Sitting, Walking, Painting, Swimming: How I Practice Happiness as explained / Q&A by Intelligence Being

In my What Happiness Looks Like post, I wrote about happiness not as a finish line but as a way of moving through the world—stroke by stroke, brushstroke by brushstroke, moment by moment. In my 10K Dashboard post, I gave that journey a visible structure through the discipline of training and the reality of a long ocean goal. This post sits between those two: it is about how sitting meditation, walking meditation, abstract painting, and ocean swimming have become one practice in my life.

When I write about my 10K Dashboard, it can sound like a race plan, but that’s not what it is for me. I’m not training to beat anyone, not even an old version of myself. The long goal is just a visible structure that lets me keep practicing one simple movement: I drift, I notice, I return. In the water, that might look like realizing I’m lost in pace and distance, and quietly coming back to the feel of water on my cheek or the sound of my exhale. The dashboard gives me numbers; these cues bring back reality.

None of this is about competition. In the studio and in the ocean, I’m not trying to win; I’m trying to be awake. The 10K goal, the training blocks, even the canvases themselves are like rafts—useful structures that help me cross, but not the shore. The “shore” is much simpler: one honest breath, one brushstroke, one stroke in the sea where I notice that I’d left my life and I come back. That returning is what I mean by “awakening reality” and “bringing back reality” in my ordinary days.

It’s about how you live this one life, moment by moment—not about winning, proving, or earning. It’s about learning to be truly present, at peace, and of real use to others right in the middle of ordinary days.[stillwatermpc]

Not a finish line, but a way of moving

Thầy Thích Nhất Hạnh keeps saying happiness is not a destination or reward; it’s how you walk the path right now. When you train, paint, or meditate this way, the point is not to arrive at some final achievement, but to let each breath, stroke, and brushstroke be lived with awareness and kindness. You already say this in your post: happiness is not a finish line but “a way of moving through the world—stroke by stroke, brushstroke by brushstroke, moment by moment.”[currently-viewed-page][suesblues]

What your practice is really doing

For you, the 10K Dashboard, the abstract paintings, and the daily meditations are visible structures that help you keep waking up to reality instead of getting lost in comparison, competition, and money stories. They let you practice:[perplexity]

• Being present in your own body instead of living in abstractions.[plumvillage]

• Being peaceful instead of constantly running after the next goal.[goodreads]

• Being of benefit—like the Eucharistic priest—by bringing “life and reality” back to yourself and your community through how you swim, paint, listen, and write.[perplexity]

In that sense, your practice is about creating a life that feels honest, awake, and deeply connected, whether or not it ever produces a medal or a dollar.

One way to test this in yourself is to ask, in the middle of a swim or painting session: “If no one ever saw this, and it earned me nothing, does it still matter because of who it’s helping me become right now?”

Would you like help turning that question into a short, one‑line refrain you can reuse on your dashboard and in your studio—almost like a private koan for “what it’s all about” in this season?

The stillness underneath the training

On the surface, my 10K dashboard looks like data: distance, pace, heart rate, safety gates, and the feedback I get from FORM goggles and my watch. But underneath all of that is something quieter that began on a meditation cushion.

When I sit, I follow my breath and watch my mind wander, then I practice returning. That small movement—notice and return—is the same one I use in the ocean when fatigue, doubt, or anxiety appears during a long swim. It is also the same movement I use in the studio when a painting enters that awkward, uncertain middle stage and I want to judge it too quickly.

Without that stillness, a dashboard can become just another machine for self-criticism. With it, the numbers become information instead of accusation, and that difference matters.

Walking as transition

Walking meditation is how I bring the cushion into the rest of my day. When I walk mindfully, I feel each step, the transfer of weight, the contact between foot and ground, and the rhythm of my breath in motion.

That makes walking a bridge. Before painting, a short mindful walk helps me arrive in the studio more awake and less scattered. Before swimming, the walk from the car to the shore becomes its own ritual: cool morning air, sand underfoot, the sound of the surf, and the body preparing itself to enter cold open water with respect instead of hurry.

In that sense, walking meditation is not separate from happiness. It is one of the simplest forms of it.

Painting as visual meditation

Abstract painting is where meditation becomes visible to me. I stand before a blank canvas, settle myself, and listen for the first color or gesture that feels true.

Then the painting unfolds as a conversation:

• I make a mark.

• I pause and really look.

• I notice the judgments that arise and let them pass.

• I respond with the next mark.

Because the work is abstract, I am not trying to reproduce the world exactly. I am trying to meet it inwardly—through color, tension, release, texture, and rhythm. That is one reason painting feels so close to meditation for me: both ask for attention without forcing certainty.

This also connects back to What Happiness Looks Like. Happiness, as I’ve been trying to understand it, is not constant pleasure. It is the willingness to remain present with what is here and still answer it honestly. Painting lets me practice that in color forms and movements on a flat surface.

The ocean as moving meditation

The ocean is where all of these threads come together. When I enter the water at La Jolla Shores or Moonlight Beach, I am not just starting a workout. I am stepping into a moving field of attention.

The first contact matters: cold water on the skin, shifting sand under my feet, small surf asking whether I am relaxed or tense. Then the rhythm begins—stroke, stroke, breath—and the swim becomes a meditation made of repetition and adjustment.

I use the same anchors there that I use in formal meditation:

• Breath.

• Bodily sensation.

• Repetition.

• Return.

The open water adds something the cushion and the studio do not: unpredictability. Current, glare, chop, and distance all ask me to adapt without losing composure. In my own training, that has become especially real as I’ve built toward longer swims, set fueling around 55, 90, and 120 minutes, and learned how much calm and preparation matter over time.

This is where the 10K Dashboard becomes something more than numbers. Every session logged is also a record of attention, patience, and trust.

One practice

So for me these are no longer four separate activities. Sitting meditation teaches me how to return. Walking meditation teaches me how to carry that return into motion. Abstract painting lets me see it. Ocean swimming asks me to live it in real time, under effort, in a world I do not control.

That is also why this post belongs with both What Happiness Looks Like and 10K Dashboard. One explores the meaning of happiness, the other tracks the long discipline of aspiration, and this one describes the practices that make both possible.

On the cushion, happiness looks like breath. On the sidewalk, it looks like one deliberate step after another. On the canvas, it looks like color finding form movement and tension. In the ocean, it looks like settling into rhythm and trusting the next stroke.

Awakening reality

Thầy wrote:

One time I meditated on the meaning of the Eucharist. Suddenly I found that message of Jesus so clear. The disciples had been following Him and had seen Him, had the chance to look at Him, to look in His eyes, to see Him smile, to see Him in reality. But it seems to me that they were not capable of being in real contact with that marvelous reality. Then He broke bread and poured the wine and said, "This is My flesh, My blood, Drink it, take it, eat it, and you will have life eternal" I think the message is so clear, so clear to a Buddhist monk. We eat a lot, we drink a lot, but what do we eat? We eat phantoms, we drink ghosts. We don't eat real bread-reality. We don't drink real wine. But if Jesus said, "This is My flesh, this is My blood," it's a very drastic way of awakening man from forgetfulness, from ignorance.

So I think when you perform the rite of Eucharist you have a role that is very similar to the act of Jesus. Your role is to bring back life and reality to a community that is participating in the worship. There have been times when I was not able to see the awakening happening in the Eucharist. Then I said, "There must be something wrong, It's not because you perform the correct act and say the correct words that a miracle happens. No. You have to be able to awaken reality, to bring back reality. And that depends on who you are as a person depends on your being life.

Swim cue 1: “Water on the cheek”

Purpose: Shift from “doing the workout” to actually being in the ocean.

How to use:

• Every time you notice you’re lost in numbers, fear, or story, gently think: “water on the cheek.”

