How multitasking leads to
ignorance
Andrew Olendzki
tricycle
When the Buddha says, “I know of no single thing
more conducive to great harm than an unrestrained mind,” I think he
is referring, in part, to the current penchant for multitasking.
When the mind tries to do several things at once, it does not do
any of them very well. This is an empirical fact proven by numerous
experiments, and it is easy to test out for yourself: try texting a
message while catching the latest baseball scores on the radio and
discussing some recent relationship difficulty with your
partner.
It is not that the mind is incapable of such feats
of parallel processing—it’s just not a very healthy thing to do.
One image in the Pali texts compares the flow of consciousness to a
mountain stream flowing swiftly downhill. If there are several
outlets through which the water is dispersed, when it reaches the
plain it will be little more than a trickle. Mental energy is
finite, and our mind is diminished in direct proportion to how much
its attention is fractured. The problem is not so much attention
deficit as it is attention dispersion, when the available attention
is spread thin. Just like water spreading out to cover a surface,
the wider the expanse the shallower the depth. By trying to do many
things at once, we train the mind to process information in ways
that may well be effective, but for a price: we can no longer be
deeply aware of what we are doing.
Of course, being deeply aware of what we are doing
is the very crux of the Buddhist teachings, which is why the
practice of meditation is so important for unifying and
consolidating the mind. The Buddha said, “I know of no single thing
more conducive to great welfare than a developed mind.”
Concentration practice, known as samadhi, consists of
gathering together and placing the mind upon an object of the
senses, or upon a mental object. We do this reflexively all the
time, but in Buddhist practice we are invited to do it with
deliberate intention, with sustained energy, and with consistency
over multiple mind moments.
It is natural for the mind to resist such discipline
and to wander off to any aspect of experience that is new, unusual,
or apparently more interesting. Early humans did not survive in
nature by ignoring incoming stimuli; like birds or chipmunks, we
are more accustomed to glancing around constantly, attentive to
both threat and opportunity. But most of us no longer live in a
hostile natural environment, and the threats that confront us in
the meditation hall are usually manufactured by our minds.
Cultivating mental focus, consistently returning to a primary
object, and settling into ever-deeper states of tranquility helps
to gradually reign in the mind’s wandering in a way that
consolidates the power of awareness.
According to the Buddhist way of looking at things,
each moment of consciousness is a precious gift. Awareness itself
is the primary currency of the human condition, and as such it
deserves to be spent carefully. Sitting quietly in a serene
environment, letting go of the various petty disturbances that roil
and diminish consciousness, and experiencing as fully as possible
the poignancy of this fleeting moment—this is an enterprise of deep
intrinsic value, an aesthetic experience beyond words. The more
unified, stable, luminous, and attentive the mind is at this
moment, the more profound the experience.
Our contemporary view of consciousness is so
different from this, so much less. It is as if the accomplishment
of mere tasks is of primary value, while the quality of awareness
with which these tasks are undertaken is irrelevant. One can hurtle
through the day doing this, that, and the other thing—often
simultaneously—with great busyness and pressure, only to relax in
the evening by trying to keep up with images that flash across the
television screen multiple times per second. For many of us, the
deep states of tranquil alertness of which the mind is capable are
entirely unknown.
Yes, the chattering, cavorting, cacophonous monkey
mind is capable of clever deeds and great mischief, and these
things are not entirely without value. But the mind is also capable
of settling down, gathering its power, and turning its gaze upon
itself, and in such instances it can come to know itself deeply.
Buddhists call this gaining wisdom, and this too is a valuable
thing to do.
More importantly, perhaps, it is a healthy thing to
do. It is now well known that a restful body is healthier than a
body in constant states of stress. It is becoming better known that
a restful mind is healthier than a mind beset with anxiety,
compulsion, addiction, and other agitating states. It may even turn
out to be the case that a restful society is healthier than one
beset with tension, prejudice, exploitation, and war. I hope we
have a chance to find out someday.
Meanwhile, peace is accessible. This, too, is an
empirically demonstrable fact: try turning off the radio, the
phone, the computer, and the TV; sit comfortably in a quiet place,
relaxing the body and mind; mindfully breathe in, mindfully breathe
out, and abandon—just for now—any thought or response that tends to
disperse and divide your awareness. As you do this successfully for
several moments in a row, you will find the mind gradually becoming
more tranquil, more focused, more clear, and more powerful. The
Buddha might have said: “I know of no single thing healthier than
doing one thing at a time.”