Every now and then I miss having a bathtub. Not very often – I’m a shower guy through and through – but on cold, damp nights when the air can’t decide whether to rain, sleet, ice or snow, and the chill soaks into the bones, I would love to slide into a hot bath with some soothing lavender salts and a layer of bubbles.
Lacking that dream bathroom scenario, we must make do with another bath – this one of light, and it’s just as soul-sustaining, especially coming at the tail-end of winter when a snowstorm is the last thing anyone wants. A candle glowing of three wicks, gently warming and perfuming the air, bathes the room in light, calmly flickering and letting its shadows dance across the ceiling and walls. It gives off a different kind of warmth, emanating a different sort of glow. When you stop and still the scene, pausing for a moment of mindfulness and serenity, it can be just as powerful as a more traditional bath.
Sounds baths, I imagine (as I’ve never tried one), may be similar in their calming power. It’s the same idea: a bath in something soothing – whether water, light, or sound – is a way of immersing the senses in a single sensory experience, allowing the mind to focus on one thing, and let go of all other concerns.
Incorporating a daily meditation practice into my life has kept me more or less calm during a time in our collective lives that would have broken or damaged a previous version of myself. The past three years or so have been traumatizing for all of us – and I mean all of us. Anyone who has been alive and aware on this planet for the last three years has experienced the trauma of a worldwide pandemic, and I fear no one is fully acknowledging and confronting the demons unleashed through this. Rather than bringing us together, it feels like things are splintering further apart. Maybe we need to break down completely before we rebuild for real. Humans are so often stupid that way, and I mourn for our nonsense.
When confronted with that dismal realization, and how awful we can be to each other, I tend to retreat a bit, to return to our home, and to the centered and calm heart of the day, which is my meditation practice. Whatever bothersome thoughts race across the mind at the start of the session eventually slow and still and dissipate, so that by the end of it, after the focused deep breathing, the stillness and silence, all that remains is a blank space of peace. The worries and concerns return, of course – that’s the reality of life – but they feel blunted, their power diminished, their hold not as paralyzing. That’s the magic of meditation.
Watching the flame perform its dance is a mesmerizing study. Some use this as an entry-point into mindfulness and meditation. If you’ve ever paused to watch a candle burn and gotten transfixed in its light and motion, you’ve partaken of a practice of meditation.
Mindfulness need not be a complicated endeavor. Sometimes the more simple a practice is, the more powerfully it can transform us. Learning to be mindful in the most mundane of moments is a method of finding magic in all the minutes. It will be a trick that comes in useful for every trying time in life. The older I get, the more trying the times seem to become. Being able to slip into mindfulness – to achieve that place of calm breath and easy existence no matter what is going on around us – this is the goal of my daily meditation practice. Every day it gets a little easier, while every day a deeper calm exists just beyond me. The beautiful journey has no end.
When I first started exploring meditation and mindfulness, I began with Thich Nhat Hanh’s book ‘The Miracle of Mindfulness: An Introduction to the Practice of Meditation’. It was a very good place to start, even if my skeptical mind wasn’t quite ready at the time to receive much of its wisdom. In fact, the chapter on finding mindfulness when washing dishes at the kitchen sink almost had me giving up on the whole endeavor.
Back then, I wasn’t about to discover mindfulness while washing dishes at the kitchen sink. I wasn’t about to discover anything while washing dishes at the kitchen sink other than annoyance or agitation, because how on earth would any sane person find something as wonderful as mindfulness in such a position? It took a while, and a lot of dishes, before I pushed through and began to understand.
My unlocking of the possibility for mindfulness came to me in the shower, as so many things do. (I need a waterproof board and marker for all the genius thoughts and ideas that have gone down the drain because I couldn’t remember them thirty seconds later.) I’d been reading the book and trying to put Hanh’s words into practice, taking the time and making the effort to be mindful and present in the moment, just experiencing every sensation and granular movement in and of themselves, and suddenly it clicked. That shower remains in my mind as a turning point, when I realized that, with some care and focus, I could find mindfulness in the most mundane of tasks, and a certain peace could result from doing so.
