by Tim Burnett, March 2025
In March 2025, Mindfulness Northwest teachers Tim Burnett and Carolyn McCarthy led a weekend retreat at the Samish Island Retreat Center with focussed on the power of awareness for healing
We offer three weekend residential retreats each year. See the Multi-Day Retreats section of our Programs.
Talk: The Power of Awareness
Talk Notes
Our mindfulness practice is fundamentally about two things: awareness and acceptance.
Awareness is noticing. We can be amazingly perceptive and aware; we can also be surprisingly blind to what’s right in front of us, or to what’s truly in our hearts.
Awareness isn’t a kind of neutral thing that just happens automatically. It can seem that way – we think it’s obvious: this is this, this is that. No question about it.
But actually awareness is an engagement, a connection, a relationship with what is. Awareness emerges from that relationship. “Wow: look at that!”
Take the example of the visual sense – of sight. We have an expression in English, “I saw it with my own eyes” – and that makes is real and certain and true, right?
And yet it’s also quite possible to not see things? Do you know about the invisible gorilla experiment?
• Describe the experiment (50% didn’t see it)
You can try this online on YouTube. Even if you know the gorilla’s going to appear it’s still possible not to see it but I have kind of spoiled it for you – sorry – people who are naive to the gorilla are what the experiment tested – half of them didn’t see it. So can you be so sure you’re seeing what’s in front of you?
And in fact you could also be seeing something that isn’t here.
A kind of intense example of this is shared in the book 7 1/2 Lessons about the Brain by the neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett:
A FEW YEARS AGO, I received an e-mail from a man who served in the Rhodesian army in southern Africa in the 1970s, before the end of apartheid. He’d been drafted against his will, handed a uniform and a rifle, and ordered to hunt down guerrilla fighters. To make matters worse, before the draft, he’d been an advocate for the same guerrillas that he was now required to treat as the enemy. He was deep in the forest one morning, conducting practice exercises with his small squad of soldiers, when he detected movement ahead of him. With a pounding heart, he saw a long line of guerrilla fighters dressed in camouflage and carrying machine guns. Instinctively, he raised his rifle, flipped off the safety catch, squinted down the barrel, and aimed at the leader, who was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t shoot,” whispered his buddy behind him. “It’s just a boy.”
He slowly lowered his rifle, looked again at the scene, and was astonished by what he now saw: a boy, perhaps ten years old, leading a long line of cows. And the dreaded AK-47? It was a simple herding stick. For years afterward, this man struggled to understand the unsettling episode. How had he managed to mis-see what was right in front of his eyes and nearly kill a child?
What was wrong with his brain? As it turns out, nothing was wrong with his brain. It was working exactly as it should have. Scientists used to believe that the brain’s visual system operated sort of like a camera, detecting the visual information “out there” in the world and constructing a photograph-like image in the mind. Today we know better. Your view of the world is no photograph. It’s a construction of your brain that is so fluid and so convincing that it appears to be accurate. But sometimes it’s not.
And she goes on to explain that neuroscience now understands that the brain constructs what we see based on what we expect to see, what we predict, which is only triggered by what the visual data coming through our eyes. The process is not at all neutral and it isn’t consistent or predcitable. We see what we expect to see.
And probably this is especially true in high stress situations. The young soldier was in intense stress, fear for you life stress. He expected to see enemies in the forest. There was a real visual stimuli: the boy with the his herding stick which inspired the imagined image of an enemy solider with a gun.
But here’s the thing: he didn’t see the boy with the stick and mistake it for the solider with the gun: he saw a solider with a gun. And with nearly horrifying consequences.
An extreme example and situation and I’m sorry to bring an image of war to the room but I think it’s actually very important for peace to learn about stuff like this. To learn that we can be fooled: we can think we’re aware of something and be utterly wrong. We can misperceive to that extent.
And we can also be amazingly perceptive and intuitive too.
Your friend is talking to you, she seems a little agitated, you’re close enough friends who can ask her what’s wrong. She says, “oh I’m fine” and she means that, she’s not deliberately hiding anything. But your intiuition says otherwise – and what is intuition but an awareness we can’t quite explain – you suggest that she’s still processing a breakup and she breaks down in tears: oh my goodness you’re right. I thought I was over that but, oh my, you’re right it’s just right below the surface. And on a good day a grateful hug for helping her become more aware of what was really going on for her. We need awareness of the hard stuff that’s bubbling to heal no? And for awareness we often need our friends.
