Sitting Where Time and Space Overlap
Meditation is not something you do.
I am not supple. I’m really not. I’ve been trying yoga for a while, but never in public: we would be unable to concentrate so much my postures are funny. But I don’t care about the ridicule. Every time I stretch one of my muscles, it gains a point of flexibility. That’s all that matters.
Meditating in the lotus position is not even worth thinking about. I’d be too busy trying to balance while feeling like my ankle bone is going to pop out of place to even think about easing the swirls in my consciousness.
When I was younger, the mere idea of meditating seemed to be reserved for weirdos. Strange people, who sat in an unlikely position with their hands on their knees, thumb and forefinger together, repeating strange incantations with a blissful look on their faces.
Then, my readings took me little by little on this ground.
As I progressed in my quest for reality — that is, to remove the veil that separates me from the here and now, that makes me feel like I’m dreaming my present, and that frustrates me in my inability to vibrate at the same frequency as the moment — meditation appeared to me as the logical continuation. I recognized a certain potential there.
But I wasn’t ready. Forcing myself to meditate for 10 minutes a day didn’t work. When I did find the will to sit for a while, my mind was too focused on the idea of success. Of “doing well.” Of feeling a certain way. To reach, to strive for something. Or to reach the end of the timer.
This is not what meditating is about.
Today, I find myself wanting to take a moment to meditate, every once in a while. Perhaps because I have removed from my life the weight of a number of constraints. Maybe because I am finally mature enough to welcome this practice. Once every two days or so, the idea emerges from nowhere in my head. “Here, what if I meditate a little?” Often, it’s when I’m alone in the evening. The moment, the quietness, the calm, and the monopoly I have on my time certainly contribute to it.
Ten minutes ago, I was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, in my pajamas, barefoot. My back straight but not rigid, increasingly painful, my hands resting somewhere between my two knees.
Tonight, the quietude set in immediately. I didn’t have to silence my inner voice at first. I sat down, closed my eyes, and silence fell. My breath was beating out the tempo, but I didn’t feel the need to use it as an abseiling rope.
And then the bombardment of thoughts caught up with me. But it was not overwhelming. I could see how often images burst into my mind. Once every four or six seconds. The challenge, then, is to be present enough not to get on board the passing thoughts and trot off on their backs.
It’s about being a silent witness. Observe, through the inner window, the clouds of passing thoughts, which temporarily dress the otherwise always blue sky, recognize them, greet them, but not accompany them. To remain there. Like an isolated house, at night, whose windows would be illuminated by the glow of consciousness. Of presence. To be present within oneself.
To meditate is to do nothing. It is to relax the muscle of the consciousness, to give it back its initial position. I read a book once that used an analogy to illustrate this concept. It’s like living with a clenched fist. Our knuckles are white, but we hardly notice the effort anymore. It has faded into the background. It is this dull and permanent tension, which we perceive when we pay attention to it, that I perceive behind my forehead.
To meditate is to open that fist. That is why it’s hard. It’s like unfolding sore limbs. But the more you open your fist, the more you realize that the effort is lessened.
I am still far from mastering this practice. Or maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m moving forward. At my own pace. Without friction, without rubbing, without resistance. With the wind, but mostly with the sun. I appreciate the sweetness of these fragile moments when silence is achieved, and when I seem to touch this furtive contact with reality.
Then, I must remember that I am not looking for anything. That there is no goal. Neither to life nor to meditation. That everything lies in the beauty of clarity of minds. That deep down, we have nothing to look for. That we no longer need to run. That any race, any quest, any treasure hunt is useless. There is no treasure. Or rather, it is already there. In the here and now.
I meditate. I settle in the here and now. I sit in time and space. Right here. Just there.