Don't pee on my lotus tree and tell me it's raining.

Victory!

For some time (a few years, at least) I've thought about, tried, thought about trying and tried not to think about the idea of meditation. Once, I got close to even doing it. For one spring and part of a summer I established a weekly habit of listening to Dr. Jon Kabat-Zinn's body scan.

Kabat-Zinn, a modern mind behind mindfulness, helped shepherd the concept into mainstream western culture and was the Founding Executive Director of the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine, Health Care, and Society at UMASS Medical School. He also founded its Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction Clinic. (Several times I've saved up in order to participate in this program but have wound up spending my savings otherwise every time.) He's written a bunch of books and also recorded some meditation practice guides including the body scan I listened to, which basically leads you into meditation limb by limb. It's like meditation for dummies which is what I need. Basically, he's the voice of my Jeebus.

I was introduced to him initially by my sheroe, Jodi, who has been my nurse practitioner (and would have been my midwife...and my real wife if she wanted) since I was 20 and finally worked up the stones to go in for my first pelvic exam. I'll save for a later entry---probably in a couple of weeks when I have my appointment---why it is that I so adore this woman and look forward with great delight to my yearly pap smear. For now she will just be the woman who introduced me to Kabat-Zinn (and for whom I shave and put on good-smelling body lotion which I haven't done for Dan in years). I bought his recordings (and then, of course, as synchronicity would have it, found one of his books on my shelf at home), and got started.

My favorite thing to do was to take a blanket to the park, feel the sun on my face and bliss out for 45 minutes to Kabat-Zinn's calming and steady voice. (His voice is that of a Jewish guy from New York, which he is, though I don't think he considers himself Jewish anymore. That sort of voice---almost like a sedated Woody Allen---may not sound fitting for these purposes, but so works for me.) It was among the most peaceful times in my life when I kept this practice up. Ultimately though, I let it go as good habits are much harder to keep than bad ones. Mostly though, I think it was the guilt that stopped me. As much as I could tell myself that this was an important thing for my mental and physical well-being, I couldn't help but feel guilt for taking 45 minutes out of my day to lay in the sun. Who wouldn't want to do that? Why should I be allowed?

Today I realize that anxiety---among the issues that meditation could help me with (though one need not have any "issues" to reap the benefits)---robs me of way more than 45 minutes a day. I know in my bones that cultivating the ability to quiet my mind (or at least have some level of control) would improve my productivity and general happiness. Plus, I think meditation, seeking connection, searching for peace are pretty much more important than anything else on my to-do list. (Though, my bathroom really needs cleaning.)

So this is all on my mind as I once again pony up for a round of "Quiet The Crazy." I've learned by now that change doesn't come like a tsunami, clearing a path for the establishment of new practices and ideas. It takes baby waves. A bubble. A fart in the bathtub, even.

Five minutes. That was my goal. Having woken up particularly nervous today, I decided it was a good time to start. (Nervous, versus stressed, is a little easier to work with, I think.) I had meant to get it done first thing in the morning but a few things got in the way and I had now been up for a few hours. Normally this---a failure from the start---would have set me back. I'll start first thing tomorrow, I'd think to myself. And then when I missed that, I would plan to start next week and so on.

Today, I chose otherwise. (Sometimes all it takes is a choice.) Five minutes with the sun rising or five minutes with it high in the sky, it doesn't matter. Sit down and do it. So I assumed the position and looked at the clock.

9:07. I had to make it to 9:12. I closed my eyes. 9:07. I wonder if it was 9:07 and three seconds or 9:07 and 58 seconds and I should really start at 9:08. If I do four minutes instead of five then I'll have come up short on yet another goal.

I looked at the clock. Still 9:07. It's probably almost 9:08 now, so I'll do it until 9:13 to get the full five minutes. I have to make it to 9:13. 9:13. How will I know if it's 9:13? Maybe I should set an alarm. That seems contradictory to what I'm trying to do here. What if I reach nirvana and then my alarm goes off---talk about a buzzkill. Shh!

My eyes were like those of a kid trying to pretend he's sleeping when his mom walks in the room after his bedtime. They kept drifting toward openness and I kept squeezing them shut.

Follow your breath. In and out. Hear the sounds around you, they are part of this moment. The buzz of the computer, the spray of the dishwasher. I wonder how much time has passed. At least I'm sitting still. Good for me, I've not even moved yet. I am so still. This is easy. Look how still I am.

Then, a voice. (The role of inner voice will be played by a wise and elderly black woman.) It said, "You are so not still, child."

She's right, I thought.

The events of the day started coming up but I led my brain back to my breath as all the books on meditation I have read (yeah, keep reading, that'll help) have told me to do. In and out. In and out.

I've heard and read a lot about mantras. In "Eat, Pray, Love" (my most sacred religious text, written by my (pretend) friend, Liz Gilbert) she uses "Ham-sa" for her mantra, which means "I am That" as opposed to "Om Namah Shivaya," which Gilbert calls the "'official'" mantra of the type of yoga she is practicing. I have trouble with mantras. In times past "Ham-sa" got me nowhere execpt hungry for a ham sandwich and my brain chose to sing "Om Namah Shivaya" to the tune of "We didn't start the fire."

I began thinking about this whole mantra thing--- wondering if I needed one, if that was the missing piece, and what was that word again, upa towna girla?---when the voice came back. (I know it's cliche. I know. But it's the truth. And it's not the first time thoughts that seem to be other than my own have come through.)

"I'm proud of you," it said.

So, with my eyes closed, my focus on my breath, I thought the words, "I'm proud of you," over and over and over.

Sure, other thoughts and voices crept in. (The loudest was that nasal wench telling me, "You have nothing to be proud of." I think she was the one who stopped me from going to the park.) But I kept pulling my brain back, following my breath and thinking, "I'm proud of you."

I did that for a while, until I forgot I was doing it.

When I remembered again, I figured it was time to stop. I knew the clock would say that only three minutes had passed, if that, but I was feeling compassionate and thinking I did the best I could.

I opened my eyes.

9:18

Huh?

At the ten-second mark I was feeling restless, there was no way I sat there for ten minutes. Then the screen saver on the computer went on. I had checked my e-mail right before I started meditating (pretty sure this is Buddhist tradition) so I looked at my computer screen properties and, sure enough, the screen saver goes on after 10 minutes of inactivity.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes! I made it ten minutes!

Now I know how a high school boy feels!

If I keep practicing, this could be the start of a real change. Maybe I wasn't "suddenly transported through the portal of the universe and taken to the center of God's palm," as Gilbert was, but I think maybe I felt his fart in the tub.

And isn't that what life's about?