• Feel the exact temperature, pressure, and movement of the water on your face and goggles for 2–3 breaths.

What this does:

• It “awakens reality” by bringing you out of abstract concern and back into the vivid, felt world of this stroke in this water.

• It “brings back reality” for the whole swim: you become the person whose very presence in the water is real and alive, not just mechanically executing a training plan.

Swim cue 2: “Notice and return”

Purpose: Make your Eucharist insight identical to your FORM‑goggles practice.

How to use:

• When doubt or fatigue shows up, silently name it once: “doubt,” “tension,” or “fear of pace.”

• Then, without arguing with it, return to one anchor—rhythm of stroke–stroke–breath, or the sound of bubbles in your exhale.

What this does:

• This is your “rite”: not the perfect stroke, but the small, sincere act of noticing and returning.

• You are “bringing back reality” each time you return: reality = breath, body, water, horizon, not the swarm of commentary about them.

Painting cue 1: “One true contact”

Purpose: Enter the canvas as a living relationship, not a performance.

How to use:

• Before each new mark, ask very quietly: “What is one true contact right now?”

• Let “true contact” be something concrete: the weight of the brush in your fingers, the drag of bristles on gesso, the way a color feels in your chest the moment you look at it.

What this does:

• It awakens reality by grounding you in the physical, emotional truth of this exact brushstroke, not in a concept of what the painting should be.

• It brings back reality when you get lost in judgment: instead of fixing the painting from the outside, you re‑enter the relationship from the inside, through contact.

Painting cue 2: “Mark, look, return”

Purpose: Turn the whole session into visual meditation, as in the post.

How to use:

• Treat each cycle as: “mark → look → return.” You make a mark, you really look, then you return to the painting as it is now.

• When harsh judgment arises (“this is wrong,” “I ruined it”), name it once, let it pass, and simply look again at what is actually on the canvas. Then respond with the next mark.

What this does:

• The “return” is where you awaken reality: you see what is actually there, with less overlay.

• Over time, the painting itself becomes like Eucharist: not magic because the technique is right, but transformative because you keep returning with a living, honest presence.

You can treat both your painting and your ocean swims as “mini‑Eucharists”: specific moments where you deliberately stop doing the form mechanically and let one vivid sensory cue bring reality back right now. Below are concrete “awakening reality” cues you can layer onto what you’re already doing in the water and at the canvas.[perplexity]

Core idea: awaken, don’t decorate

Thầy Thích Nhất Hạnh’s Eucharist passage is clear that the rite only becomes real when the presider’s being is awake enough to “bring back life and reality,” not just say the correct words. For you, the “rite” is the interval set, the long pull to the pier, or the structured painting session. The cue’s job is not to add something spiritual on top, but to strip you back to one honest contact with the present.[perplexity]

In both media, a good cue is concrete, sensory, and repeatable. When you notice you’ve drifted into abstraction (pace, distance, story; composition, success/failure), you return to that cue for a few breaths or marks, then release it again.[perplexity]

Swimming: more awakening cues

You already have “water on the cheek” as a strong reality anchor. Here are additional cues tuned for your long San Diego ocean swims and for using the FORM Pro 2.0 without getting trapped in the numbers.[triathlete]

1. “Weight of the head in the water”

• Cue: As the face returns to neutral after the breath, feel the exact weight and suspension of your head in the water for 2–3 strokes.

• Awakens reality by: Shifting you from “pilot‑in‑the‑air” to “organism in the sea,” noticing buoyancy, temperature, and subtle currents on the scalp and neck.[perplexity]

• When to use: Any time anxiety spikes about conditions or distance; also right after checking your FORM display, to re‑embody the data in sensation rather than thought.[triathlete]

2. “Sound of the exhale”

• Cue: For one buoy‑to‑buoy segment, attend only to the sound of your exhale in the water—bubbling, rhythm, length.

