Day One

Ten minutes to write is a surprisingly difficult proposition to fulfill. It’s like meditation, in the sense that sitting on the cushion for ten minutes looks simple and easy and wildly boring from the outside. And yet, on the inside, it is a tempest in a tea cup. Wait, that’s not correct. That’s not the metaphor, adage, saying that means what I think it means. It’s hard, is what I am trying to say, both writing and meditating. But the more I meditate, the more I let go, the more I am not particularly caught up with what I write.

My mind is a tempest, though. That is true. I know I am not unique in this. I suppose meditation and mindfulness, as imperfectly as I practice meditation and embody mindfulness, has taught me that I am not special. There really isn’t anything unique or special about me that has manifested in some other human at some point in time. This fact, this fundamental truth, is beautiful. Just knowing it fills me with such joy and relief. Others have been just as inadequate as me, had as much skill writing or drawing or loving, had the same insecurities and fears and dreams as me. I used to think the world wouldn’t ever understand me, that the world would never love me, simply because of who I was and what I had done in my past. It’s funny, I still think that parts of the world—certain groups, political affiliations, generations—won’t understand or care about me but it matters so little. How someone else feels about me isn’t really my concern and no longer affects me like it once did.

Has meditation taken away some part of my personality? Some part that makes me me? I don’t know. I am less emotional now, less tied to the outcome of interpersonal relationships. That is a stark difference from the me of a decade ago, and I honestly don’t know if I am a better person for it. I feel better, not being so tied to what I want to happen or what I think should happen. Perhaps boundaries are what I have learned.