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Water Lily by Jay Castor on Unsplash. |
(A variation of this post was originally published in 2013 as part of a 21-day meditation challenge. Like most daily challenges, I didn’t complete it.)
5:08 p.m.
I’m finally trying to
meditate. Unlike my former yoga peers who occasionally drifted into light slumber
during final relaxation, I’ve yet to master meditation. My mind becomes
disobedient because it refuses to silence and my body involuntarily moves
because I subconsciously feel a random mosquito grazing on my left elbow, which
indirectly causes my nape to itch and my right calf to spasm. Three years later
I’ll watch an episode of The Haunting
and listen to a woman recount how she went so deeply within that she resurfaced
with something dark and dangerous.
I wasn’t trying to end
up tormented and traumatized. However as I journey along this intersectional
path of purpose and passion, I understand that meditation and prayer are maps
to confirmation and clarity.
But fortunately for that
particular day’s challenge, my task is to only reflect on my inner dialogue.
Deepak Chopra stated that he meditates for two hours but obviously realizing he
was talking to mind-control virgins, he quickly added that 15-20 minutes should
suffice.
I lay down on my side,
my left arm crooked at my not-itchy-in-real-life elbow, my left hand is numb by
my heavy head. My heart races. I attribute it to the fact that I’ve just
carried an overfilled laundry basket of clean clothes.
Deepak said to not
manipulate the breathing; it'll regulate itself. I found the statement slightly
contradictory to what my old yoga instructor told her classes partly because
what we think heavily influences our breathing. I can’t possibly think anxious
and frustrating thoughts but expect my breath to stabilize at the same time.
“Allow the thought to
enter your mind,” our instructor always advised.
She told us to
entertain it and then release it.
“As you exhale,” she
continued, “allow the stresses of the day to leave with each breath.”
But my stresses at the
time were often relentless. They enveloped me, screamed in my ears, punched me
in my back, pushed me in my chest and smacked me in my face. I couldn’t seem to
escape them.
I try to breathe the
way my friend and co-worker, a former Reiki instructor, taught me.
Inhale.
Expand abdomen.
Exhale.
Contract.
Repeat.
My heartbeat momentarily
slows down. My limbs relax.
I sink deeper into the
bed. I listen to the fan twirling and whirring in the background.
I decide to allow my
thoughts to appear since Deepak advised against shushing them.
So
what's my next blog entry again?
Oh yeah, the one on experiencing joy.
My heart takes a
“ready, set” stance.
Hmm
what should I pitch to Clutch?
And then my heart rate
is gone.
Concentrate
on breath, Tee.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Shouldn't
I see some stars, circles, flowers or butterflies or something?
I pretend the sound of
the fan is the ocean. I visualize my then recent beach trip. I had forgotten my
notebook but I remembered my camera. The sun is soon setting. My feet track
across loose sand to the low-rolling waves. Cool water kisses my feet,
retreating with merely a peck, eroding my footsteps in its path. Near the
horizon, an old, rusty ship sleeps under a goldenrod blanket. I listen to the
laps and my heart stabilizes once more.
“How's your writing
going?” a voice suddenly interjects.
5:13 p.m.
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