My meditation journey began in winter, just in the nick of time. It has prepared me for the nightmare in which we all find ourselves, or at least given me a place of grounding when the world is falling apart outside our home. The first few weeks, in small sessions of just a few minutes at a time, I saved it for the end of the evening, usually after my shower and before I went to bed. It was an ideal way of preparing for slumber: setting the scene for stilling the frantic pace of a day.
I grew into the habit, elongating the meditation into fifteen minutes – still a small window compared to, say, a freaking monk – but more than enough to lend a new calm to my routine. (My plan is to slowly expand to half an hour by the time summer ends and I need an extra dose of calm.)
Coming after dusk descended, the darkness was softened by candlelight and the glowing embers of a stick of mystical Palo Santo wood. I enjoyed these sessions in the dark, hidden away from the world cloaked in the night, swaddled by the warmth of rose quartz in my palm. I also recognized that my enjoyment was partly because it was becoming a ritual, and as a Virgo, I like ritual. Part of my journey of late, however, has been in allowing change to happen without freaking out or fighting against it. Such as in learning to work from home with the current state of the world. As much as I know it’s the best and safest thing to do, and I’m completely in support of it, I would much rather work in the office. It has taken some adjustment. That’s where moving my meditation came into play. After logging in and working a full day on my computer (which is literally burning up these days in another bout of perfect timing), I found myself feeling more stressed and nerved up than had I actually been in the office. It was an untenable but necessary circumstance, so on the second day of the new work-at-home schedule, I moved my daily meditation to right after the work day ended.
There was still light in the sky – lots of it – and the living room was bright and welcoming. I’d forgotten that while darkness could be soothing, light could be uplifting in a different and sometimes grander way. I close my eyes when breathing deeply and going through my meditation, so light or dark made no big difference. What was new was the line of demarcation between work and home life, even as they melded into their shared location. It was a distinctive period of decompression that brought me back to the peaceful atmosphere our home usually provides.
The magic of meditation – it’s a real thing. And a good thing.
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