nearby roosters. By 4:30 a.m., as Pierre rang his brass bell, the shrill mating calls were in full swing. Notably, the persistent screeching of the long-tailed Asian koel, with its blood-red eyes and bluish-black feathers. Equally loud and distinct were the desperate cries of the Tokay gecko — one of the largest of its kind, adorned with striking coloration that blends with its environment.

Despite being surrounded by winged dinos (yes, Dr. Grant was right, birds evolved from theropods) and other sentient beings — like the self-muted, cross-legged, rag-clad chimp known beyond these mountains as New Age weirdos, as well as colorful butterflies and often unseen but ever-present cobras, giant venomous centipedes, and palm-sized black scorpions — I found myself oddly at peace.

The beautiful intentions set and achieved on that mountain were undoubtedly a contributing factor. The sweet scents wafting down from the flowery ridges and the refreshing underfoot sensation on the sala's cool stone floor during the hot afternoons undoubtedly played their part. Not to mention the wild coconut trees, hanging clusters of bananas, and ripe papayas — all of which became soothing objects of meditation.

Wanting To Give Up

On day two, my inner gargoyle began pinching my brain matter, suggesting that, since my backache was limiting my sitting practice, the point of this whole experience was lost.

So why bother?

Then Rationality kicked down my cranium hatch and stormed into my skull with Pride and Tenaciousness at its heels, booting the gargoyle over an orchard of coconut trees and through the exosphere.

Let's break it down.

• Rationality: Sure, I was disappointed over my inability to sit cross-legged for the entirety of each meditation, but I still meditated frequently in a breathtaking environment. Also, the digital, material, and emotional detox alone made the retreat worth attending. Not to mention the profound insight and realizations I gained.
• Pride: There's no way on Earth — nay, in the universe — I'm quitting this mountain. I've survived brutal beatdowns and being marked for death by the Bosnian mob. If the other twenty-four-ish (mostly younger) weirdos can do it, so can I. I'm a man, and men don't quit (…right?). Either way, f*ck you for even suggesting it, gargoyle. We're not pals, gargoyle. Be gone, gar — you get the idea.
• Tenaciousness: The software I run includes a fail-safe algorithm designed to prevent disaster. Whenever I've found myself on the brink of catastrophe, this mechanism has intervened and pulled me back from the edge of (sometimes actual) death. It's akin to a circuit breaker for the mind, one that draws from some great reserve and safeguards against total destruction or mental and emotional breakdowns. I don't know where it comes from, and I can't tell you the path to it, but it's there. When this works in alignment with my stubborn determination toward something positive — I always triumph.

With these three allies running a script in my brain, nothing could stop me. I was going to complete the retreat. I wasn't going to be defeated by the mountain (in reality, the mountain was my friend, but we tend to push away those closest to us in times of inner turmoil).

The rest is history. That mountain, rising out of the turquoise Gulf of Thailand, became a place of deep insight and a source of love and self-realization.

There is much more to write about, but I'll leave you with this musing:

Our capacity to love others becomes boundless only once we learn to drink from its source ourselves. Self-kindness is a rare and precious form of love. Once realized, it spreads like daisies in a meadow.

See ya, goodbye, namaste.