According to the the handy dandy meditation timer app on my phone, I've approached almost 100 hours of seated meditation over the last year. This is no small feat for an American 36 year-old lady who is also a mother, a working artist, a working worker (for the man), a wife, a fart, a lunatic, and also a parrot named Alphonso. But I still have a lot of work to do.
Up until a year ago, my meditation sittings were harried and restless. Sitting with my eyes closed for two minutes felt like waiting in line at the DMV while holding 6 bulky suitcases. With a little prompting (and loads of support) from a teacher, I started to sit with more intention for 5 minutes, then 10 minutes, then 15, then 20, and now I'm up to 25.
This practice is surreptitiously cracking me open. I'm noticing a lightness in the ghost I house inside this body. Things that once bothered me, specifically the petty things like household messes, the cat licking herself while I'm trying to write, and driving in traffic, don't disturb me as much. Little bits of insight and buried emotions are busting their way from my heart. I'm feeling more, but it's a less reactive kind of feeling. It's raw and real and much more difficult to ignore.
A few words from Alan Watts: