MEDITATING ON MEDITATION

For years I have been curious about meditation. I worked with a girl in college, back in the early 70s, who was big into TM. There was something different about her. I wanted to understand where her calm glow came from, but when she tried to explain it to me, I just couldn't wrap my head around it. I thought about it again when I was reading Eat, Pray, Love. I adored the chapters set in Italy and Bali, but the way she spent her days in India? Well, that's pretty much my idea of Hell.

I've always referred to my time on the porch each day, watching the sun come up, as my "morning meditation," but that's not really accurate. As I understand it, to meditate is to empty one's head of all thought, and to just BE. What I do is more like releasing my brain to run free and explore the stratosphere at will, then, when it lands on something it finds interesting, I slowly rein it back in and begin to write about whatever it has discovered.

I've also grown to appreciate the many solo car trips I've had to make since my parents' health began to decline, not because I enjoy driving (I despise it), but because the monotony of it forces me to drift over into right-brained mode, where I am most creative. I've come up with some of my best design ideas and creative problem solving while driving or taking long walks, but I suppose that doesn't really count as meditation either, huh?

The subject came up at coffee yesterday, since one of the Muses is taking a class from a visiting yogi. Again it was explained to me how meditation is a way of banishing monkey-mind and pulling yourself fully into the present moment. Later that afternoon I was outside, watering my plants by hand, when suddenly I thought "Eureka! This is it! This is how I meditate!"

You see, usually, whenever I step outside, or even view my garden through the window, I am immediately bombarded by a thousand little voices, each crying out "Please trim me!", or feed me, or move me, or get these nasty aphids off of me! It's hard for me to concentrate on the garden's beauty, because I'm too busy thinking about all the work that needs to be done.

It is only when I reach for the hose, and turn the faucet handle, that the voices finally go quiet. All of my attention becomes completely focused on the one plant that is beneath this trickle of water, and at last I can see it. Really see it. I notice its tiny details, realize that it's not even one that I planted, and must have been delivered by a bird or the wind. I can see how much it has changed since the last time we visited. Finally, I am fully present in the moment.

Once I have completed my circuit, I go back to the faucet and shut it off. Then I turn around for one last sweeping look. Only this time, I hear no voices. Instead, I am struck dumb by its beauty, and filled with awe at the utter miracle of it all.