Writers are supposed to speak to their audience, use words that they’ll relate to, be comfy to them so that meaning flows easily from me to you. Well, perhaps not this time.
I’ve just come out of one-and-a-half hours of meditation, and the world is big. There are spaces between my cells. It’s not quite like a pause button, and it’s not really slow-mo, but those words are in the territory. And “coming out of” is not true either. That suggests some trance state of blissful nothingness. What I’ve just experienced is sweet nowness, fully aware of the traffic on Belmont Road and the wind ripping at my condo.
It took maybe twenty seconds for me to go deep. How can that be? During my recent retreat, I often couldn’t reach peace during an entire sitting. The mind was just too chatty. “Couldn’t reach” suggests effort and I know now that there’s no loving cheese down that tunnel. By grace do I flow.
Today, I mostly felt complete stillness, and such an alertness. Many times before, my stillness was punctuated by ripples of energy running under the skin of my face, including some sort of movement under my eyeballs. Don’t know what that looks like since I’m inside the show.
Wo. (I really don’t know how to spell that.) Half an hour later, in the midst of tap-tapping on the keys, all is quiet. Somewhere way back in my head is a tiny voice. “You’re not making any sense. They won’t understand. They’ll think you’re weird.” But that voice is so small, just about not there. What is here is love, and peace, and okayness. Hmm. It’s very nice.
Bathing in this land of sufficiency is warm and comforting … but now what? Do I head to the nearest cave and pray for world peace? Do I stay downtown and see if this space can show up in daily conversation? Do I chuck it all out the window and just obsess about the Toronto Maple Leafs? Think I’ll pick Door Number Two.
Ain’t life grand?