Ever wonder what the mind is meant for? The usual an-swer is "thinking." But is that all, and when are we supposed to do all this thinking? Most of us believe we need something to think about all the time. It seems that's all we do with our minds, and, whether we know it or not, we do it all the time. But if it's true that the mind is meant for thinking, is it also true that the mind is meant to think all the time?

The answer is no. You won't be able to think very well if you're always thinking. What's generally missing from our awareness of what the mind is meant to do is the need for focus. Constant thinking, the jumbled-up variety of associations, meanderings, and inspirations that passes for thinking in us isn't what we need to do. It's the opposite. What the Buddhists call "mindfulness" or others of us might call "presence" is inimical to the beehive buzz of our minds.

This idea of constant thinking isn't as acceptable in the other realms of our being. We don't expect anyone to always be emotionally engaged—at least not in the way most of us use our emotions for our own aggrandizement. Neither do we expect a person who's very physically oriented to always be doing push-ups or climbing mountains—though some of us may try. But it seems odd to suggest that the mind can—or needs to be—at rest, in an alert state, not a merely busy one.

If you want to make the most of the mind you've been given, don't allow your mind to become infested with thoughts. You need to practice focusing, so that when the moment comes when you need to think, when someone says, for example, "Think about this," you can actually bring the mind to bear in its proper way. If the mind is functioning properly, you'll be able to respond to what's needed, it'll come to you instantaneously—bang—and then it'll be over and that's an end to it.

You remember when you were a kid and some joker would toss something at you with the words "Think fast!" Nine times out of ten, you probably dropped the catch. That little stunt is a favorite among wise guys who don't know that they're demonstrating how preoccupied we usually are with our thoughts. The order comes to think fast, the ball or whatever comes flying at us, and we're so busy "thinking" we get smacked in the face by life.

After all, what is it you're expected to think about all the time? Usually, it's stuff that happened years ago, or stuff that's never happened—but we're all very practiced at letting the mind idle on whatever fanciful stuff enters our noggin. We wind up doing nothing more than wasting the mind's energy, so that when that ball comes at us, we react like someone coming out of a dream—which is in fact exactly the case.

Maybe you tell yourself you only think about serious things: war and peace and the environment and the Bush administration and all that. So what? Is thinking about the war changing anything about it? You think Gandhi won political freedom for his people by thinking about how oppressed he was? Gandhi is justly famous for what he did, not for thinking about what he could have, should have, or might have done. That's really where most unfocused thinking lands you—in dreamland.

And thinking about something all the time, while you drive and eat and play with your children, takes you out of the picture. It makes it harder for you to be where you need to be: driving, eating or playing.

I've searched high and low for things worth thinking about, because I like to think once in a while. I've found that ordinary life offers us very little in the way of things worth thinking about: Here it is winter already and that means it's still football season, but who cares about football, baseball's the only sport worth thinking about. Remember how DiMaggio used to stroke the ball? That funny way he had of running the bases? They don't make 'em like DiMaggio any more. Nah. Nothing's like it used to be. I wish it wasn't winter any more. I wish it was spring time, and the Dodgers were still playing in Brooklyn... and on and on and on. Memories, fantasies, dreams.

I remember once I was walking in the woods. It was a very beautiful bit of land. There were many small paths that converged. Some were raised, some were little gullies, all of them were full of ferns that moved softly in the breeze. I wasn't preoccupied with my thoughts. I was just there. I felt very peaceful. It was very serene.

So I was walking through these woods and suddenly, standing in the middle of one of these paths, there was this big dog. He was a chow, the biggest one I'd ever seen. Do you know what a chow looks like? Do you know chows' mentality? A chow doesn't give a damn about anything. At his best, he's got this regal bearing. He's going to do what he pleases, and what you think about it doesn't make a bit of difference to him.

When I was a kid in Brooklyn, there used to be this chow that walked the streets, and when you saw him coming, you crossed to the other side of the street. You got out of his way, the way you would for a lion.

Well, there was this chow in front of me, big and villainous, with a dark rumble in his throat that turned quickly into a snarling bark. He'd seen me and he didn't like what he'd seen. He was turning his full attention to me, honing in on me and I remember thinking to myself, "What are you going to do now?" And the thought came instantly. I should pick up a rock, which just happened to be there. The next thought was "Throw it." And the third thought was "Throw it and hit it on the nose. That's your only chance."

So, without a windup, I pitched the rock and hit him directly on the nose. There was a whimper and he turned and trotted off. That was all that was required of me—those three thoughts, and they didn't even seem like three, they seemed like one, one single action. If I'd stopped to "think" about it, if I'd spent a moment thinking how much I love dogs, or how this goes against my grain, or what would people say, I'd have missed. And it would have been me running away through the woods, my head abuzz with thoughts of regret, the devil at my heels.