That was two years ago. I’ve been meaning to revisit Thich Nhat Hanh’s book to see what I likely missed that first time around. On a recent morning, two years ago to the date of that mindful shower oddly, or not oddly, enough, I found myself washing the pan and plate from a quick breakfast I had made. As I ran the dishes under the hot water and watched the soap bubbles gather, I remembered the notion of ‘washing the dishes to wash the dishes’. Over the years, my repulsion of doing dishes had eased, and I took these moments as opportunities to be calmly with myself, especially on mornings where Andy was in bed and probably wouldn’t be thrilled to come out to a sink full of plates.
As I rinsed off my plate and turned it round within a dish towel, I felt the texture of the fabric in my hands, the residual warmth of the clean, smooth plate, and the delicate scent of lemons drifting up from the soap. My eyes moved to the window, where I watched an icy mix fall almost imperceptibly from the sky – gray precipitation from a gray bank of clouds falling on gray fences and gray land. I saw the beauty there – the subtle beauty of winter – and I felt the beauty by being absolutely present in the stillness. There, then, was the moment of mindfulness. All other worries and tensions eased while the dishes were being washed. Appreciating them for their service – the vessels in which a sustaining meal was carried to my mouth – I placed them carefully back in their places.
“If while washing dishes, we think only of the cup of tea that awaits us, thus hurrying to get the dishes out of the way as if they were a nuisance, then we are not “washing the dishes to wash the dishes.” What’s more, we are not alive during the time we are washing the dishes. In fact we are completely incapable of realizing the miracle of life while standing at the sink. If we can’t wash the dishes, the chances are we won’t be able to drink our tea either. While drinking the cup of tea, we will only be thinking of other things, barely aware of the cup in our hands. Thus we are sucked away into the future—and we are incapable of actually living one minute of life.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh, ‘The Miracle of Mindfulness: An Introduction to the Practice of Meditation’
When I meditate, I hold this specimen in my hand. It takes up the full palm, and it is heavy and substantial. It is a grounding totem, literally and figuratively, and though I don’t place much actual faith in the power of crystals, I do believe there’s something to the practice if you truly believe. In other words, if we think that holding a certain stone will lead to something (in the case of rose quartz, it is said to emit vibrations conducive to love, joy, and healing) perhaps it’s not the stone working some sort of magical spell and more a case of we as humans manifesting those things through intention and unconscious propulsion toward those states.
Practically, it is a focal point for my meditations – an object I can hold in my hand and feel whenever the mind starts wandering. Sometimes, a simple and singular focus is all one needs to keep a meditation on track and achieve that slightly-absent-minded state of blankness and stillness and peace.
Rose quartz is also imbued with some happy memories for me. It was an early gift from Andy, when we were first dating, given as much to symbolize our love as it was for its healing aspects. Whenever I had doubts or worries, I’d hold onto that stone and work to calm my heart and quell my anxiety. Was it the stone working its power or was it my intention bringing it to fruition? Who can say and why does it matter? It brought me peace then, and it brings me peace now.
“Spirituality dawns when individuality vanishes. When our ego becomes aware of something that is higher than it – the individual Spirit, or Soul; then spirituality dawns.” ~ Swami Rama
One of the best realizations in recent years has been understanding that my entire life will only ever be a state of barely approaching some sort of enlightenment or spirituality. For a previous-perfectionist, that’s not a simple statement to make, or an easy acknowledgment to admit, yet it’s been one of the greatest things for helping me evolve into someone a little kinder, and a little more understanding. As someone who enjoys a challenge, it also inspires me to push against years of socially-conditioned behavior, even as I thought I was going against everything. A little bit of humility goes a long way, and admitting your failings and flaws is the absolute best way to improve, or simply accept who you are. Sometimes, the worst things we think of ourselves aren’t really bad at all – they tend to be more about perception and inner-analysis. Letting go of that is another step closer to finding peace, or spirituality.
