When it comes to standing still, I’m not what you would consider an overachiever. I remember vividly the first day of my first post-college “big girl” job: at 10 a.m. I said to myself, “Wait, then I’ll sit down.” All day. Is that it? Should I sit down? So I began a rigorous daily cycle of drinking tons of water just so I could turn on the water fountain and fill my jug. I made it a point to learn every name of each of my coworkers and stopped to ask questions about their pets and their overwatered vegetable gardens, then I ran the toilet, filled my water bottle and made another bathroom. You understand the gist. And, almost fifteen years into my career, I’m barely less nervous (unless there’s a Real Housewives marathon, in which case you have my full attention, without moving).
I’ve already toyed with the idea of meditation, thanks to a helpful helping hand from my therapist, a friend or my husband, all of whom, all zen, practice regularly. I admire and even envy people who have a certain amount of coolness, and meditation has always struck me as a pleasant thought, but also very… what’s the word? Indulgent? I would just…sit down? And not being productive (or, at least, by the American millennial standards that I’m required to exceed, which is a whole other test)? On this same subject, my therapist once asked me what I was so afraid of and I couldn’t really give a clear answer. It’s not that I was afraid, it’s just that I didn’t really understand and, at that point, I wasn’t really concerned with trying to understand. I also think I was afraid of boredom, of sitting too long with my own thoughts, of what might creep in and whether I would be able to rest with it – to catch it, to respond to it, then release it again. .
I was afraid of boredom, of staying too long with my own thoughts, of what might creep in and whether I would be able to rest with it – to catch it, respond to it, then release it again.
Before these ten dedicated days I’m talking about, the closest I had been to a meditative state was a few miles of running. My mind would melt, my thoughts would separate like heavy clouds, my body would only care about the cyclical rhythm of my body carrying me through space. Until recently, it was the only time I felt a true sense of calm and relief. The only time I was able to silence my brain and its cacophony of worries, things to do, excitement or sorrow. Just my breathing, my feet, and my reluctance to stop after six, seven, or ten miles to return to my otherwise noisy brain.
You would think, after such an enchanting experience (shin splints aside), that I would try to recreate it in another way as often as possible. Then again, you would think wrong.
I don’t really want to admit it, but maybe it took the blunt blow of 2020 (you too, 2021), immobility through brute force, to get me to consider putting some of this sudden stop to profit. And I’m not talking about “use” in terms of productivity, but perhaps introspection that I personally needed to literally sit with.
So, out of wine and out of ideas, I decided to try meditation. For ten days, ten minutes a day. Just to see what would happen.
My first date was uncomfortable. I selected a class, randomly, on an app (which, to me, seemed counterintuitive, but the options are limited here, folks), perched myself tall and straight, and lamented how incredibly cheesy the music was. My attempt was as half-aimed as it was half-hearted, but it was technically an attempt.
The second day I promised to give it a serious try, what with the crystal harp melodies and all. I kept my eyes closed the whole time. I focused on my breathing. I actively tried not to think about my next meeting, dinner plans, or if my toddler had pooped his pants. Above all, I realized that this whole thing of acquitting my thoughts was very difficult for me. I wasn’t good at it.
And that, right there – getting it wrong, not being good at it, not being successful – turns out that was the part I was wary of all this time. I thought maybe, just maybe, that’s why we call meditation a practice. The practice of calm, of complete presence, is required again and again.
Somewhere in the middle of my ten-day experience, I chose a meditation focused on acceptance. The instructor (Newb question, but do you call them instructors? Am I doing this right?) didn’t say much, but at one point asked the very pointed question: “Are- Is there something you have difficulty accepting? » And I broke down. I poured water, spreading salty tears and snot all over me and it took me a while to pick up the mess. The truth is that it was a clemency for chaos that was long overdue.
It took absolutely nothing but sitting there, calm, nervous, and somewhat bitter, to learn that I couldn’t outsmart a single unacceptable item on my list of problems.
At that time, there were many things I could not accept. There are many things I still cannot accept. Too much to write here, on this ever-expanding Internet, in fact. There were also a lot of things I fooled myself into thinking I could handle if only I surpassed, surpassed, surpassed. And it took absolutely nothing but sitting there, calm, nervous, and somewhat bitter, to learn that I couldn’t outsmart a single unacceptable item on my list of problems.
My ten days are up and what have I learned? Maybe meditation isn’t so bad after all. I don’t expect to be diligent enough to continue daily (I still prefer running), but I will add it in as often as possible. I also don’t expect to have an incredibly influential meditative practice every time, with such laser-sharp questions. However, it has been proven to help me unclench my jaw, increase my self-awareness, and protect my peace. Decent perks, if you ask me. So consider this skeptic a convert; in his own amateur way and still quite energetic.
April (Swinson) Smasal spent her formative years in Wyoming, where her career options were limited to rodeo queen or writer. Forgoing the allure of an impressive collection of belt buckles, she opted for the word thing. Today, she is an editor and writer living in St. Paul, Minnesota with her husband, Nick, her baby boy, Hank Danger, and her very cute and spoiled French bulldog, Arnold E. Biscuits.