• Awakens reality by: Turning breath into an actual event instead of an idea that you are “controlling your breathing.” This connects directly with Thich Nhat Hanh’s focus on returning to breath to re‑enter the present moment.[facebook]

• When to use: Middle third of the swim, where mind‑wandering and boredom tend to appear.

3. “Palm pressure map”

• Cue: For 20–30 strokes, track where you feel pressure on each palm and forearm through the catch and pull—front, middle, heel of the hand, forearm.

• Awakens reality by: Making each stroke a conversation with the water rather than an abstract count or pace value.[perplexity]

• When to use: Whenever your stroke starts feeling choppy, or when the FORM display tempts you to chase pace instead of connection.

4. “Sky glimpse at the breath”

• Cue: Every time you turn to breathe to your “easy” side, let your eye consciously register one tiny sky detail: a particular color band, cloud edge, or brightness level. Name it silently: “grey band,” “thin cloud,” “bright white.”

• Awakens reality by: Reconnecting surface and depth—remembering you are in a real place (La Jolla, Moonlight, San Dieguito) under a real sky, not in a mental simulation of your workout.[perplexity]

• When to use: Early in the swim, to settle; and again if you hit a mental low patch.

5. “Temperature edge at the neck”

• Cue: Notice exactly where the water meets skin at the back of the neck, along the suit or skin boundary. Feel the temperature line and slight pressure.

• Awakens reality by: Giving you a precise boundary between “me” and “ocean” that is constantly shifting, like a living Eucharistic “host” dissolving into you and you into it.[cac]

• When to use: At turn‑points, or when you pause briefly for fueling—use 3–5 breaths just on this.

6. “One metric, one body check”

You can enlist your FORM goggles themselves as an awakening device rather than a distraction.[eu.formswim]

• Cue: Each time the display changes a primary metric (distance tick, pace split, or timer milestone you’ve set), pair it immediately with one body‑based check:

  • Distance → “Where do I feel the water most strongly right now?”

  • Pace → “Is my jaw relaxed?”

  • Time → “Can I soften my kick by 5% for the next 10 strokes?”

• Awakens reality by: Making every glance at numbers a trigger to return to embodied presence, not to chase or judge. This is exactly the shift from “correct words” to “living presence.”[perplexity]

Painting: more awakening cues

Your abstract painting already functions as a field where you notice drift and return. Here are cues that make “awakening reality” operational in the studio.[perplexity]

1. “Weight of the brush”

• Cue: Before a new sequence of marks, place the brush or tool on the surface and feel its exact weight and drag for 1–2 slow strokes with almost no paint.

• Awakens reality by: Bringing attention out of the image you want and into the literal contact between hand, tool, and surface—what’s actually happening.[pauseandbreathe.co]

• When to use: At the start of a session; anytime you see yourself “fixing” rather than exploring.

2. “Temperature of the color”

• Cue: When you load paint, name one felt quality before you place it: “cool blue,” “hot red,” “muddy green,” “tired grey.” Let that label come from the body, not color theory.

• Awakens reality by: Tying each color choice to an immediate somatic response, rather than to an abstract composition rule.[plogix]

• When to use: In transitions between color families, or when a piece feels dead and over‑managed.

3. “Micro‑sound to mark”

Borrowing from mindfulness‑art exercises that translate ambient sound directly into marks: you hear a sound, respond with a stroke.[youtube][pauseandbreathe.co]

• Cue: For 2–3 minutes, each distinct sound in your environment (car, bird, wave, human voice) gets one quick mark—shape, direction, or color that feels right in that instant.

• Awakens reality by: Making the painting a live seismograph of the present environment, not a private echo chamber of thoughts.[youtube]

• When to use: As a warm‑up, or mid‑painting when you feel stuck; it re‑opens your ears and hand to “now.”

4. “Texture under the fingertip”

• Cue: Once in a while, put the brush down and gently run one fingertip over a small area of the surface—thick, thin, smooth, rough—and then make the next mark as an answer to that texture.