That’s the other idea I’ve been slowly coming to understand: whatever name you assign to it – spirituality, inner-peace, calm, tranquility, mindfulness, centeredness – it’s all the same thing. It is, at its heart, a connection of the soul to the universe. Finding that place – our place – while we are on this earth, is the journey we are all making, whether we realize it or not. I’ve only just begun, and it is challenging, rewarding, and enlightening work.
Beginning the day with a meditation has often been an effective method of dealing with periods such as when Mercury is in retrograde or a full moon is on the horizon. It works on all the other days as well, probably even more-so, in that it sets a tone and intention for a day filled with calm and serenity, lending a flexibility to what has been the bane of many a Virgo: our rigid need for structure and control and order. I find that if I start from a place of peace and calm, it’s much easier to deal with the hiccups and setbacks of every given day.
So it was on a recent Friday morning that I found myself on a badly-needed day off from work, sitting lotus-style in my usual meditation spot, gently gazing around me and settling on the Norfolk Island Pine in our living room.
Beginning the meditation by slowing my breathing, inhaling deeply in, then slowly letting it out, I allowed the eyes to close, clearing my mind by acknowledging the rush of thoughts that occupied this average morning. The human brain is startling in all that it accomplishes in a single moment of time – the decisions and connections and routes it takes for a thought to form and flood into consciousness are myriad and complex – and we don’t even think about it. That’s the secret to finding a balanced sense of mindfulness – knowing when to think, and when to simply exist. I’m not quite there yet, and I probably never will be. I am embracing the journey and the path, wherever it takes me.
Setting the theme for a day just as it begins is a luxury I should plan for and implement in my schedule, as it does work a bit of magic in such trying times.
Though I haven’t written about it as much lately, my meditation practice continues each day, lending me stability when life forces shift and the world sways and rocks in ways we didn’t think we’d ever feel. Life is entirely different than what we knew just three years ago, and it feels especially harsh in the winter, which has only just begun.
And so I lend light to the long nights with candles, finding calm in the deep, slow breathing. The practice of meditation has survived for centuries. It has lasted throughout all the winters, all the summers. I’ve only just started to find my way into its effects. Sometimes it feels like magic. Sometimes it feels like nothing. Always, it feels like I’m connecting to something.
Even though I haven’t been talking as much about my meditation practice on the blog, it’s still happening – each and every day for twenty minutes. It usually takes place in this room, after the work day concludes, to provide a demarcation between work and home – a helpful buffer to separate the stressful from the serene. It’s important for me to maintain that line – and it helps on both fronts.
Here is where I sit and light a stick of Palo Santo, close my eyes, begin the deep breathing, and meditate. It always begins with a head full of racing thoughts and dilemmas – plans that need to be made, items that need to be accomplished, and I acknowledge each thing that comes across the mind, then let it go. Eventually the thoughts slow, and the breathing becomes the focus. Sometimes more thoughts will come – what I need to get at the store, what I need to print out for work the next day, whom I need to call or text – and once I acknowledge these thoughts they leave. By the end of the twenty minutes, my mind is clear and calm. It returns to a base level of peace and unruffled contentment, and if I was agitated or annoyed at the start of the meditation, it has invariably eliminated that. It sounds too good to be true, but it has always happened this way.
That is partly due to the fact that up until now my worries and concerns have largely been small. But even when things turn serious, meditation has proven a helpful exercise in putting things into perspective and calming me when I’m lost in the muck. It’s a common place to find myself these days.
With some fiery soul-searching going on here this fall, a recent rainstorm provided the perfect window for an afternoon meditation, and a literal and metaphorical cool-down for this site, and everything going on in the world, and in my mind.
It had been a surprisingly-sunny and warmer-than-expected day. When I went out to get the mail, it was muggy and almost hot – a deceptive throwback to summer weather, the kind of day that sometimes deels like a bonus, even if we are not quite at the point where we need it. In fact, the mugginess was a little too much, and after a few days of decidedly-fall-like weather, it felt like we were being jerked backward just as we were getting our autumn bearings. That’s when the rain began.
