Breakthroughs: Lovingkindness at Wrightsville Prison

It was only the second time this group of men had gathered for meditation at the Wrightsville unit in central Arkansas. The first week had gone okay other than a major disruption when a guard forced a group of men headed to the gym for basketball to stop and join our meditation class. Turns out it’s really hard to force people to meditate, especially when they just want to shoot some hoops.

Nevertheless, a group of 25 or so returned for our second week. We were encouraged by the large number and did our best to make one large circle with the chairs. But as the small chapel filled up, we were forced to add some chairs wherever they would fit. One older gentleman came in late and quickly grabbed a seat behind the circle and right beside the door. Perhaps he wanted a quick getaway in case meditation wasn’t his thing. He spoke to no one, and wore a firm “Don’t-even-try-to-talk-to-me” glare on his scruffy face.

After a few introductory thoughts we walked the group through lovingkindness meditation and explained that it always starts with extending lovingkindness to ourselves.

May I be well.
May I be happy.
May I be healthy.
May I be safe.
May I be loved.
May I be at peace.

Next, we repeat the phrases toward someone with whom we have positive feelings, then someone toward whom we have neutral feelings, and, finally, someone toward whom we have hard feelings. Each time we encouraged the men to imagine that the person they were thinking about had actually come into the room and taken a seat right in front of them. So close that their knees touched.

After about 15 minutes, we reached the end of the meditation and opened the floor for discussion. As is usually the case, most of the men had never practiced this before and their expressions were a mixture of joy, calm, and utter shock at the intensity of it. They took turns talking about the various people who came to mind throughout the practice. Some comments drew laughter (like the man who said he thought a different an ex-girlfriend for all three people). But eventually the scruffy man in the back corner by the door took the conversation in a sobering direction.

Throughout the discussion time I watched as his eyes welled more and more with tears. His face was flushed. He couldn’t sit still. Every time he tried to get himself together, the emotions pushed through even harder. Finally he raised his hand and the room went quiet.

“I thought about my son,” he said.

And then paused several moments to collect himself.

“He got picked up for using drugs last year while I was locked up in here. He was only 19. The officers didn’t know he had overdosed so they put him in a holding cell until he could sober up. When they went to check on him he was dead.”

The room was silent.

“For the last year, I couldn’t think about my son without feeling totally ashamed of myself. I’m his dad and I should have been there with him. But I couldn’t save him because I couldn’t even save myself.”

The tears could no longer hold back, and he began to sob.

“It was hard for me to do the lovingkindness thing for myself because I still hate myself for letting my son die. But when we thought about somebody we love, I thought about him. It was like he was in the room. And he smiled at me and he wasn’t mad at me.”

His sobs began to dissolve and he was able to speak clearly again.

“It’s the first time I’ve thought about my son since he died that I didn’t feel overwhelming shame and guilt for not being there when he needed me.”

Everyone was silent.

“Oh,” he said, “and I guess I didn’t do it right because I didn’t think about the last two people.”

Everyone laughed.

“You’re forgiven,” we said.

Since that day all programs have been shut down at Wrightsville and prisons across the state due to Covid-19. We don’t know what happened to the man or what impact that night had on him. But we know it was a breakthrough - a moment in which he saw the world in a slightly different way. And in that brief, tiny moment, powerful transformation can take place.