I don’t really know how it all works but the hope here is that slowing things down, quieting things down, helps us become more aware. Less likely to misunderstand a situation with sometimes very negative results. More likely to see, to understand, to intuit what’s happening in us and in our worlds. So we can be more helpful instead of more trouble for ourselves and those around us.
I remember a long time ago my Buddhist teacher saying that a big part of his motivation for getting into practice was to stop causing so much trouble for himself, his friends, his family. And he figured well, at least when I’m sitting there meditatating I’m definitely not causing any trouble so that’s good.
There is certainly plenty of trouble. Trouble we cause in our confusion. Though our conditioning. Through our layers of privledge and the layers of oppression we may also receive. Much of this trouble we’re so often unaware of. Just going about our lives, doing our best, except when we aren’t.
And plenty of trouble that others in our complex, brilliant, distrubed species causes. Plenty of trouble.
Sometimes we’re aware of trouble, sometimes we aren’t. And there are so many shades of gray in that. We can be kind of aware – sure I read about that – but not really aware. Not feeling it. Not letting it in fully. Holding it at arm’s length. And sometimes that wise to protect ourselves. Other times it’s avoidant.
Mindfulness practice makes room for a lot to shift and process and be re-examined. Consciously, sure, we think about what’s happening for us – that’s part of it. But a lot of what’s happening in mindfulness, and in life in general, is not so conscious. Is bubbling and burbling and rearranging deeper down in our minds.
So being more aware isn’t just a nice thing to reduce stress or calm down a little is it?
It’s a radical act. A deep showing up more fully for ourselves, our loved ones, our world.
Lately it sure can seem like there is more trouble in the world. It seems that way to me anyway. Who can really judge, there’s always been trouble. And by many measures of human well being things have mostly gotten a lot better on the whole over the centuries. But with some set back and maybe we’re in the middle of one.
I’m going share a little about some trouble in the world I’m working with as an example.
Maybe you noticed that during the orientation my phone beeped. I did check it as we have a few folks who signed up for retreat who hadn’t show up. But it wasn’t one of those folks.
It was my Kenyan daughter. She worked for Save the Children in Kenya helping to organize aid projects to make sure they made full use of local people and talent – aid projects go a lot better that way, local investment and buy-in and helping the foreign aid workers be a lot more helpful and increasing the chances that the project has lasting value for the community.
I said she worked for them she recently lost her job as did most of her colleagues. This is because most of the social safety net, many of the projects for health and safety and development in East Africa, were funded by US AID – by the international aid department of the Federal Government.
And as you know I’m sure that’s gone now. Almost all of the well digging, and school building and, health clinic staffing, and outreach to remote places where people don’t have access to any of the services we take for granted (and often complain about too) has stopped.
Through her experience I’m much more aware of all of this than I would be. It’s not just a headline that comes and goes from the news as things tip back and forth with the next difficult and distrubing thing. Each story pushed out of the news cycle by the next one.
If I didn’t have this connection to Mercy Ukumu in Kenya – long story – I wouldn’t have this particular awareness. I’m sure it would still upset me reading the news stories – the health care supports being cut are the worst part of it all.
But they would also just be stories about other people far away and then the next email about my work or some interpersonal drama would catch my attention and I’d forget about it for a while. Or shift my attention to something I want to do for myself – I’m back to trying to learn how to pay the guitar again for one thing. None of this is good or bad exactly, I don’t feel guilty about my guitar practice time. But I do feel a little guilty around how hard it is to keep my attention on Mercy and the ways I might help her.
And I’m sure you have awareness of other issues and troubles. In your family. In communities you are connected to. Things you read and worry about. This too is part of the practice of awareness. It’s not just feeling your breath or learning how to listen to the door scraping without so much judgement. Awareness has so many levels to it.
It’s a deep and broad thing being more aware. It’s a wonderful thing and a difficult thing. There’s that part of us that would rather just lose ourselves in something is strong – and totally legit – our lives can be overwhelming enough – then adding these bigger troubles – wow.
I notice I do try to avoid thinking about this disaster that I’m party to in Kenya. There’s part of me that really doesn’t want to think about that much less try to find some way to respond. Do I protest somewhere? How? Would it make any difference? How much money can we afford to send to Mercy? How about the rest of her family? How about the many others there who are even worse off? It’s very heavy and very hard.
I’m sure everyone of us has something that’s this way. Something we’re struggling with.
And it’s still valuable to stop. It’s still really valuable, maybe even more valuable to be here this weekend. To practice setting everything down for the weekend.
On the practical level, while I can do a lot as a middle class American with some resources to help Mercy, she’s also a smart engaged person with a lot of agency herself. She’s moving to a more affordable town, she’s exploring two different businesses to start! Many people in the so-called Third World, I’ve learned, have a very strong entrepreunrial drive – they are creative and smart and work HARD, especially the women – Mercy will survive with me or without me. And I can really help too. It’s both. There’s an imbalance of power and opportunity between us but she sure isn’t powerless and I am not all powerful.
So this retreat for me is turning out to be a renewal of connection and commitment to this relationship and to helping as I can. I’m feeling that feeling. And the feeling arising from my practice isn’t a kind of obligation, it isn’t a kind of rush job feeling – gotta make that go fund me I was thinking of!! now!! stop spacing out, Tim!! – it’s a stronger, more balanced, actually more powerful feeling. I can help here. I can help. Time to renew my intention. Time to think carefully how I can help. Time to consult with trusted others on how I can help. Time to get to work.
You’re probably wondering by now: why on Earth am I telling you all o fthis?
What about some encouragment to follow our breath? Or how to navigate retreat practice? Or maybe some tips on how to practice with annoyance or judgement.
Because we all want to know how to do a good job at this mysterious thing we’re up to this weekend. We want to get as much out of this precious opportunity? We didn’t come here to think about all of this. Are you really bringing up the news!? That’s what I came her to avoid, Tim.
Maybe even some anger is coming up.
Why is we aren’t here to avoid anything.
We really aren’t.
And we aren’t here to get lost in it either. So I hope you can let go of these words when the talk ends. Take in the intention and energy in my words – take it in in your own way. And then let it go. It just my story after all. Maybe it will help you take a fresh look at your story, your patterns, what you’re aware of. Or maybe it won’t.
And keep coming back. Stay with the deep basics of mindfulness practice. Being with groudnedness, with awareness, with breath, with eyes and ears gently open. Taking it in. Being here.
I hope we’ll all feel renewed and refreshed by our weekend retreat, I really do. We need that.
We get out of balance in so many ways and this practice of retreat is such a profound opportunity for re-balancing – at least it is in the long haul in my experience.
It can be difficult too – when we make space for the whole thing plenty can come up. Some of it we may have been avoiding – and maybe for very good reasons to keep ourselves safe and sane – but eventually another layer of whatever it is reveals itself. This can be overwhelming.
Our main assignment this weekend really is to be here.
But that doesn’t mean trying to shut down or hide part of yourself.
As Carolyn said so eloquently: all of you is welcome. The parts of you that are strong and balanced, joyful and clear – how wonderful to welcome them back. But also the parts of you that are scared, troubled, upset, or angry. All of you. You are one being. Compartmentalization is a powerful thing the mind can do – it can be helpful, sure – but a person divided is not a whole person.
The opportunity this weekend is to remember that we’re a whole person. To feel that we’re a whole person. To be that whole person a little more fully. This isn’t an idea: it’s something you feel. It’s something that changes your life. To allow ourselves to open to the all of us. The joys and the sorrows of being a person, of being a whole person.
Here’s a Zen story about this to close. This is actually an old Chinese folk story that the Zen school took up as one of it’s deep questions for self study and practice they called “koans:”
There lived in Han-yang a man called Chang-Kien, whose child-daughter, Ch’ien, was of peerless beauty. He had also a nephew called Wang-Chau—a very handsome boy. The children played together and were fond of each other. Once Kien jestingly said to his nephew:
“Some day I will marry you to my little daughter.”
Both children remembered these words and believed themselves thus betrothed.
When Ch’ien grew up, a man of rank asked for her in marriage, and her father decided to comply with the demand. Ch’ien was greatly troubled by this decision. As for Chau, he was so angered and grieved that he resolved to leave home and go to another province.
