She’s breathing in the soft aroma of lavender, her body draped in impossibly smooth silk. A backdrop of serenity, of dancing candles and trickling fountains, surround her. The incense smells like clouds and the music like rain but she’s too focused on her breathing to notice. In, out. In, out. Sweet Jesus, glorious Namaste – she is rocking those belly breaths.
She is centered. She is peaceful.
She is not me.
Meditation is fairly new to me. I stumbled upon it after having children, the result of a Google search sporting an impressive array of “I’m losing my mind” and “holy god, what have I done?” and “have kids, will work for silence.” I’ve since devoured my fair share of books on what it is and how to do it, but only recently have I actually begun putting the words into practice.
Not well, folks. Not even partially well.
My meditation takes place in the basement, where the “tranquil” music sounds more like screaming kids and the closest thing to a trickling fountain is a droning dehumidifier. There are no silken robes or lavender candles, just tattered t-shirts and the – er – always interesting scents of my husband’s man cave.
It’s difficult too, turning in after years of looking out. Seriously. Try asking yourself “how are you?” without feeling all the feels – the good, the bad, and the painfully ugly. Now try sitting with those emotions – fear, anger, insecurity – instead of running from them. Try letting them be without pushing them away.
Guys, this stuff is HARD.
And because I’m a rule-following perfectionist, I can’t make it through ten minutes without questioning whether or not I’m doing it right. Are my breaths deep enough? Are my thoughts focused enough (answer: never)? Is the orange 70’s carpet under my pseudo-enlightened butt Zen enough?
Meditation is the ultimate threat to my status quo. It forces me to sit still and shut up and look inward – three things in which I have never been well versed. I do it awkwardly and insecurely, childishly and terribly.
But I do it, which is perhaps all that matters.
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