Written by René Fay

“When I started meditating, I had been able-bodied, but things had changed. I was still figuring out my relationship to this new situation while I deepened my practice. What happens when the body can no longer comply with the rigidity of stillness?”

I remember the first time I was asked to be the timekeeper for meditation practice at the center where I practiced regularly. There was nothing to it; we were short-staffed that evening, and all I had to do was sit there and meditate like I was going to do anyway. The only difference was that I would do it in front of the class and ring the bell at the beginning and end of the session. No instruction was needed. Just ring the singing bowl twice.

But I froze with fear and shame. Not just because my shaved-head aesthetic was always more punk than monk, and I was certain no one would take me seriously.

I told them I couldn’t because it was a bad pain day and I would be wiggly. Those were my literal words. “I’m sorry, I’m in a lot of pain and I’ll be too wiggly.” “Not a problem,” the senior teacher said. “Humans wiggle.” Not like this, I thought. How could I model the practice like this? It was one thing to be a practitioner in this wildly unpredictable body, but I surely couldn’t be on display as a guide. That seemed not just absurd, but irresponsible.

When I started meditating, I had been able-bodied, but things had changed. I was still figuring out my relationship to this new situation while I deepened my practice.

What happens when the body can no longer comply with the rigidity of stillness?

I had come to understand, in a truly beautiful way, that my unpredictable, wiggly, painful body was just part of my practice. To fight it — to push through and compound the suffering by trying to perform stillness and perfection — was counter to everything I was cultivating.

So why, then, would it prevent me from being a teacher? I don’t have to model perfect stillness to teach presence and mindfulness. My practice has taught me to become familiar with my body — and my pain — in a way that it is no longer my enemy. No longer something I need to overcome.

So I teach from within this body, even on bad pain days. My students see me wiggle a lot and adjust as I need.

There’s a kind of myth that settles around teachers — the myth of mastery, of physical control as spiritual legitimacy. We forget that stillness isn’t always silent or motionless. Sometimes, stillness is the choice to stay present in the storm of the body, to return to breath, even when it hurts.

So, when I ask, "What does a teacher look like?" I mean: how does the body bear truth — not despite its limits, but through them?

Maybe the answer is: like this.