Having meditated daily for several years now, I find myself sinking into the sort of lazy going-through-the-motions rut that any daily activity often ends up eliciting. Right now, my meditations are fifteen minutes long, but it’s not a solid fifteen minutes. I take my time to begin – pausing at the front door and looking outside, sometimes stepping out and sitting on the front step if the weather is nice. Trying to inhale and savor the scent of summer – or spring or fall if that’s where we are – I begin my deeper breathing. (Even in winter, a moment outside in the fresh air can tip the day into something more hopeful than what it might have been in the moment before.)
From there, I return inside and light the tip of a stick of Palo Santo, ringing the Tibetan singing bowl I found in Maine. Sinking into the deep breathing fully, I close my eyes and begin the meditation in earnest. Sometimes the mind wanders, refusing to be brought into the focus of that sought-after blank space. Sometimes the mind calms itself, pushing thoughts away like a room slowly emptying and simultaneously expanding, the walls and floor becoming whiter and blanker until there is just the breath and the space and the stillness.
Lately, I’ve been pushing my meditations closer to the end of the day in an effort to ease into slumber, instead of doing them as soon as the work day was done. There are benefits to both, though in the summer it’s best to get all the outside work done during the daylight hours, saving the calmer tasks like meditation for darkness. We strike the summer when it’s hot – and summer is always too short.
Meditation is sometimes like sleep – either restful and impactful or restless and uninspiring. To make the most of it, I’m going to return to the focused work with which I began this meditation journey. It’s all within grasp, and I’m likely going to need it in the next few weeks as the anniversary of Dad’s final decline and passing arrives.
