The Wisher. The Fool.

I try not to wish for things, to hope for things, to crave things outside my peripheries, but 68% of the time I'm unsuccessful. I wish for more time, less global chaos, extra money, better ideas, longer vacations, abundant peace. I hope I don't fall into a fire pit. I hope my knee will heal so I can run from ferocious predators. I hope an earthquake doesn't devour Portland. I hope I can visit my grandma soon. I crave bread and butter, wine, feta cheese, Vietnamese soups, chocolate lava cakes, a new haircut, less pilly sweaters, a firmer bosom and rump. The wishing, hoping and craving turn into mental skyscrapers that prevent me from seeing the sunset, the shape of the trees against the sky, and the moon edging its way into night. 

Thanks to my daily meditation practice (and a million other spiritual cliches), I know, deep down in my aortic valve, that this wishing, hoping and craving stems from a place of fear. The yucky kind that likes to smother its fowl entrails all over the place. The kind that permeates every nook and cranny humans have chosen to be. So, my goal for the moment (which sort of feels like a wish, but it's not), is to recognize my fears before they turn into desires, and those desires morph into a sticky web of patterns that become harder and harder to climb out of. 

Growing old and being ignored or forgotten in the process, losing my creative zeal, disappointing my family, not being a good enough mother, wife, friend, neighbor, artist, employee, stranger, something horrible happening to my family, and of course, death are the fears that currently inhabit my brain. Instead of just allowing these fears to move in and out of my consciousness, I tend to build little barriers to keep them out, but in doing this, the fears are affixed to my innards like old gum on a tree and are manifested in a multitude of ways. I rub my hands together, peel my nails off, change my clothes more than 2 times in the morning, drink another glass of wine, make art, go to the gym, get defensive, over "like" things on facebook, scratch my head, sigh, turn up the music, huff, write, pick up the guitar, eat ice cream, buy another pair of shoes, apply lipstick. Obviously some of these manifestations are much more productive than others. It takes another level of questioning to decipher what is healthy versus what is pattern inducing.

Man. Keeping this brain in check is strenuous. I need a drink...or to remember:

"Mindfulness is cultivated by a gentle effort. Persistence and a light touch are the secrets. Mindfulness is cultivated by constantly pulling oneself back to a state of awareness, gently, gently, gently."

- Bhante Henepola Gunaratana

Sit

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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:

Sit (and be fit)

Half the time after my short, (but still beneficial) sittings I jot down a few thoughts that arise. Here are a few post-meditation thoughts over the last month or so: 

Impatience and physical discomfort. The need to move onto the next thing. Where does this come from? Only tapping into the surface and feeling bad about it. Rushed, yet bored. Sporadic breath. 

Accomplishment. What is accomplishment? Where does my sense of accomplishment come from? 

Waiting. For what? Thinking of the slowing of time. The quickening of time. Wanting to be finished to move onto the next thing. This is something I've noticed myself thinking a lot. What makes the past and future more enticing than the present? Association and fear. Past and future. There is no experience in the past or future. Now is where the substance is. Now is where my sensations linger. 

Notions of peace. Relaxing in thoughts of peace - specifically a peace within others and not myself. 

Is it possible to be an artist without ego? What is a desire for attention? Desire for love? Where do my fears of disappearing come from? Who am I disappearing from? 

The difference between being honest and acting honest for the approval from others. Desiring approval and attention. Desire to be loved and understood by others yet knowing deep down, their approval isn't necessary.  

The art of remembering. Am I remembering pieces of my meditations so I have something to say? Or are these memories there to be absorbed quietly and transformed into something else? Words can cloud. They are stubborn barriers sometimes. 

To-do lists. Are they used to help focus and live more presently or do they hinder my ability to stay present?

Accepting fleeting thoughts. Distracted by a headache. 

The field I used to frolic in when I was in Chile. I think of this as my safest place. What about this place makes it safe? Solitude. I was so alone there. I thrived. 

What does quiet feel like? What is the sound of silence? Have I ever experienced this before?

What is anticipation?  I find myself anticipating things frequently. Even mundane actions like taking a pee or putting on my underwear. I can't pee or put on my underwear fast enough. I often want to get to the next step - faster. Lingering is an art. I'll try to linger more to see if my sense of anticipation dwindles a bit. 

Fatigued with a headache. Questioning the source of illness and my contributions to illness. Sugar. 

Irritated. Frenetic thoughts. Little clarity. 

Questioning moments without trying to pigeonhole each into seconds, minutes, hours. 

Friendships. How am I nurturing as a friend? How am I toxic? Who do I make time for? Why do I make time fro these friends and not others?

Distractions. How do they influence my actions.

Distracted. 

Babies. They create tight bonds between people. They are magic that way. 

Remembering a time when a friend asked me whether or not I thought I was "open". I said I thought so, but I wasn't sure what being open really felt like. I think I'm still in the process of opening. And maybe we are only fully open when we've lived and died - fully. 

Slowing my thoughts brings more clarification of those thoughts. Tuning into my inner lingerer is discipline. 

Being corrected when I'm wrong. What is pride. Where does my pride come from? 

How to argue and still be loving. 

The sincerity of an exclamation point!

Paranoia and fear. What-ifs creeping in. They are temporary, but unwanted guests. 

Hurdles - hurdling over hurdles. What is this action? Hurdling? What am I hurdling over? 

Fear of being resented and disliked. Wanting to be loved, but not being able to love at the same time. 

Meredith Monk performing at The Naropa Institute ​