"Did you find time to sit?"
My mentor asked me this every single week for a year. Not "How was it?" Not "What insights did you have?" Not "Are you more enlightened yet?" Just that one question, delivered with genuine curiosity and zero judgment: did you find time?
Some weeks I had stories to share — difficult sits, moments of unexpected clarity, days the practice felt alive. Some weeks I cried on the cushion without knowing why. Some weeks I fell asleep sitting up and woke up with a sore neck and a sense of having wasted the time. The question was the same regardless. Did you find time to sit?
That question saved my practice a hundred times. Not because it shamed me into compliance — it wasn't delivered that way, and shame is a terrible long-term motivator. It saved my practice because it made the practice real. It existed between two people, not just inside my head. When you keep something only to yourself, it's easy to quietly let it go. When someone else knows about it — when they're going to ask next week — it has weight that it doesn't have otherwise.
This is, I think, why the contemplative traditions have always emphasized community. You sit with others. You report to teachers. You practice in a context of relationship. The solo retreatant is the exception, not the norm — and even the most solitary practitioners are typically formed within communities first. The relationship is part of the practice, not an add-on to it.
What I offer when I work with people is this: not wisdom, not technique, not anything you couldn't find in a book or an app. I offer the question. The consistent, caring weekly presence that asks: did you find time? And when the answer is no, doesn't judge — just asks what got in the way and when you'll try again. And when the answer is yes, doesn't make it a bigger deal than it is — just acknowledges: good. Keep going.
The simplicity of it used to surprise people. They expected something more elaborate — a curriculum, a system, a measurable progression. And there is structure to the work over time. But at its heart, it really is just: someone who cares enough to ask, consistently, whether you showed up for yourself. Someone who keeps the thread of your practice in sight even when you lose it yourself.
One question. One week. One sit at a time. That's how a practice gets built — not through intensity, but through consistency over months and years. The question that keeps you coming back is the most important tool in the kit.
Did you find time to sit?
