Thoughts Happen

Hold This Space

I meditate regularly with a small group that meets weekly in a yoga-cum-belly-dancing studio not far from where I live. About a half dozen of us form the core group, and others join in as they are able. Over the past two years the regulars have gotten to know each other through occasional training weekends and through sharing our thoughts and insights during the book discussion that precedes each weekly sitting.

I meditate almost daily at home, but I find that meditating with a group focuses my practice. We’re all there for the same reason, and I am less likely to let my mind wander off if I am in a setting that I only go to when I am going to meditate. At home the familiar surroundings can breed a laziness of mind that leads too easily to distraction by my ever-present To Do list. But taking a short trip to the studio lets my mind and body know that we are leaving all that behind for an hour and a half to read and discuss some teaching and sit together in silent meditation.  

Usually, it works. But lately my weekly sessions at our ersatz meditation center have been full-out Think-a-thons. No sooner have we set down our books and adjusted ourselves on our cushions to our liking than my mind is scurrying down rabbit holes of discursiveness. Before I’m even aware that I’m no longer focusing lightly on my out-breath and silently saying, “thinking,” whenever I notice a distracting thought pop up, I’ve left the studio and am dancing into the future, carrying on imaginary conversations with whoever happens to be there, or sliding into the past and memorializing events that happened last year, last month, or yesterday.  

This leaves me feeling a little deflated when I hear the high, clear tone of the singing bowl that indicates our sitting time is up. I know that I am not supposed to judge my meditation sessions, saying this one was good or that one was bad. Simply noticing what is going on is supposed to be enough. But I get discouraged when it seems I can’t keep my mind focused for even two breaths in a row.  

It happened again at the last group sitting, and I was feeling a little sorry for myself for being a Bad Meditator as the tones of the singing bowl faded away, when Brian, one of our core regulars, a thirty-something Buddhist/Jewish IT manager with an impish sense of humor and a perpetually troublesome back, stretched a little and, in the moment before the rest of us started shifting around to get up, said, “Well, thanks everyone for holding the space.” 

He didn’t mean reserving the belly-dancing studio. When a few people gather together and sit in meditation, something happens to the space around them. It’s quiet and it’s focused. Sacred, in a way. It’s hard to describe, but it’s part of the reason why meditating in a group has a different feel from being on your own. 

So my thought-soaked meditating wasn’t worthless after all, I mused. I was focusing so much on myself that I forgot that my actions ripple out to others. If showing up and sitting, even if it was a Think-a-thon, was still able to hold the space and let my meditation buddy emerge more peaceful and calm, that was good enough for me.

Photo courtesy of thanasim25 via Creative Commons license.

Thinking outside the (earring) box

My daughter and I went through my earring box the other day; the recently pierced can be keenly interested in others’ collections. We sifted through earrings amassed from nearly 30 years of my pierced history, including those in Deep Storage, a flat, red velvet, two-layer jewelry box in a drawer, which serves as overflow for my top-of-the dresser box and a resting place for historical oddities from my past.

 As I picked out many forgotten pairs, her comments ranged from, “Why don’t you ever wear those?” to “Why did you ever wear those!”

And I realized that I’m in a jewelry rut. It’s easy to reach for the upper right compartment of the earring box where all my favorites live and go with the familiar, tried and true standbys day after day. They are mostly small posts or demure, less-than-3/4-inch dangles, silver or occasionally gold, with perhaps a bit of muted color.

They’re comforting. I know who I am when I wear my standbys.

But I’ve pigeonholed myself along with my jewelry. I’ve labeled myself as a no-more-than-3/4-inch-dangle, muted-color earring person. Somewhere along the line I subconsciously desired to fit in more than to stand out.

Not like my college days when I wore James Dean earrings, mini airplanes, lizards and winged serpents. Or the 3-inch beaded dangles I made at the do-it-yourself jewelry store with little bells on the end that jingled when I walked.

“But I’m just not that person anymore,” I say to myself.

Which is true, I’m not (thank God). But couldn’t I be the person I am now and still pull off mini airplanes or 3-inch dangles? Can I redefine myself this late in the game?

Sometimes I used put on a pair of larger earrings from outside my standards, look at myself in the mirror and think, No. Just not me. I felt uncomfortable and immediately replaced them with something tried and true.

But my ‘tween daughter has challenged me to think outside the earring box and my comfort zone, so I’ve started selectively resurrecting earrings from my past and giving them a second chance. I dally a few seconds longer in the mirror and, after the initial rejection, usually decide that yes, I can be that person today.

So maybe you’ll see me in my James Dean earrings someday, although I’ve promised my daughter upon pain of death not to wear them on any occasion where people might think we’re related.

Photo of some old standbys and newly rediscovered earrings courtesy of the author

Road Rage and The Blind Date

The space between the front of my Tacoma and the back of the semi lumbering up the incline towards Mountain Pass on I-15 South was steadily decreasing. After visiting my parents last week I was heading home to Southern California on this stretch of road I know oh-so-well after driving it probably hundreds of times. And although there’s a truck lane to the far right, the semi in front of me seems like he is trying to wait until the very last minute before moving over into it. I don’t want to wait for him to take his sweet time to move over and I decide to make a quick pass on his left.

 I’m driving my husband’s truck because my aging Nissan was deemed not seaworthy enough for the trip, lest she decide that the middle of the desert is the ideal place to dump coolant or transmission fluid, either of which my mechanic warned me could happen if I didn’t plunk down the better half of a grand to get certain things fixed. Since I’m planning on buying a new car soon I decided I’d rather spend my cash on a new vehicle and take my chances with the old girl until I trade her in. But not in the middle of nowhere. So the Tacoma, which I don’t drive often, was my ship of the desert on this occasion.

The semi is still not moving over, so I check my mirrors, do a quick swivel of my head to look over my shoulder and start to make my move. And then, HOLY CRAP! A white SUV appears out of nowhere on my left and I instantly swerve back to the right as he passes me in the fast lane, honking his horn.There’ s still space behind the semi, but not much, and I have to slow down to fit in behind him. Heart pounding, I again glance to my left, making sure to get a good look, and then make a second pass into the fast lane and around the semi at last.

The SUV is in front of me. Only a second or two has passed, and I think I see him making an angry gesture at me through his back windshield. “I’m sorry!” I say out loud, “I didn’t see you!” I lift my right palm up and shrug my shoulders in the universal, exaggerated gesture of apology, in the hopes he’ll see me in his rear view mirror. I don’t know if he does or not.

Oh my God, I realize. I am The Crazy Driver. Although I know exactly what happened — my blind spot is in a different place because I’m higher up than I’m used to, the panel between the front and rear seats of the Tacoma is thicker than my Nissan and I just didn’t look long enough in the right spot — this matters little to the guy I almost sideswiped. To him I am That Crazy Driver that doesn’t know what the Hell She Is Doing. How many times have I thought that about someone who cut me off?

It reminded me of a story I read in Junior High called “The Blind Date.” A slightly nebbishy guy is asked by his friend if he will go on a blind date with a girl. The guy says sure and goes on the date with the girl. His inner dialogue describes how he thinks the date is going, and that the girl is okay but not great, when all of a sudden it hits him. “I am the blind date,” he realizes. His friend asked the girl if she would go on a blind date with him because he felt sorry for him, and she is doing him a favor by going on the date. His whole perspective shifts in that instant. He sees himself as others see him, and it’s not comfortable.

I’m not feeling too comfortable myself, because no matter what rationalizations I make, I realize that this time, I am The Crazy Driver.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/monkeyc/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0