After photographing the start of a meditation class at Northeastern University in Boston, Mass., for a story on students and spirituality, I put my cameras down, turned off my cell phone, sat down, crossed my legs, and joined in.

Meditation for me is quieting my mind by focusing on the sensation of my breath entering and exiting my body.  When my mind strays, as it often does - to what's next on the schedule, errands to run, what so-and-so said - I gently return to the focus on my breath.  Try it.  It's hard work.

Sitting in the Sacred Space at Northeastern, my thoughts veered toward criticizing my just concluded photo shoot, as the voice of my creative censor started chattering.  "You did not get close enough to the meditators, like your buddy Mark Peterson would have."   Back to the breath.  "But his dynamic style can be less than flattering," I countered.  "Yeah, but his photos have more impact that yours,"  kept up the relentless naysayer.   Back to the breath. "You should have highlighted the serene expressions and the room." Back to the breath.

Then finally, "THAT'S NOT WHAT I DO, NOT HOW I SHOOT", I shot back my internal critic. I realized that I needed to stop comparing my style with others. To just shoot my own stuff.  And then I felt peace in my heart.

Several years ago I was on a wild ride between three New England states, carrying out three different assignments in one day, and needing to transmit some of material back to the office to meet a deadline.  My middle stop was in Vermont, to photograph a teacher of peace and meditation, Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh, at one of his monasteries.  I had read many of his books and it was a treat to meet him.

They invited me to stay and have a silent, meditative meal with them, but I had to transmit my photos and get to my next shoot.  "Stay for lunch, and everything will work out," said one nun.  "Tell that to my editor," I replied.  However, I stayed, and learned a great deal about mindful living.

Then, trying to use one of the monastery's phone lines, and having problems connecting,  I was getting more and more stressed out, worrying about getting to my final shoot before daylight faded. I said to one of the monks, "I just realized that 80% of my life is insane."  He did not reply, but his expression indicated that he was not going to argue with me.

Hours later, as dusk approached, I screeched into a buffalo rancher's place in New Hampshire.  Great, deep dark animals stood out against a sharply contrasting layer of snow on the ground.  I groaned.  But we hiked to an upper pasture, and just then, a shaft of sun pierced the trees.

Maybe the monks are onto something.