THE GUY'S GUY GUIDE TO OPENING YOUR DOJO

This morning I woke up thinking about a problem that is costing me money by the minute.

Not a catastrophic problem.

Just one of those expensive lessons that occasionally accompanies being a man trying to build something.

I could feel it occupying space in my mind before I'd really started the day.

So I did what I have increasingly learned to do in the mornings.

I puttered.

Made a protein shake. Did the dishes. Started some laundry.

Made the bed. Made coffee.

Let myself wake up without immediately turning the day into an emergency.

Then I realized I hadn't lit the incense yet.

And something interesting happened.

I felt relief before I'd even lit it.

My body knew what was coming.

I have to open the dojo.

That's the phrase that appeared in my head.

Over the last year, somewhat accidentally, I've created a particular environment in my little bungalow where I do some of my best thinking.

There is calming Tai Chi music playing quietly through the Sonos.

Nag Champa burning near the window.

The blinds are positioned so enough morning sunlight gets through to make the room glow without flooding it with light.

The temperature is comfortable.

The room is reasonably tidy.

Then I sit in my favorite chair with coffee.

Sometimes I write.

Sometimes I talk something through.

Sometimes I just sit there and let thoughts arrive.

. . .and then, I let them go.

It isn't quite meditation. I'm not trying to empty my mind or stop thinking.

If anything, I'm creating the conditions under which I can finally hear what my mind has been trying to tell me.

This morning, I realized how powerful this little ritual has become.

Changing the music and lighting the incense didn't solve the problem I'd awakened thinking about.

It changed the man looking at the problem.

My breathing slowed.

The urgency diminished.

My thinking expanded.

And I realized that somewhere along the way, without deliberately setting out to do it, I had conditioned myself.

Certain sounds, smells, light and physical surroundings now send my nervous system important messages.

We're safe here.

You don't need to react.

You can think.

I think every man should build some version of this for himself and this is why. . .

There are bills.

Deadlines.

Difficult conversations.

Marriages.

Divorces.

Businesses.

Aging parents.

Children.

Mistakes.

Decisions.

Things that break.

Things that cost more than you expected.

You need somewhere you can go where those things remain real without being allowed to dictate your internal state.

You need a dojo.

And you don't need another room to build one.

You need a chair and a few deliberate signals.

Find music that settles you.

For me, strangely enough, it's Tai Chi music.

I've experimented with classical music, cinematic scores, electronic music, ambient soundscapes and various meditation playlists. They all have their place.

But nothing consistently takes me where the Tai Chi playlists do.

Find yours.

Here's the important part. . .

Don't play it all the time.

Preserve it.

You are trying to build an association between this particular music and a particular state of mind.

Eventually the first few notes should mean something.

The dojo is open.

Find an olfactory anchor.

Mine is Nag Champa incense.

Ironically, I used to hate it.

I spent my last years of high school in Eugene, Oregon, where I associated that smell with head shops, hippies and the skunky smell of marijuana long before I'd ever smoked it myself.

Then the association changed.

I encountered that smell in college apartments and dorms where people were reading and thinking.

Later in peaceful shops, temples, meditation spaces and sacred places around the world.

The smell stayed the same.

I changed what it meant.

Today, when I smell Nag Champa, some part of me seems to understand immediately. . .

We're going inward.

Your smell doesn't have to be incense.

Burn cedar. Light a candle. Make coffee.

Find whatever smells like peace to you.

If that happens to be a Tundra Yeti Chainsaw Growl Man candle, have at it.

The fragrance doesn't matter.

The association does.

Choose your seat.

Not your couch where you watch television.

Not your desk where you answer emails.

A place associated with this particular kind of thinking.

It should be comfortable enough that you'll stay there, but functional enough that you can journal, read, type or simply sit.

Over time, the chair itself becomes part of the ritual.

Your body learns where it is.

Control what your eyes encounter.

My incense sits in a ceramic pot filled with sand directly in my line of sight near an east-facing window.

In the morning, sunlight catches the smoke as it curls upward.

There is something unexpectedly hypnotic about watching it.

It gives my eyes somewhere to rest without giving my mind something to process.

Lighting matters.

So does clutter.

My place doesn't need to be spotless before I can think.

But I have discovered that I cannot completely enter this state when my visual field is filled with dirty dishes, tools, laundry and adventure gear.

Outer disorder keeps making little withdrawals from my attention.

So before I open the dojo, I restore enough order that my surroundings stop asking things of me.

I’ve come to realize that smaller can actually be better.

There is a reason hermitages, studies, writing cabins, chapels, meditation rooms and monastic cells tend to be contained spaces.

A vast physical environment invites your attention outward.

A contained environment can invite it inward.

You do not need a spectacular house.

You don't even need a room dedicated to this.

Your dojo might be one chair beside one window in a 400-square-foot apartment.

The physical space only needs to become small enough that your inner space can become enormous.

This can be the hardest part.

Don't immediately turn your dojo into another productivity system.

Don't light the candle, start the playlist and then attack your inbox.

Sit down.

Drink your coffee.

Watch the smoke.

Listen.

Let the machinery slow down.

Notice what comes up.

There may be something underneath the problem you've been obsessing over.

There may be an idea you've been too busy to hear.

There may be sadness you've been outrunning.

There may be a solution that couldn't compete with all the noise.

There may also be absolutely nothing.

That is okay too.

You aren't there to manufacture revelation.

You're creating the conditions under which revelation has somewhere to land.

Men are constantly told to create space for themselves.

Meditate.

Journal.

Reflect.

Slow down.

Think.

All good advice.

But for years, I don't think I understood the practical part.

How?

I've learned that sometimes the fastest way to change the environment inside you is to deliberately change the environment around you.

Sound.

Scent.

Light.

Order.

A familiar chair.

A cup of coffee.

A small corner of the world where nothing is demanding anything from you for a little while.

Repeat it often enough and something remarkable begins to happen.

The environment itself becomes an instruction.

The music starts and your shoulders drop.

The aroma burns and your breathing changes.

You sit in the chair and your mind understands where you've brought it.

The world hasn't changed.

The problem hasn't disappeared.

But you have changed the state from which you are meeting it.

That is not indulgence.

That is training.

A dojo, after all, is a place where you practice the Way.

So build yours.

Then, each morning. . .

Open the dojo.