When my first yoga teacher told me that meditation would do me good, I had two thoughts–both terrifying–in rapid succession. First was, “I’ll get bored.” Second: “I’ll miss something.” It turned out that I was sometimes bored, but I lived through it, gaining some patience in the process. And I don’t think I’ve ever missed anything except a few phone calls I could return later.

We live in a glittery world with lots to attract our attention. Those of us who find the notion of meditation least appealing—we who are especially fond of action, momentum, excitement, and adrenaline—have an even greater need for this quieting practice than those calm people we’ve never understood much. We devotees of the high life can use, perhaps more than anyone else, a practice that can still the thoughts, awaken the intuition, and lead to peace of mind and freedom of spirit.

We know that meditation leads to improved physical and mental functioning, that regular meditators suffer less from chronic disease and take fewer sick days. They’re even “younger” physiologically than non-meditators. You’d think that with all those benefits, the fact that it doesn’t cost a penny, and that meditation requires no formal training, we’d all be doing it. Only those fears — “I might be bored, and maybe I’ll miss something” — stand between us and the Great Peace the practice promises.

Meditation is simply bringing your awareness to a single point. The point might be the image of a holy personage, the light of a candle, the breath going in and out of your nostrils, a mantra (sound vibration), or an affirmation of line of scripture. I personally like “All is well” (inhale on “all is,” exhale on “well”), because it does double duty: It gives me a focal point and convinces that there is a level of consciousness at which things are not as all-fired awful as some would want us to believe.

The secret of meditation is returning, returning to the point of awareness. Thoughts come. You return. The thoughts are enticing. Interesting. Fascinating. But you don’t go with them. You return to the image or the breath or the mantra. This is such a metaphor, I think, for living a charmed life during the 23-and-a-half hours we’re not meditating. It’s a process of turning away from anger, back to center; from self-defeat, back to starting over; from fear, back to knowing that we’re loved and cared for, no matter what.

Sometimes meditation has immediate rewards. You walk away feeling more energetic or more positive, or you get some flash of intuition you can use in a practical situation. Much of the time, however, you don’t feel anything. That doesn’t mean nothing is happening. You’re learning focus, you’re gaining control of the ego-mind that likes to jump from concept to idea to memory to yearning. And at times you touch the place of peace — the one that passes understanding — that is so worth being bored and missing the phone call.