This morning’s meditation wasn’t very relaxing, or very much like meditating for that matter. At least I put it all on the field. Brené Brown says Jungian analysts call shame the “swampland of the soul.” This morning, for fifteen embarrassing minutes, I trudged through that mess knowing what awaited me within. Allow me to divulge and acknowledge some of the thoughts which constitute “dealing” with my shame.
I did the opening practice to find my breath in a broken lotus position, but one where my left foot lay propped up into the crook of my right knee. The strengthening phase has begun for my wounded dog, and this little exercise had the intention of checking for comfort level. My foot, among other personal factors, would come through in great shape.
A daydream would be the first distraction. A few minutes passed while I wandered in this imaginary wasteland playing out the scene of some old fight in some new context, before I would notice I wasn’t with my breath any longer. I don’t recall exactly the words my imagination put into the mouth of this person for which my most shame-filled regrets are all entangled. (“Shame-filled.” Ha! I’ll be using that one again) After coming back to myself, I started to go through the process of letting go and finding my breath, when the emotional S wave response came from the epicenter of this daydream. It felt like anger, fear, sorrow, and guilt had taken on a physical manifestation and began shaking me to my core. I exploded into tears. I know this is so acute because she’s home with a new man in her life and wants to see Ivy and I again in a “happily ever after” platonic fantasy land.
I hope I can accommodate. I want to.
Even this, couldn’t stop my goal of meditation. I take may meditation pretty fucking seriously, every bit as important as my music and/or my writing, another one of my beloved art forms. The tears were still rolling down the front of my cheeks in clusters of twos and threes when I found my breath with a mantra of “I should be sad.” Soon the words faded, and silence would cool my jets. The next distraction is much healthier.
As such, a healthy montage of this very blog post came to me. The ease with which I can observantly let my brain play is one of my favorite meditative techniques. This came complete with all the arrangements and intentions of what needed to be written. Also allowed, is a space for all the negative feelings I had just come through to be processed out through a mechanism of wanting to write mad, angry shit, then realizing the silliness of this behavior and editing appropriately. Soon though, feeling of Flow from writing composition burned through me, but I felt like I began to use contrivance rather than observation, and for me, this is always a good time to find my breath again. Letting go of the best of feelings is every bit as important to mindfulness meditation, and my guess the more powerful technique for cognitive harmony.
The third distraction came back to emotional response over the failed romance and loneliness which surrounds the mind when even though you’ve tried, and been truly vulnerable and open, slaps to the face and the pleasant fortune of watching someone new walk away where your love life stands and the ex has been much luckier. The normal hails of “not right for you” and “her loss” have come. Sometimes those statements make me feel a little better. Other times they disgust me. When somebody has to walk away from connection everybody looses. On the flip side, there is nobody “right” for anyone else. Sometimes we get lucky enough to find someone willing to put a reciprocal effort into the relationship. Then we say we’ve “found” someone, seems more like “decided to try ‘here.’” I still get flack over this way of seeing things—choice based relationships. Those who buy in soon find that relationships become even more special. Real investments of the spirit (of cognitive energy). As soon as someone shows me differently, I suppose I’ll change my tune.
The last distraction came in the form of motivation for the day. The list of things to do grew quickly, and it occurred to me that I had been meditating for more than a few minutes, seventeen to be exact once a clock had been referenced.
I popped from my little broken lotus position not even thinking about the bum foot and whether or not it would approve of hitting the ground running, literally. Two shoes on and out of my bedroom without a second thought, thinking, by the time I strode across the front of the kitchen bar, of little else than how well my foot felt. I could still feel the tear tracks growing stale on my face, but like the memories which tempted me to feel sorry for myself, they’re just ghosts and echos of a former time and past emotions. In the here and now, I feel strong and passionate for the future which is, once again, nothing but opportunity.
“So here I go again on my own/ goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known/ like a drifter I was born to walk alone/ but I’ve made up my mind/ I ain’t wastin’ no more time.” (White Snake) Or something like that.