“Writing is its own reward.” Henry Miller
I was sitting on my cushion this morning, which is definitely not unusual. It’s funny, I’ve read all sorts of crap about meditating. What does it mean? How do you do it? How do you know when you are enlightened? It goes on and on. To me, if you are sitting and looking for something, get up and turn on the lights.
If I taught a class in meditation, it would take about five minutes and I’d hand everyone a diploma. I think. It is probably good if you sit in the same position each time and around the same time each day. I sit on a cushion, with my legs crossed, my palms in my lap, keeping my back straight as I can. I look kind of straight ahead, relaxing my eyes into a sloppy gaze. If you can breathe through your nose, it’s better than your mouth and I am going to tell you why. Purposely leaving out how long you should do this, because just doing it is everything.
I have an alter with some stuff I care about, sitting on it. It’s good to focus your gaze on the same thing each time as well. I mentioned sitting on a cushion, because you want to have your ass close to the earth as possible. This is all about connection, period. If you got to sit in a chair, just keep your feet glued to the ground.
Now, let me tell you about your mind and it may sound shocking. Fuck your mind. Take off its leash and let it go wherever the hell it wants. Imagine you’re listening and feeling your breath like you do with your favorite music. Breathing through your nose, focuses the feeling and sound in your head. For the time you are sitting, your inhalations and exhalations are the music your thoughts dance to. Doing this, your mind is going to get tired rehashing the same shit and it will move on to something else.
When it finally becomes a daily habit and you don’t think you’re nuts for doing it, a cool thing starts happening between your ears. Thoughts don’t ever stop coming and going, but they start to develop this teflon coating and your breath awareness, which was just getting jammed between all the shit, starts to become the theme of your sitting song. Now, if you belonged to one of the religious disciplines, there are these badges you get to wear, mostly in title only. I have no interest. What a surprise!
I guess I am a kind of Zen Buddhist, but not a very good one. Buddha’s mind is what captured mine many years ago. I found myself agreeing with him when I first started reading much of what he had to say. There is plenty of ceremony and most people would consider it a religion, but it’s not for me. Meeting him has definitely changed my life, making me into who I am supposed to be. With you, I am just talking about sitting and allowing it to happen to you, absent any expectation, etc.
You know, I have no idea why this stuff happens to me with my writing. I get off on a tangent and then I have to spend your time trying to rewind the word rod until I have the damn hook back in my hand. Everything I wrote above, I believe. What crossed my mind on the cushion was that this coming Halloween will be thirteen years since I actually opened my computer and started typing, just like I am doing right now.
In a way, I guess it’s not crazy that my morning meditation and writing had to inevitably collide. The birth of my grandson was the fuse. I wanted to talk with him and tell him all about myself, leaving out as little as possible. From the day of his birth, he’s sat with me on my cushion every morning. I knew instinctively there was some kind of connection between us and never confused it with ego. There is just some shit you know. You know?
That hook in the palm of my hand is what got me going on this never ending writing jag and little did I know it at the time. I have no idea what goes on in other people’s minds. I am pretty sure I always thought to myself in sentences. No, my lips never moved when I was thinking, but I was always talking inside. They were invisible, silent words, but I heard them all and always enjoyed keeping my mind company that way.
I don’t recall being very good at writing in school. Mental discipline and I didn’t keep great company back then and we still don’t. I was already in my mid-sixties when I got bit by the bug. By then, I knew I had lived a pretty interesting life and had accumulated a ton of stories, still stored in a library of invisible, silent words.
I always had this way of making my presence felt and that went back to when I was a kid. It is hard to describe, because I was not some obnoxious asshole that made people cringe. You know the type. I could always pull out some of those words that I kept stored in my brain whenever I needed them. I knew I was funny and I still am. Humor is like a secret weapon and man, it can save your ass. Plus, making someone laugh is a great feeling. At nearly 80, I got no reason to bullshit you, either.
I know I have labored over it before in my stories, finding my voice was really challenging. While my grandson was the impetus, it was my sitting that handed me my voice. Story after story floats over the breath and then disappears. It’s the same damn voice I have always heard. I just decided to run after it with the keys on my laptop, the lyrics of my life.
After all these years of writing, I am no longer sure who I am writing for or to. I know it started with wanting to explain who that hook came from to my grandson. Thousands and thousands of words later, I realize it is a kind of meditation, one that ignores the breath and focuses on all those thoughts, flooded each morning and effortlessly discarded.
On the cushion, you become accustomed to the transitory nature of absolutely everything, the mirage of the moment. With writing, I grab for them, before they disappear into the next breath. On Halloween night, thirteen years ago, I decided to try and dance in between.
Shane, I owe you the written sound of my voice and much more. Thank you.
PS: You can get the book on Amazon or I’ll give you a copy.
LISTEN TO IT HERE:
https://www.buzzsprout.com/admin/1292459/episodes/15995650-halloween-in-portland-diary-of-a-mind