Chapter 4: Thoughts Are Like Clouds

A Train of Thoughts at Midnight

Nora is twenty-seven and works as a graphic designer. It is midnight, and she is lying in bed with the light off. She is tired. She wants to sleep. But a thought arrives: she forgot to reply to an email from a client. That thought brings another: the client was not very happy with her last design. Another follows: perhaps her manager has heard about it. Then another: perhaps her job is less secure than she thought. And then another: if she lost her job, how would she pay the rent? And another: perhaps she should have chosen a different career altogether.

Within five minutes, Nora has travelled from a forgotten email to the collapse of her whole future. Her heart is beating faster. She is wide awake. And she is still lying in exactly the same bed, in exactly the same quiet room, where nothing at all has happened.

She sits up, annoyed with herself. "Stop thinking," she tells her mind firmly. "Just stop." For a moment it is quiet. Then the email thought returns, louder than before, bringing its whole train of carriages behind it. The harder she tries to push it away, the more it seems to come back.

Nora's midnight is something that almost everyone has experienced. Thoughts arrive, link together and carry us away, often to places we would never choose to go. Trying to stop them by force rarely works and often makes them stronger. This chapter is about a different way of meeting thoughts, one that Zen has practised for many centuries: not fighting them, not following them, but seeing them for what they are.

The Mind Makes Thoughts as the Sky Makes Clouds

An image often used in Zen and in many other meditation traditions compares thoughts to clouds and the mind to the sky. Clouds come and go. Some are light and white, some are dark and heavy, some move quickly, some seem to hang for hours. But the sky is not the clouds. However many clouds pass through it, the sky remains open, vast and unharmed. When the clouds move on, the sky is still there.

This image points to something important about thoughts. We usually experience our thoughts as if they were us. When a thought says, "You are going to fail," it feels like our own voice telling us the truth. When a thought says, "That person does not like you," it feels like knowledge. But when we sit quietly and watch, we begin to see that thoughts simply arise. We do not decide to have most of them. They appear, often uninvited, the way clouds appear over a hill.

You can test this for yourself. Sit still for one minute and try to predict your next thought. You will probably find that you cannot. Thoughts arrive from somewhere you cannot see, linked to memories, sounds, feelings in the body and earlier thoughts. They are produced by the mind, as clouds are produced by the weather. They are part of you, but they are not the whole of you, and they are not always true.

This is not a reason to ignore thoughts. Many thoughts are useful, wise and creative. Planning, remembering and imagining are among the mind's greatest gifts. The point is that we can learn to see thoughts as events in the mind, rather than as orders we must obey or facts we must believe. That small shift, from being inside the cloud to watching it pass, can make a great difference.

There is another helpful image used by many meditation teachers: that of a host and guests. The mind is like a house, and thoughts are like guests who knock at the door. A good host does not slam the door on every guest, nor does he hand over the whole house to the first visitor who arrives. He greets each guest, offers a seat if it is right to do so and lets them leave when it is time. The host remains the host. In practice, this means that we can welcome thoughts without being taken over by them.

The Flag and the Wind

There is a short and well-known Zen story about this, found in a thirteenth-century collection of Zen stories called the Gateless Gate, in Japanese the Mumonkan. The collection was compiled in China by a teacher named Wumen Huikai, and it contains forty-eight short cases, each followed by a brief comment and a verse. The story I want to tell is case twenty-nine.

In my own retelling, it goes like this. A flag was flapping in the wind outside a temple. Two monks were watching it and began to argue. One said, "The flag is moving." The other said, "No, the wind is moving." They went back and forth, each sure that he was right. Huineng, the teacher who in the tradition's own history became known as the Sixth Ancestor of Chan, happened to be passing. He said to them, "It is not the wind that is moving, and it is not the flag that is moving. It is your minds that are moving." The two monks were struck with awe.

Like many Zen stories, this one can be understood in many ways, and teachers have discussed it for centuries. One simple way to understand it is this. The two monks were so caught up in their argument, so busy with their own thoughts about the flag, that they had stopped simply seeing the flag. Their minds were flapping more than the flag was. Huineng's words turned their attention from the flag and the wind to the activity of their own minds.

