Sitting and Breathing: Day 19

I didn’t want to do the meditation thing today. I mean… I did it, but I didn’t want to. I woke up and watched that new movie on Brexit, went to FedEx to get new passport photos and print out some stuff that needed signing, and get my dog some food. Then I watched the bus – not more than 30 feet from me – roll away from my stop right when traffic cleared enough for me to cross the street.

“FUCK!” I yelled as I hefted the 33lb bag of dog food higher onto my shoulder. I conceded defeat and called a Lyft.

See? Now I’m avoiding talking about meditation by telling you about my day. Today was Thinking Meditation, which has a simple premise – acknowledge that you’re having thoughts and that those thoughts don’t make you who you are. Let them come and go like visitors. Well, I wasn’t too interested in any visitors today, but I sat down and breathed for a while about it anyway.

The other night I had a small gathering at my house, and I essentially unwittingly connected a person whom I am interested in with another of my friends by inviting them both to the same place. Then I invited everyone back to my apartment, and by doing that I handed them a space to hook up in. I fell asleep briefly on my couch, and when I woke up to move to my bed, I had to kick them out of my room.

I don’t harbor any animosity toward either of them – we’re all adults and we all like to party. I wasn’t, however, entirely okay with it either. I’d been avoiding putting any direct light on it in my mind, and I knew that today’s meditation practice would undoubtedly settle on the subject. Sometimes being right is annoying.

It was necessary that I do this today (both the meditating and the writing about it). I needed to show myself that I could stick to this, and I also needed some concentrated time to process my feelings on the matter.

I’m left feeling like the partying lifestyle is no longer one I’m terribly interested in pursuing. That’s not to say that I’ll shun partying going forward, necessarily, but I don’t feel as drawn to it as I once did. Each time I engage in some partying, I’m left with a feeling of remorse. I wish I hadn’t spent the money I did, I wish I hadn’t wasted my time on meaningless conversations that nobody remembers the next day, and I wish I hadn’t set myself up for hurting yet again.

Additionally, I feel like I’m trying to combat loneliness with these social interactions, and they’re only making it worse. Clearly, I’m a social being and it’s necessary to foster relationships with people, but I feel like I’m being selfish by getting close to people here because I know I’ll just be leaving next January. I’m not sure where the happy medium is there, but it’s something I’ll be putting some serious thought into going forward.

I don’t feel like rereading this, so sorry if there are typos or whatever. I’ll be back with more sitting and breathing tomorrow. Cheers.

The Process

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Look at how contemplative and artsy that shit is! LOOK!

Ya know… I didn’t go into this writing thing with the thought that my perspective on the world and its goings on needed to or would change in any way, but I’ve noticed a shift that’s worth mentioning. The process of sifting through my past for things worth discussing is a strange combination of cathartic and anxiety-provoking.

I find myself flying over forests of memories, then every so often a single tree catches my eye. Most of the trees are too obfuscated by time, a life of rotational inebriation, or a lack of enough interest to recall their details. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I see one clearly – I circle over it, looking at it from different angles, trying to decide if it’s worth landing on. Sometimes it isn’t, and I resume my aloof perusing from the comfort of the clouds, but other times I like the shape of the branches, or the feel of the bark, or the color of the leaves, so I land.

Some trees have a beautiful aesthetic, and I can play around in them for my enjoyment, and ideally the enjoyment of the reader. Some trees are riddled with thorns that I must endure, ideally also for the enjoyment of the reader. Some feel like coming home, some feel like I’m standing on fucking thorns the whole time (I don’t need another metaphor there – thorns suck and so do some of my memories).

Sometimes the damn things are just too uncomfortable to get close to. It’s both exciting and frustrating to find these particular memories, because I know I’ve struck writer’s gold when I can’t bring myself to confront them, and eventually, I’ll have to endure the shitty feelings for long enough to get it in writing. I’m sorry to say, you’ll have to buy the book to get those stories (I’m not that sorry – it’ll be a good book).

I suppose that even in those instances, I get some sense of enjoyment, or at least some long-term benefit. Even when it’s at its worst, this process can offer some degree of healing. I had a spent bullet casing lodge itself in my collar once, and by the time I got it out, the water forced from my skin had already cooled it to a manageable temperature. I ignored the burn for what was probably too long, and it got infected. After my first shower in a while, I scrubbed away at the wound with a rough washcloth until it was raw again. Now it’s healed and you can barely see the scar.

Point is, the process can be like scrubbing an infected burn wound with a rough washcloth, but eventually it’ll heal over more completely than it would have if you hadn’t done that. Or at least that’s the hope. If it doesn’t, I’ll at least try to make the scrubbing look choreographed. Either way, I hope you enjoy the spectacle.