Big drops, heavy and loud, began smacking the pavement and the roof. They landed in wide circles on the sidewalk out front, shimmering on the driveway as they increased in speed and quantity. Immediately, there was a shift in air – it was cooler and the sky grew darker. Fall was insisting on being present here, even if it meant kicking summer back with a thunderous clap. For once, I didn’t mind the rain.
The skies opened up fully, and a downpour raced down the roof and into the sudden pools of water beside the house. Opening up a window in the living room, I sat down to do my afternoon meditation to the sounds and scent of this rainstorm.
When things turn incendiary, and the world burns up around us, I find it wise to step away from the fire, and hold the world in the single flame of a candle. In that one source of light is the focal point of an evening’s meditation. Andy used to do a candle meditation, where he would stare intently at a candle for a while, then lose his eyes and work to picture the candle in his mind. It was another exercise of focus and concentration, of using an object to hold the attention and train the mind to forego all other distracting thoughts.
There will always be nagging distractions competing for notice. They are not easily banished or relegated to the back of the mind. The goal is to quell them for a moment, and to discover the peace when they are held in such abeyance. When you feel that, when you develop the knack to breathe deeply and slowly into the moment, letting the distractions and worries go, you find the magic of mindfulness. If you consistently focus on finding that, the rest of life feels a little calmer, a little less manic. And if you make it a practice that informs most of your day, life can be quite pleasant indeed.
Most of us have an inner dialogue, that little voice we hear which expresses everything we are too shy or scared or smart enough not to say out loud. (I say ‘most’ because there are reportedly some people who do not have such a thing, which is marvelously unfathomable to me.) That inner dialogue can often wreak havoc, especially when it gets out of hand, which it sometimes does for me. Mostly these conversations in my head happen in the evening, as I’m mentally remembering the day. Sometimes it’s just a case of replaying a moment and coming up with something much more brilliant than what I came up with then, a wittier comeback to something someone said; more often it’s a kinder and softer response to something more cutting that came out of my mouth. Virgos run the risk of overanalyzing and being overcritical, so this inner voice is the bane of my existence, because it cuts me as much as it cuts those around me.
Whenever I find myself getting bogged down in these dialogues, I try to calmly recenter myself, taking in a few deep breaths, and stabilizing myself by simply being present. Pausing to look around at whatever might be near, I pick apart little details to distract the mind before it heads off to the races. A smudge on the windowpane of the front door. A wrinkle in the silk curtain framing the window. The gentle drone of some faraway lawnmower, perhaps executing the final few passes it will make over the grass this year. I will tune into my body – the slight itch of a recent vaccine in my arm, the cold toes of an exposed foot, and the breath which I make deeper and slower and calmer.
This is how I calm the voices in my head. This is how to gain control of the inner narrative. This is how mindfulness manifests itself.
We dive into a few weeks of Mercury in retrograde motion starting tomorrow, September 10th, and no one is ready or wants it to happen, but humans have no say or control over the heavenly bodies nor the earth’s own motion. In preparation for this, I’ve been mediating consistently for 20 minutes every day, which is my usual practice. It brings my baseline down a bit, allowing for the rollercoaster of Mercury in retrograde to be slightly less tumultuous.
These periods are often viewed with dread and apprehension, and I succumb to that a fair share of the time. When things go wrong and disrupt the daily schedule, that’s tough for a Virgo to take. This time around, I’ll try to roll with the punches, accept the little snafus that are a basic part of life, and bend with the winds rather than trying to rigidly resist them.
My daily meditations will continue, and I will attempt to be a bit more mindful outside of those sessions, bringing the practice into every waking moment. That takes some effort and focus, and that’s the point. When the mind hones in on being mindful and present, it has less time and space to be bothered by petty concerns and worries. The simple slowing of one’s breath – and indulging in each slow inhale and exhale – can be a soothing method of instantly calming down when you get stuck behind a school bus or find your computer being difficult. It also reminds me of how silly those annoyances are, and how silly so much of life is, and that’s a good reminder for anyone as serious as I can too often be.