• Awakens reality by: Giving the painting a physical, haptic presence like sand underfoot on your walks; image becomes less important than the honesty of touch.[pauseandbreathe.co]

• When to use: Late in a piece, when you’re deciding whether it is finished.

5. “Three breaths, one glance”

• Cue: Step back, stand still, and take three natural breaths while looking at the whole painting. On the third exhale, let your eyes land where they want to land. That spot gets the next mark or adjustment—no debating.

• Awakens reality by: Trusting the organism’s intelligence over the conceptual planner; similar to trusting the next stroke in the ocean even when conditions shift.[perplexity]

• When to use: Any time you catch yourself looping over decisions (“too much red? move that line?”).

How cues fit your “one practice” frame

In your “Sitting, Walking, Painting, Swimming” piece, the through‑line is noticing you’ve drifted and coming back—breath, step, brushstroke, swim stroke. These cues simply put more handles on that same movement, so you can feel how the Eucharistic “bringing back reality” is happening a dozen times inside a single 5K swim or 90‑minute painting session.[perplexity]

You might treat each session as having one primary cue and one backup. For example, today in the ocean: primary = “sound of the exhale,” backup = “sky glimpse at the breath.” In the studio: primary = “weight of the brush,” backup = “three breaths, one glance.” That keeps the practice simple and alive rather than turning it into another complex system.

Would you like me to help you design a specific “practice box” for your blog—say, one sidebar listing 3 swim cues and 3 painting cues in your own first‑person language that you can paste directly into the post you’re editing now?

Practice Box: Awakening Reality in Painting and Swimming

When I say “awakening reality,” I mean something very simple: I notice I’ve drifted into my head, and I come back to one honest sensation right now. These are the cues I return to most often in the ocean and at the canvas.

In the ocean

• Water on the cheekSomewhere in every long swim, I get lost in numbers, fear, or story. When I notice that, I quietly say to myself: “water on the cheek.” For 2–3 breaths, I feel the exact temperature and pressure of the water on my face and goggles, and let that sensation bring me back into the sea I am actually in, not the one in my head.

• Sound of the exhaleDuring the middle of a set, I sometimes devote one buoy‑to‑buoy segment to the sound of my exhale. I listen to the bubbles leaving my nose and mouth, the rhythm and length of each breath out. For those strokes, the goal is not pace or distance; the goal is simply to hear this breath and know I am alive in this body, in this water, right now.

• Sky at the breathEach time I turn to breathe to my easy side, I let my eye catch one small detail of the sky—a band of grey, the edge of a cloud, a flash of brightness—and silently name it. “Thin cloud.” “Bright white.” That tiny act of naming reminds me that I am not inside a screen or a data field; I am under a real San Diego sky, moving through a real morning with every stroke.

At the canvas

• Weight of the brushBefore I launch into a passage, I sometimes slow down and feel the weight of the brush on the surface for one or two almost‑empty strokes. I pay attention to drag, resistance, and how my hand actually meets the canvas. That simple contact cuts through my ideas about the painting and returns me to what is really happening between my body, the tool, and the surface.

• Temperature of the colorWhen I load paint, I pause for a heartbeat to feel the “temperature” of the color in my body: cool, hot, muddy, tired, electric. I might quietly name it—“cool blue,” “hot red”—and then make the next mark from that felt sense rather than from theory. In that moment, the color stops being an abstract choice and becomes a direct expression of how this moment actually feels.

• Three breaths, one glanceWhenever I find myself over‑thinking, I step back, stand still, and take three natural breaths facing the whole painting. On the third exhale, I notice where my eyes land on their own. That spot gets the next mark or adjustment—no debate. It is my way of trusting that reality is already speaking in my looking, and my job is to answer it with one honest stroke.

Across both ocean and canvas, the movement is the same: I drift, I notice, I return. These small cues are how I practice “bringing back reality” in the middle of ordinary training sessions and studio days. They turn each swim and each painting into its own quiet liturgy