In the collection's own comment on the case, the compiler pushes even further, suggesting that it is not even the mind that moves. This is the kind of turn that Zen stories often take. They do not want us to settle on a neat new idea, even a wise-sounding one, such as "it is all in the mind". They want us to look again, more freshly, at what is actually happening. For our purposes, the story offers a simple and practical reminder: much of our distress comes not from what is happening, but from how our minds are moving about what is happening.

Think of Nora in her bed. The room was still. Nothing was happening. But her mind was flapping wildly, from email to manager to job to rent to career. If Huineng had passed by her window, he might have said, "It is not the email that is moving. It is your mind."

Noticing Without Following

If thoughts are like clouds, what should we do with them in practice? The Zen answer, in its simplest form, is: notice them, do not follow them and return.

Noticing means recognizing that a thought is happening. This sounds obvious, but most of the time we do not notice our thoughts. We are inside them. We are on the train, looking out of the window, not standing on the platform watching it pass. The moment of noticing, "Ah, I am thinking about my job," is the moment we step off the train.

Some people find it helpful, at this moment, to give the thought a simple label. They silently say "thinking", or "planning", or "worrying", or "remembering". The label does not need to be exact. Its purpose is to mark the moment of noticing and to create a little distance. A thought that has been named as "worrying" has a little less power than a thought that is simply believed.

Not following means letting the thought be there without adding more thoughts to it. The first thought, "I forgot to reply to that email," is just a cloud. It is when we follow it with "and the client is unhappy, and my manager will hear, and I will lose my job" that the cloud becomes a storm. In practice, not following means noticing the first thought and then gently turning the attention away from it, back to the breath or the body, without building on it.

Returning, as we have seen, means coming back to something present: the breath, the feeling of sitting, the sounds of the room. You do not need to send the thought away. You simply stop feeding it with your attention. Thoughts that are not fed tend to fade on their own, as clouds drift on when the wind changes.

This whole process, noticing, not following and returning, may happen dozens or hundreds of times in a single sitting. That is perfectly normal. Each time is a small exercise. Over time, many people find that they notice sooner, follow less and return more easily, not only during sitting but during the rest of the day.

Why Fighting Thoughts Does Not Work

Nora's attempt to order her mind to stop thinking is one of the most natural responses to unwanted thoughts. It is also one of the least effective.

A well-known series of psychology experiments explored what happens when people try not to think about something. In one version, people were asked to spend a few minutes thinking aloud while trying not to think about a white bear, and to ring a bell each time the white bear came to mind. Many people found that the white bear kept appearing. In some studies, after the period of trying not to think about it, people thought about the white bear even more than people who had been allowed to think about it freely. Later research has found that this rebound effect does not always appear and varies in strength, but the general lesson has held up well: trying hard to push a thought away often keeps it close.

One explanation is that, in order to check whether you are succeeding in not thinking about something, part of your mind has to keep watching for it, and this watching keeps the thought nearby. Another is that pushing against a thought gives it importance. The mind seems to learn: "This thought must be dangerous, since we are working so hard to avoid it."

Zen practice takes a very different approach. It does not ask us to push thoughts away. It asks us to let them come and go, without either grasping them or rejecting them. This is not always simple to do, but it is much easier than fighting. It is like the difference between trying to hold back a river with your hands and simply stepping onto the bank and watching it flow.

Many modern approaches to mental well-being have arrived at similar ideas. Some forms of talking therapy, for example, teach people to notice thoughts as passing mental events and to hold them more lightly, rather than either obeying them or arguing with them at length. This is one place where an old tradition and newer psychology seem to point in a similar direction, even though they use different words.

Thoughts Are Not Always Facts

One of the most freeing discoveries that people make through sitting is that thoughts are not always facts. This sounds simple, but its effects can be large.

Consider a thought like "Everyone thinks I am boring." When it appears, it feels like a statement about the world. But if we look at it closely, we see that it is a guess, often based on very little evidence, and coloured by our mood. On a cheerful day, the same situation might produce a completely different thought: "People seemed to enjoy talking with me." Neither thought is simply a fact. Both are interpretations made by a mind in a particular state.

Zen does not ask us to replace negative thoughts with positive ones. It asks us to see all thoughts more clearly, as movements of the mind. When we see a thought as a thought, we can ask a simple question: is this true, or is this just the weather in my mind today? Often the answer is that we do not know, and that is all right. We do not have to believe every thought. We do not even have to disbelieve it. We can simply let it be a cloud.

This does not mean that thoughts never matter. If a thought says, "I left the stove on," it may be wise to check. If a thought says, "I am treating my friend unkindly," it may be wise to listen. The skill is not to ignore thoughts, but to be able to choose which ones deserve action, which ones deserve a second look and which ones can simply drift past.

It can help to notice how often the same thought returns with the same words. Many of us have a small collection of familiar thoughts that visit again and again, such as "I never get anything right" or "Something bad is about to happen." When you notice one of these old visitors, you might even greet it with a little humour: "Ah, it is you again." This is not mockery. It is recognition. A thought that is recognized as an old habit of the mind has less power than a thought that seems new and urgent every time it arrives.

Three Lives and Their Thoughts

Hamza is fifty and runs a small bakery. His mind is a constant stream of lists: flour to order, ovens to check, staff schedules, bills, customers' special requests. Even at home, the lists keep running. He begins to sit for ten minutes each morning before going to the bakery, simply noticing his thoughts and labelling each one silently: "planning", "planning", "worrying", "planning". At first, the labels come almost every second. After a few weeks, he notices that there are sometimes small gaps between them, moments of quiet in which he simply hears the birds outside. He also notices that the same few worries come back every day. He writes them down on a card after sitting, deals with what he can and lets the rest be. His mind is still busy, but he feels that he is no longer being dragged behind it.

Ayumi is nineteen and in her first year at university. She has a harsh inner critic, a voice that comments on everything she does: "That was a stupid question." "Everyone else understands this." "You do not belong here." For a long time, she believed this voice completely. In a meditation group run by the student counselling service, she learns to notice these thoughts as thoughts and to label them, half smiling, "the critic again". The critic does not disappear. But Ayumi begins to see it as one voice among many, rather than as the truth about her. She also talks with a counsellor about where the critic came from, which helps her even more.

Obinna is seventy-two and spends many hours thinking about the past: chances he did not take, words he said in anger, people he lost touch with. These thoughts often leave him sad and heavy. His grandson, who practises meditation, suggests that he sit for a few minutes each afternoon in the garden and, when a memory arrives, simply notice it, say "remembering" and return to the sounds of the garden. Obinna is sceptical. But he finds that, when he does not follow the memories into long stories of regret, they pass more quickly, and that some of them, when he sees them clearly, contain warmth as well as sadness. He decides to write to one old friend he lost touch with.

Nora, from the beginning of this chapter, tries something new the next time her midnight train of thoughts begins. Instead of ordering her mind to stop, she notices: "There is the email thought." She does not follow it. She feels her breath and the weight of the blanket. The thought returns, with its carriages. She notices again: "Worrying." She returns again. It takes a while, and she does not fall asleep at once. But the storm never quite builds. In the morning, she replies to the email in two minutes.

In each of these lives, the thoughts did not stop. What changed was the relationship to them. Hamza saw his lists as lists, Ayumi saw her critic as a voice, Obinna saw his memories as memories and Nora saw her midnight worries as weather. That change of relationship is the heart of this chapter.

Practical Steps

First, practise noticing. During sitting, and during ordinary moments in the day, try to catch the moment when you realize that you have been lost in thought. Treat that moment as a small success.

Second, use simple labels. When you notice a thought, try labelling it with one word, such as "thinking", "planning", "worrying" or "remembering". Keep the label light and kind, not critical.

Third, do not follow the train. When a thought appears, notice it, and then gently return to the breath or the body before adding the next carriage. The first thought is a cloud. The following thoughts make the storm.

Fourth, stop fighting. When an unwanted thought keeps returning, try allowing it to be there instead of pushing it away. You might even say, "You can stay if you like," and then return to your breath. Often, a thought that is allowed to stay soon leaves.

Fifth, ask whether it is weather or fact. When a thought feels very convincing, especially a painful one, ask yourself whether it is a fact or an interpretation coloured by your mood. You do not need to answer. Just asking can loosen its grip.

Sixth, write down what needs action. If the same practical worries return again and again, write them on paper after your sitting and decide what, if anything, you will do about them. Then let the paper hold them, so your mind does not have to.

A Short Practice: Watching Clouds

This practice takes about ten minutes. It works best after a few days of practising with the breath, so that you have a steady anchor to return to.

Sit in your usual posture, upright and comfortable. Spend the first two or three minutes settling, feeling the body sitting and the breath moving. Count a few breaths if that helps.

Now, instead of keeping your attention only on the breath, open it a little to include your thoughts. Imagine that your mind is a wide sky and that your thoughts are clouds passing through it. You are not trying to have thoughts or to stop them. You are simply watching what appears.

When a thought arises, notice it and give it a light label: "planning", "remembering", "worrying", "imagining" or simply "thinking". Then let it pass. Do not follow it into its story. If you find that you have followed a thought and been carried away, notice that too. Say silently, "Carried away," and return to watching the sky.

You may notice that some thoughts are light and pass quickly, while others are heavy and seem to stay. You may notice that some thoughts return again and again. You may notice moments when there seem to be no thoughts at all, only a quiet openness. Whatever you notice, let it be as it is.

If at any point the practice feels too open, or you feel overwhelmed by thoughts, return your attention to the breath for a few minutes until you feel steady again. The breath is always there as a safe harbour.

At the end, let go of watching and simply sit for a few breaths. Then open your eyes fully, move gently and return to your day. Throughout the day, you may find that you occasionally catch a thought and see it, briefly, as a cloud passing through.

Questions People Often Ask

"Will my thoughts ever stop?" Probably not completely, and that is not the aim. Even people who have practised for decades have thoughts during sitting. What tends to change is the space around the thoughts. They may become less frequent at times, less sticky and less believed. Some people do experience periods of great quiet during sitting, but these come and go, and chasing them only makes them harder to find.

"What if my thoughts are very painful or frightening?" For most everyday thoughts, the approach in this chapter is helpful. But if your thoughts are very painful, such as thoughts about harming yourself, or if they are linked to past trauma, please do not try to deal with them alone through meditation. Talk with someone you trust, and seek help from a doctor or another qualified professional. If you feel that you might act on thoughts of harming yourself, contact your local emergency services or a crisis helpline straight away. Meditation can then be a support alongside that care.

"Is noticing thoughts the same as ignoring my problems?" No. Noticing a thought does not mean pretending the problem does not exist. It means seeing the thought clearly, so that you can respond to the real problem wisely rather than being carried away by the storm of thoughts around it. Nora still needed to reply to the email. But she did not need to rehearse the end of her career at midnight in order to do it.

"Can I watch my thoughts while I am busy with other things?" In a light way, yes. During the day, you can occasionally pause and ask, "What is my mind doing right now?" You may find that it is planning, worrying, replaying or simply attending to the task in front of you. This brief check takes only a moment, and it brings a little of the spaciousness of sitting into ordinary life. You do not need to watch your thoughts constantly. An occasional glance at the sky is enough.

Chapter Summary

Thoughts arise in the mind as clouds arise in the sky. We do not choose most of them, and they are not always true. When we see them as passing events, rather than as orders or facts, they have less power over us.

In the Gateless Gate, case twenty-nine, Huineng tells two monks arguing about a flag that neither the flag nor the wind is moving, but their minds. Much of our distress comes from the movement of our minds about events, rather than from the events themselves. Fighting thoughts tends to keep them close; noticing them, labelling them lightly, not following them and returning to the present is a gentler and more effective way.

In the next chapter, we turn from the inner world of thoughts to the outer world of tasks, and to a Zen story about an old cook who knew the value of doing one thing at a time.