The next day, he got a boat ready for his journey and, after sunset, without bidding farewell to anyone, he proceeded up the river. But in the middle of the night, he was startled by a voice calling to him:
“Wait!—It is I!”
He saw a girl running along the bank toward the boat. It was Ch’ien. Chau was unspeakably delighted. She sprang into the boat, and the lovers found their way safely to the province of Chuh.
For six years, they lived happily in Chuh and had two children. But Ch’ien could not forget her parents and often longed to see them again.
At last, she said to her husband:
“Because in former times I could not bear to break the promise made to you, I ran away with you and forsook my parents—although knowing that I owed them all possible duty and affection. Would it not now be well to try to obtain their forgiveness?”
Chau reassured her:
“Do not grieve yourself about that. We shall go to see them.”
He ordered a boat to be prepared, and a few days later, they returned to Han-yang.
Following custom, Chau went first to the house of Kien, leaving Ch’ien alone in the boat. Kien welcomed his nephew with joy and said:
“How much I have been longing to see you! I was often afraid that something had happened to you.”
Chau, surprised by this reception, responded respectfully:
“I am distressed by the undeserved kindness of your words. It is to beg your forgiveness that I have come.”
But Kien seemed confused.
“To what matter do you refer?” he asked.
Chau hesitated but then explained:
“I feared that you were angry with me for having run away with Ch’ien. I took her with me to the province of Chuh.”
Kien’s face darkened with puzzlement.
“What Ch’ien was that?” he asked.
Chau’s heart pounded.
“Your daughter Ch’ien,” he answered.
A look of astonishment crossed Kien’s face.
“What are you talking about?” Kien cried. “My daughter Ch’ien has been sick in bed all these years—ever since the time you went away.”
Chau felt a chill of disbelief.
“That cannot be. She has been my wife for six years, and we have two children. We have returned only to seek your pardon. Please do not mock us!”
For a moment, both men stared at each other in silence. Then Kien motioned for Chau to follow him into an inner room. There, lying on a bed, was a girl—pale, thin, yet eerily beautiful.
“She cannot speak,” Kien said softly, “but she can understand.”
Then he turned to his daughter.
“Chau tells me that you ran away with him and that you gave him two children.”
The sick girl looked at Chau, smiled faintly, but remained silent.
The Truth Unfolds
Still bewildered, Chau insisted:
“Come with me to the river.”
They walked to the riverbank. There, waiting by the boat, stood Ch’ien—the very same young wife who had traveled with Chau. Seeing her father, she bowed and begged for his forgiveness.
Kien looked at her with love but also deep confusion.
“If you really are my daughter, I have nothing but love for you. Yet though you seem to be her, there is something I cannot understand. Come with us to the house.”
They walked back toward the house. As they neared it, they saw the sick girl—who had not left her bed in years—suddenly standing and walking toward them, smiling with joy.
Then, in a moment no one could ever explain, the two Ch’iens approached each other and—without a word—melted into one.
Now, there was only one Ch’ien—whole, radiant, and showing no trace of sickness or sorrow.
Kien, filled with wonder, turned to Chau and said:
“Ever since the day you left, my daughter was silent and lifeless, as if in a dream. Now I know that her spirit was absent.”
Ch’ien herself murmured:
“Really, I never knew that I was at home. I saw Chau leaving in silent anger, and that same night, I dreamed I ran after his boat… But now, I cannot tell which was truly me—the one who left or the one who stayed.”
And the Zen koan question here is: which is the real Ch’ien?
The one who followed her passion and moved away to be with her sweetheart? The one who stayed home to do her duty even if it ultimately made her sick? Or both? Is the real Ch’ien the one who merges into one at the end of the story?
And which are you? Are you one who follows your passion? Are you one who dutifully stays and takes responsibilty for…everything? Do you flicked back and forth between both roles? Which Ch’ien are you when you hear of the troubles in the world? Which Ch’ien are you when you realize you haven’t really taken care of yourself in a very, very long time?
I hope these words have been more helpful than confusing. If not, I do apologize. Please forget about it. If so they have been recorded and will be on our website in a week or so, you could watch and listen again if you wanted to. It’s just an imperfect offering from my heart to yours – offered with love.