Leah Cutter --Ramblings- To Clarion or Not to Clarion

Ramblings - Meditation

No one understands what I'm doing, why I do it. But I do it. Five minutes of standing meditation. Every day.

Before this endless month, I had a whole series of regiments that I indulged in. Work. Writing. A significant other. Exercise. Play. Now, this one act is the only discipline left to me. The rest of my life has melted away, disappeared into the black chasm of my depression. I can't see the bottom. And I'm afraid, too, scared that that the bottom is actually a long ways away, that I could fall for months or years still.

I stand, legs apart, knees slightly bent, back straight, arms raised, everything relaxed. Then, I breathe. Eyes closed against the pain of the day before, the day ahead. I try to lose myself in my body, in my muscles, in my breath.

Such a simple act, breathing. In and out. But it isn't easy. It's an effort to keep going, to force myself forward from one moment to the next. Plus, that chattering monkey brain of mine is almost impossible to still. I try, but usually fail, to focus exclusively on the mechanics of filling the deepest part of my belly with air, then letting it go.

I sense the places in my body that are tense--the right side of my neck, my left shoulder, the small of my back, my hips, my knees. I aim the air I'm breathing at these constricted areas, making them expand in true Michelen Man style. In my mind I see crimson--bleeding sunsets that tell of coming storms--as the muscles stretch.

Then I release my breath, send it out. I struggle to let turquoise coolness bathe my body and uncoil, drop the familiar constant tension, the harmful habits, as well as the barriers keeping everything and everyone out. I try to make "relax" be more than a word I know, and make it something that I embody.

Breathing in is actually easier than breathing out. I work to let go of the air, let it flow from me, release the tears and songs and pain and unease. I work to not let everything contract into the wounded ball that comprises my life, but slowly, starting with my fingertips and ending again in my back, letting go of all the hurts and coping patterns that are branded under my skin. I try to stay loose, but the tensions and the needs creep back in like unloved puppies, cuddled around my bones.

I need escape. I need to run to somewhere other than my own mind. Sex, alcohol, loud pounding music, and long rides on my motorcycle help--but not enough. Nothing drives this keening beat out of my head. I was the one who scratched these furrows across the length of my soul, wanting to plant, what? Despair? I don't remember.

Breathe. In and out. In and out.

I lose myself for a short time, delving deep through sinew into marrow, expanding and contracting, pain and release.

This is the only thing I have left of my world--a pebble thrown into the mighty currents sweeping my existence. But this small stone is solid. It anchors itself into the stream and will not budge. Sometimes I think that this meditation is the only thing that lets me keep living. I've promised myself to do this, stand and breathe, every day, for at least five minutes, for 100 days.

I will not break this covenant.

And at the end of 100 days? I will find a new exercise. Maybe a new way of standing. But I will find something else to do, again for 100 days. Then I'll do it again. And again. Until I get to the point when I don't rely on it like food or air.

I work my will when I meditate this way.

I'm not afraid of the roller coaster of emotion that my life has become. I'm too dull to be frightened. I've slipped, yes, but not badly enough to ruin everything. I know that I have farther to fall. I still have my job. I haven't crawled inside a bottle. I haven't missed all my deadlines. So I'm not too scared of the gaping miasma swirling through my head, sickening my soul. Yet. I tell myself I'm doing better. I'm eating more than one meal a day. I slept for a few hours last night. I think I can relearn how to smile.

I can't evade myself forever. Eventually, my shaking thighs remind me that I can't live here, in my breath. It's been more than five minutes. Again.

What will make it all better? What will turn down the heat, bring the boiling despair down to a simmer? I don't know. I don't have a master plan. I just keep meditating, for at least five minutes, everyday. And hopefully that will make everything better, bring my life back to some kind of normalcy, build up a comforting rock palace from the pebbles in the stream.

Breathe.