Saturday, April 28, 2018

Meditation, For Me, Has Been a Lifesaver

Morning Meditation

I have a full appreciation for the difficulties inherent in learning a good habit. Life gets in the way. This hassle crops up, and then that one, and then another one. They're like weeds. Before I know it, I'm back to square one, hacking at them, trying to clear them away. The good habit has disappeared.

Taking care of yourself is impossible when you're impoverished. The fight to find a meal or rent takes absolute priority. I was in that place for many years. As a result, I suffered: physically, mentally, and spiritually.

My Rogue Mile has reintroduced me to the best version of myself. To take care of myself, I walk upwards of twelve miles weekly. I practice tai chi, which I learned over twenty years ago and have kept up with since. And I meditate.

Next to the firehouse and within sight of the Rogue River is a small meadow. It's the perfect place to sit and settle myself and chill. Drivers can't really see me there; they are often going too fast to notice me; and walkers and joggers, as few and far between as they are, rarely glance in that direction. It's a little piece of perfect quiet that by the nature of where it is with respect to the road doesn't attract attention.

Yes. Perfect.

Too much is made about meditation these days. There are too many rules: do this, don't do that. Sit this way, breathe that way, close your eyes, don't close your eyes, don't move, don't think, blah, blah, blah. Meditation to me is nothing more than reconnecting with that part of my being that looks out on beauty like this and rejoices in it above all else. Call it God if you will; call it Mind; call it the Tao, call it Buddha-nature, call it some complex psychological whatsis; it doesn't matter in the least. What matters is that every time I bring my focus to it, I change. I become, less and less, the selfish, self-absorbed blob of pathetic that modern society says is the gold standard for living and being. It isn't. It never was. It never will be.

The RV park during the summer is overflowing with vacationers desperate to untie the Gordian knot their suburban existences have saddled them with. It never works. The lifestyle itself is a disease. A two-week vacation won't cure it. At best it only lessens the symptoms, which, over time, eventually kills, if not the physical person, then certainly their spirits, which, to me, is an inarguably worse outcome.

When meadows become palliatives, our lives are compromised and corrupted. I can't, and I won’t, live that way anymore.


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