Let’s get through this Mercurial madness together, being mindful, being present, being open to change and the unexpected turns of the day.
Walking outside after a rage-filled thunderstorm, I felt the air shift. Swaths of heat and humidity alternated with bands of cooling and comfortable air, the temperature changing in tumultuous five-degree increments. It was unsettling weather, but good for rainbows and spectacular cloud formations. I was reminded that we are a few weeks away from the big seasonal upheaval from summer to fall, and I took a deep breath to bring the mind into a more thoughtful space. It reminded me of the end of 2019, when I first started meditating. It all felt so foreign and rocky then, and my first few spurts of meditation – only a few minutes at a time – felt awkward and stunted, like I might not be on the right path, like I was doing it all wrong. Yet instead of giving up, I pushed through, leaning into the discomfort, opening up to the pain.
Construction on the interior had begun in those final months of 2019, in the lead-up to the winter of a year we had no idea would turn so darkly treacherous. The renovation within would come just in time, as if the universe knew I’d never make it through without some sense of peace and calm, some inner sanctuary when the rest of the world, even in my own home, fell to pieces and crashed around me. When winter exploded in ice and wind, snow and darkness, I would take up the lotus position in the middle of a room lit only by a candle, swirled by a stick of palo santo incense, and filled only with the distant hum of a heater or the muffled rush of wind outside the window.
As far from the sunny season of summer as I was from a place of safety and security, I found the inner-sanctum of serenity just in time, and I clung to it desperately. Grasping that lifeline like the savior it would prove to be, I stumbled minute by minute into the way to peace. At first I took it in five minute increments. It was all I could manage. It was also, gratefully, enough. Pushing through the first few weeks of this, I gradually increased the minute by the week – six minutes a day, then seven minutes a day, then eight. The weeks passed, the worst of winter went by, and when spring finally arrived again, I was up to twenty minutes a day.
Sometimes it went by quickly: I’d lower myself into the lotus position, start breathing and counting, and soon the time was up. Other times moved slowly by, each second elongating into something greater, in ways both good and trying. Not every day did I find tranquility and peace in the meditation, but every day I tried.
My days of wishing for perfection had been replaced by a wish for whatever was good-enough. The perfect was perennially elusive, unattainable, impossible. A lovely wish, a lovely goal, a lovely vision to which we might strive, but best kept out of the realm of the expected or even simply the realm of the possible.
Ease of mind, ease of breath – there it is again, the reminder to breathe, not just to breathe in, but to breathe out. It’s possibly the most important part of breathing, and the one we neglect the most, so eager are we for new breath, new air, new life. We forget the necessity of releasing the breath that has come before, releasing the past – the immediate and long-distant past. When I tune into that, everything becomes a little easier, a little lighter, and I feel the renovating power of meditation again.
Beneath the coral bark maple described here earlier this morning, this patch of lady ferns unfurls its delicate splendor. It’s sending up another batch of new fronds – a second showing to see us through the end of the season, and I’m grateful for such renewed vigor and energy. It’s also lovely to have a fresh supply of green at a time when the gardens have started going brown. The drought-like state we’ve been in (great pool weather, a tad more trying for the garden inhabitants) has been fine when one has time and resources to keep everything well-watered, but we’ve been lacking both lately.
Still, I’ve managed to keep this little grouping of ferns supplied with enough moisture to maintain their lush growth. A lesson in gardening indoors and out: grouping plants together makes for easier watering, more humidity, and less evaporation. There’s a lesson for humanity in there too, and it’s one that I need to heed more often.
A Sunday afternoon in the garden is a blessing. A daily walkabout the yard is good for the soul. Even when the weather turns sour, it’s vital to get outside, if only for a few moments. In winter, that will prove mostly impossible, and so I indulge in this moment with focused intent and presence.
