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The days when spiritual practice meant sitting on a cushion in sun-drenched studios wearing cosy trousers, listening to enlightened teachers and pursuing a cultivated meditation practice are over.

I am now a mother and have neither the time nor the money for such things.

I can ‘buy’ myself half an hour of meditation in the morning if I give up my values regarding digital media. It's a deal that makes me struggle again and again – am I a bad mother if I let my 5-year-old son use the drawing programme on my smartphone so that I can pursue my Vipassana practice in peace? How do I actually know that it's harmful to him?

The last time he played with the phone, I noticed that he had opened the app for tuning the guitar. He let the device play the note and then practised singing along, varying the pitch until the device confirmed the correct ‘tuning’ with a beep. I think that's brilliant and an extremely creative way to use digital media.

But my intuition about media consumption is still old school. I just don't like him looking at screens at age five. He should be playing in the mud!

But how do I then attain enlightenment?

The longer I explore this question, the more I come to the conclusion that it is a misconception to believe that my spiritual practice is separate from the time I spend with my child.

My Zen master stands before me, looking me in the eye with chocolate smeared on his face. He relentlessly brings to light what awaits me in my underworld. I am in a permanent retreat!

That sounds frightening. It is. If I try to resist it.

Tonight, I was able to let myself fall into it.

Actually, after five years of bedtime rituals, I have reached the point where, when we have completed the usual reading, singing and cuddling, I expect him to fall asleep on his own by 9 p.m. at the latest, so that I can immerse myself in the blessing of a quiet evening with time just for me.

But in the last few days, he has not been able to fall asleep on his own. I had the impression that something was bothering him, which becomes apparent in the evening when more vulnerability sets in.

So today, I decide to stay with him until he falls asleep.

It's a struggle and a mess. Next to me lies a bundle of tension, breathing heavily and kicking. First he's too hot, then he needs a drink, then he has to place his cuddly toy just right.

I turn to my anger. I feel it. I practise not reacting to him, but simply staying there with the hurricane raging inside me. Just as I thought he was calming down, he sits up and says, ‘Right, now I'd like to get up again...’ It's now 9:45 p.m. and I've had enough. I grunt something like, ‘I'm leaving now,’ and make my way to the toilet. But then my feet carry me back to his bed.

‘Mum, I'm really touched that you're here.’

I breathe. I feel. I surrender.

It touches me deeper inside. I come into contact with myself. I become quieter. My focus no longer lies in the expectation of something happening. In the background, I notice that he is also becoming quieter. My heart expands, becomes more sensitive, I feel him. I feel the pain and anger active in his system. I can feel it very clearly now. It touches my heart. Then he looks at me, one last glance. He rests his round child's cheek on my arm, closes his eyes, lets go and falls asleep.