Day 239: The Most Radical Act in the World

Yoga mat, living room floor. Dog fur, stacks of books slated for my parents’ Little Free Library, just enough room to stretch. After 15 minutes or so of coaxing my hips open and marveling at how much strength I’ve lost in my upper arms, I tuck a pillow beneath my bottom and set the Insight timer for 10 minutes. The silence is spacious. I look out the east-facing window and notice how dirty the exterior glass is before lowering my gaze and allowing my eyes to close. Despite some years of having a Zen teacher who taught us to keep our eyes open, both on and off the cushion, I’ve relaxed the rules and know that the only really important thing is that I’ve arrived here, that I am taking time in my day for true stillness. Of course, the mind rarely stills itself. My thoughts drift almost immediately to the other inhabitants of our second-floor apartment, currently one per room. My wife is in our bedroom at her desk studying, son and daughter in their respective bedrooms at their computers, dog on her bed in the sunny kitchen. It’s not long before my awareness of the others in my household expand to specifics, notably the many things I feel at least partially responsible for. These span medical, financial, and emotional needs, in addition to my work of meeting with clients and tending to online groups. I return to the breath, and an image comes to me. I realize I am recharging, something I rarely do in this intentional of a way. I had my second session yesterday with a new therapist, and this was something that came up, the taking care of so many people and things, and how common it is for me to be tired. I pictured my computer or phone when the battery is low, and how obvious it is that if you don’t plug them in at that point, they will no longer function. It is hardly a revelatory observation, yet as is the case with these kind of insights, they may be obvious but until you have your own personal, experiential “a-ha” moment, they remain theoretical or intellectual rather than truly embodied and integrated. Even words like “embodied” and “integrated” seem rather distant and academic when I hold them up next to the sensations of sitting this morning. I can tell you what it was like, or you can sit on a pillow on the floor and see for yourself. Of course, this fails, too, because in the end, none of us will ever have the same experience as each other. All we can really do is explore the dimensions and impact of our own practices, and perhaps report back our findings. The words “heart light” came to mind, surprising me. They surprised me because that kind of language is more flowery than I would typically choose or prefer. But there they were, these two words offering an image of my chest cavity refilling with energy, spreading out to my limbs and extremities, holding up my head with its overwrought brain that all too often multitasks and jumps from one thing to another all day long. The relief was visceral and immediately available and for the umpteenth time in my life of consistently inconsistent meditation practice, I thought, oh right, this really works. Maybe I will even do it again tomorrow. Then the little chime sounded and I raise my hands in prayer to my third eye, taking a moment to acknowledge myself for showing up, then bowing down to the ground in humility. We have these bodies, this breath, and these oh-so-chaotic minds in an even more chaotic world. To reach for the one source of peace that is so close you could miss it completely suddenly seems like the most radical act in the world. Then I stand up, roll up my mat, and return to my computer, feeling for once almost as charged as the machine that dominates so much of my time. The sun as it transitions to the south side of the house streams in through the two kitchen windows, also hopelessly smudged. The dog is twitching in a dream and snoring deeply. The only sound is that of my hands on the keyboard typing. Bananas are rotting, a few succulents on the sill seem to reach for the light. I join them.