Get Some Headspace: 10 minutes can make all the difference by Andy Puddicombe Page A

which you can find on page 130). So, as monks and nuns we’d take it in turns to prepare the food, put it on plates, and deliver it to the rooms. Lunch was simply a small bowl of soup and a piece of bread. The soups were all freshly made, often with ingredients from the garden, and were rotated throughout the week. We’d done quite a lot of retreats and I was getting used to just going through the motions as I prepared the soup and, if I’m honest, not really giving it my full attention. In fact, I became a little slapdash about it all – a bit of this, a bit of that, chuck it in, see what happens. I liked to think of it as creative flair, but in reality I was just too lazy to weigh everything out and create more washing-up. Besides, I figured the quicker I finished, the more time I’d have to rest.
    One day I went into the kitchen and saw that mulligatawny soup was on the menu. It’s a curry-based soup and one I’d made lots of times before. I set about cooking the vegetables, blending them together and making the broth. I’d made it so many times that I didn’t bother using the recipe card any longer. I reached the point where I had to add in the herbs and the curry powder. Like many big kitchens, all the herbs and spices were stored in identical clear jars. In fact, the appearance of the contents and a simple sticky label on the front of the jar was the only way of telling them apart. Opening the cupboard, I reached in and took out the one with ‘curry powder’ labelled on the front. Noticing the reddish colour of the powder, I paused momentarily and thought how strange it looked, but then quickly pushed the thought aside. I was in far too much of a hurry to apply any gentle curiosity, I just wanted to get it finished so I could enjoy a bit more of the lunch-break. The idea that I could make the soup and enjoy myself at the same time hadn’t even occurred to me.
    Now when I was first taught to make the soup, I’d been instructed to taste it as I went along, to make sure it was OK. Not really paying close attention to the measurements and not bothering to taste it, I quickly spooned in the different ingredients. Thinking I’d spice it up a little to give it some more flavour, I chucked in a couple of heaped tablespoons. I continued to stir the ingredients, until it looked as though it was just about the right consistency and ready to serve.
    I leaned over and smelt the soup. My nose bristled at the spice and my eyes immediately began to water. ‘That’s odd,’ I thought, ‘I don’t remember it being like that before.’ I picked up the spoon and took a mouthful. It felt as if my head was about to explode. I mean, I like things hot, I’d spent a lot of time living in Asia eating spicy food, but this was another level. In fact, I’d never tasted anything so hot in my life. Coughing and spluttering, I tried to cool my mouth by putting anything in it that I thought might help. I looked at the clock and saw that I only had five minutes before the soup had to be served up and on its way. Unfortunately, my new-found sense of calm in my meditation practice had yet to find its way into the more stressful situations of everyday life. So rather than take it in my stride, I started to panic.
    I hurriedly thought back to the curry houses I used to go to after a night on the town as a student. All I could remember was the idea of balancing out heat with something cool and sweet. I grabbed the milk and poured it in. Nothing. So I tried a bit more. Nothing. And now it was going really runny. I started talking to myself as I was doing it. ‘Yoghurt? Why not, chuck it in.’ Still nothing. ‘Apricot jam? Chuck it in.’ Now that one did seem to work a little, although it gave the soup a very strange flavour. Working on the premise that sweet preserves of any kind were most definitely the way forward, in went the marmalade, honey and even the molasses. It was still burning hot, but at least it was now vaguely edible,