I keep trying to stuff my meditation into a time slot. On a zen tuffet. While decked out in pristine white yoga-wear.
I don’t even own yoga-wear.
No wonder it’s been so difficult.
Then this morning, as a nineteen year-old cat stretched on the rug and I in my bathrobe rubbed her tummy while Gregorian monks chanted on the stereo and a beeswax candle flickered on the mantle and the darkness outside was so dark I couldn’t even see the BBQ… I thought: this is meditation.
And so is making soup. Or spaghetti sauce. Curry. Anything with much chopping and stirring.
Even toast. There’s an art to it… it’s about the butter and jam ratio, honey if you’ve got it. It’s about thinking where that honey came from.
Changing the sheets, smelling that fresh-off-the-line smell in your bedroom [or fresh from anywhere smell is good too]. That crisp feeling when you get in under them. With a book. Early enough so you don’t fall asleep in five minutes. This is meditation.
Walking. With a letter to mail, or just to get a paper, a few lemons. Around the block. With a dog or alone. There’s ways of doing it like a chore, but what’s the point in that?
Walking through an art gallery.
Staring just a moment longer than usual at a painting, a squirrel, a plane passing by.
Cleaning. Chucking out the bits that no longer serve a purpose.
Conversation. Snow shovelling, weeding, sketching, collecting beach glass. Doing a crossword. Drinking tea, really drinking it, tasting it; doing nothing else for a moment but drinking tea… [I wouldn’t know, but this may also work with coffee]
Writing a letter, with a pen. Or a crayon.
Breathing. Just that, done well… this is meditation.
“The more I read, the more I meditate, and the more knowledge I acquire, the more I am enabled to affirm that I know nothing.” – Voltaire
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