Kumbaya

I have a hard time settling down, being still, doing nothing. I am sure most mothers have the same issue, that constant to-do list that never seems to go away, probably because we live where we work. It isn't easy to relax when there is always another toilet to scrub or lunch to pack or load of laundry to fold, and no matter how hard I try, I can't ever say that I'm finished doing everything that needs to be done. To say I am busy is like saying Michael Jackson liked kids or had trouble sleeping. But lately, I am finding that even I am scared of my over-busyness, that as much as I frighten my family with my bee-swarm-like level of frenetic activity, I too am afraid of myself. I am turning into the Tasmanian Devil, all spin and weird noises and foaming at the mouth, and for some reason, I no longer think that is a good thing. The funny part is that even as I type this, I have pumpkin squares, matzoh ball soup, two apple cakes and a noodle kugel cooling in the kitchen, along with a load of laundry spinning, a clean and unloaded dishwasher, and a sink devoid of any dishes needing washing. As you can see, it’s a constant struggle for me.

I decided that I needed to do something drastic to take care of myself; I decided  that I needed to learn how to do nothing, to meditate. Calling meditation nothing would offend even Siddhartha, but to me, it is nothing.  It is the calming of the mind, the stopping of thought, the halting of the doing and thinking, and just being. Meditation is not for the faint of heart, but I need to learn to slow down before I implode, and I sure can’t figure out how to do it by myself.  

Meditation for me is more than just a little outside of my comfort zone. I am married to a dentist, and our home is deeply rooted in Western medicine beliefs.  I do enjoy the body-mind connection I feel after yoga, but that is about as far out of the box as we go. To my family, chiropractic is voodoo, so the idea that breathing and chanting and burning incense can bring one inner peace is a hard pill to swallow. And we like to swallow pills, big horse tranquilizer sized pills. I realized this alleged relaxation technique was going to require a whole lot of suspension of disbelief, but I need to do something to stop doing so many somethings. So I signed up for a meditation workshop that was held at my therapist’s office.

Meditation workshops are not all that hard to find, but I imagine a big difference exists between one held at a yoga studio or at Whole Foods versus one held at a therapist’s office. Meditation already has a New Age-y, granola-y sort of connotation, but when you throw together a group of people who found out about the workshop from their therapist, well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the general population.

Two people seemed to know each other, almost as if it were a date. The woman was Indian and quite lovely, and the man was neither. They seemed intimate enough to share a water bottle but not the love seat, so I was very confused. Next to them was a thin man with dark hair and dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he could have been an engineer, a computer person, or a manifesto writer. Another man sat beside him, a large man who seemed used to running meetings and company softball games rather than meditating. The last to arrive was an older lady with grown children. She looked like meditation was another thing to fill her time, along with delivering for Meals on Wheels, knitting, and trying to stay out of the liquor cabinet. The woman running the workshop reminded us that this was a judgment free area. Too late for that.

Six of us attended, each trying to not out-crazy the other ones, which lucky for us wasn’t hard to do with the teacher. She looked normal, whatever that means, but once she started talking, it was apparent that she probably had a few squirrels storing nuts up in her attic. On the floor in the small room where we met she had arranged a collection of objects that could have been a diorama at the hippie museum. A smudge stick, a collection of seashells, prayer beads, finger cymbals, and a candle holder in rainbow colors, providing both light and a tolerance for the gays, were all atop a sheer scarf. She informed us that we didn’t need to have props in order to meditate, but she encouraged us to try it if we thought it would help us create a space. Ha, creating a space. I can barely create a space on the toilet for myself without the whole family stopping by for conversation, let alone carve out a physical spot for my Tibetan singing bowl, my vibraslap, and a scented candle so I can slip into an altered state of being. This whole meditation thing was going to prove more challenging than I thought.

We each introduced ourselves, taking turns explaining why we came to the workshop and then lighting a candle on the gay candle holder.  After we each tried not to set her alter on fire, we sat while she tried to explain what meditation is without using normal words and phrases, which meant none of us had a better understanding of what we were trying to do.

After that, she threw us right into our first attempt at group meditation, which is nothing like an orgy, except for the heavy breathing. Because that was all it was, heavy breathing. We were instructed to breathe in and out of our noses without pausing or hyperventilating. We all closed our eyes and began breathing rhythmically. I concentrated on my breathing, in and out, in and out, until my head began to bob and sway.

When it became clear to me that falling asleep was not in fact meditating, I decided to stop concentrating on my breathing and begin concentrating on everyone else’s.  I was convinced someone else had actually fallen asleep. The only way to be sure was to open my eyes and break the spell, so I snuck a peek at everyone else. They were all doing what they were supposed to do, so I closed my eyes again before anyone noticed me gawking. We kept breathing and breathing and my mind went from mildly distracted to wild racing thoughts. No amount of breathing was going to quiet my head unless it included a can of spray paint or Reddy-Whip.  After forever passed, the teacher’s phone alarm went off, a soothing bell ding, and we all opened our eyes and pretended we were calmer. She asked how we felt, and the businessman said he had to redirect himself from wandering thoughts. The Indian lady said she felt calmer. I said I wanted to bolt from the room.

After all that breathing, we needed a snack break, so we wandered into the waiting room for some trail mix and Lance cracker packs, quietly munching while avoiding eye contact. I had to use the restroom and peed forever, thanks to a nervous bladder and a 20 ounce bottle of Deer Park. Then we resettled ourselves for another round of meditation.

This time the teacher passed out a laminated card with twelve uplifting affirmations we could memorize and say to ourselves at home. For the workshop, she read each affirmation twice for us, allowing us to think and reflect on the words while we cleared our minds of distracting thoughts and feelings. They were positive statements, concerning living in the moment, feeling connected to your physical body, accepting people as they are, that sort of thing. When we hit the fifth one, the weirdest thing happened to me. I started to cry. Not the loud sobbing and choking kind of cry, or the muffled sniffling while lying in bed kind of cry. It was more like a waterfall. I sat there listening to her words, and the next thing I knew, tears spilled down my cheeks, all over my décolletage. It didn’t even register to me that I was crying, and I didn’t feel the need to wipe my eyes. I just was.

After that, I began to feel like I was growing very small, that the loveseat on which I sat was growing larger and larger. It was very Alice in Wonderland. The only way I ever feel like that is when I have a fever. I could hear what the teacher said, so I didn’t feel like I was out of the room, I just felt tiny, surrounded by big cushiony softness.

When she brought us back, she again asked for feedback. The Indian woman said she felt very empowered. She talked about that feeling for a while, which involved the word powerful and power quite a bit. No one else commented, so I shared about my tears and my tiny feeling. The teacher found that very interesting, and thus I established myself as the crazy person in a room full of crazy people.

The teacher talked some more about other meditation techniques, including eating as meditation, which wouldn’t work for us overeaters, and even walking meditation. We had about five minutes left, so she decided to lead us in a nice deep resonating round of Ohm, which is really a combination of three sounds—ah-oh-um, repeated slowly and with purpose. Ohming was nice in a group setting, as we were harmonizing like the Whiffenpoofs. I didn’t feel any closer to peace, but I enjoyed bringing up the alto section of the room.

And with that, we were given some handouts, encouraged to take more snacks, and dismissed. I have to admit, I did feel calmer than when I got there. Of course, I had to drive in rush hour traffic to the other side of town by 5:30, then sat in a dark room, breathed myself into a nap, had a deep cleansing cry, a handful of dried apricots, and sang a little tune. It was like the perfect day in preschool. How could I not be calmer? Trying it at home, however, that will be another story altogether, another story for another day.

Namaste.