Meditation

The R man is attending a series of lectures on meditation techniques. It seems hanging up a picture of the Buddha is not enough.

Who knew?

Part of the classes is a CD of guided meditation. Since I am a totally, totally good sport, I agreed to join him the last few evenings. Besides being a good sport, I am also always prepared to lie down for a while. Many people may refer to this as napping, but I think of it as centering myself.

The CD walks you though focusing on each part of your body as an exercise to encourage being present in your body. I've been through these before as part of different yoga sessions over the years and this one is a particularly fine one; the instructor has a lovely calm voice.

Since the point is to be present, you're supposed to try to keep your focus on each part as she goes along ("Bring your kindly awareness to your right big toe. If it was missing, you might greatly lament its absence." So true, so true.) I cut myself plenty of slack even as I try to concentrate and try not to think about the next time I make tapioca, it's absolutely essential that I dissolve the sugar first. Right knee, right, okay, right knee.

And then, my favorite part. About four fifths of the way through, there is suddenly the unmistakable sound of someone washing dishes in the background of the CD. Very faintly, very quietly, but it's there, cups and plates rattling around the sink. Each time, I wait for it to happen and each time I'm vastly amused.

I have mentally named the narrator as Solstice Moon and I picture her recording this in the ashram, grinding her teeth as Elk Meadow starts cleaning up the kitchen in middle of the session, even though Elk knows this CD is important to Solstice and is it her fault the fucking brown rice burned again and everyone knows if Elk Meadow would just get rid of that moustache she might get laid every now and then and anyway her real name is Latrice. Breathe.

So I'm all centered and stuff now. Ohm.