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The candle is lit, the incense is burning, and the
flowers in the vase on the altar next to the Buddha
are lovely and fresh. You are sitting on a black,
pill-shaped cushion that rests on a mat on the floor.
Your legs are folded into the lotus position and you
are facing the wall.
You are in your special room in the basement. A large
window above the altar is opened a crack to allow in a
hint of autumn air. It is the room you have always
wanted, a quiet place where you can do yoga or
meditate. A place of silence, serenity, and oneness; a
place where you can relax, where you can find your
center. A sanctuary.
In the kitchen upstairs, the refrigerator begins to
hum.
You have taken the day off from work. Business at the
shop is slow and you will not be missed. Perhaps you
should have called your husband to let him know, but
he wouldn’t mind. He understands your needs and
supports you. After all, he converted this dank and
chilly storage space into a room especially for you.
The new carpet, the fresh paint, and the larger window
all were his ideas. He even built the wall mounted
altar himself. It proves that he truly loves you.
There is no doubt about that now.
You are in the room and facing the wall, your eyes
downcast and partly open. You remember your training:
Breathe in, breathe out. Simple. Just let the breath
go where it will. The tightness in your chest will go
away if you don’t fight it. Just follow your breath,
the rising and falling of your chest, the cool air at
your nostrils coming in and the warm air going out.
Thoughts will come and go, too. Notice them but don’t
become attached to them.
Only a month ago you learned to meditate, and it
really seems to help. Your mind is quieter and you are
more relaxed--centered, grounded. But the instructor
said that this is not the point of meditation. It’s
about being present in this moment, no matter what
comes, like it or not. Everything else is extra. This
is your training.
Outside, the recycling truck rumbles up into the
cul-de-sac and stops at your house. The dumper groans
like a wounded animal, bottles crash, a man yells, and
the truck rumbles away.
The candlelight from the altar casts a jittery shadow
of your body on the wall. Your nose itches and it
starts to drive you crazy. You want to scratch, but
you remember your training. Just stay with the itch,
let it be, it won’t kill you, soon the itch will go
away.
Outside a blue jay screeches and the puppy next door
whines to be let inside. For a moment you feel sad and
want to go out and pet the dog, tell it that
everything’s okay. But you remember your training and
go back to following your breath. Just let the sadness
go. Everything changes, the instructor said. Holding
on to anything--good or bad--causes suffering. This is
an important lesson.
Upstairs, the phone rings three times, stopping just
before the answering machine picks up. Probably a
telemarketer, you think, and go back to following your
breath.
Lately you have been happy. Your job is inspiring and
fulfilling, your friends are loyal, and your marriage
is healthy. The problems are behind you. Your husband
loves you. After all, he built this room for you.
You catch yourself thinking and remember your
training. Don’t become attached to your thoughts, good
or bad. Just follow your breath, in and out, cool and
warm.
A car pulls into your driveway. Your husband must have
come home early today. Perhaps you should go upstairs
and greet him. But you decide to stay put, breathing
in, breathing out.
First one door slams shut, then another. The front
door opens and two sets of footsteps move through the
living room and down the hallway.
Your body stiffens and your chest tightens. You are
holding your breath and beginning to imagine crazy,
terrible things. But you remember your training. The
mind is like a monkey leaping and swinging from tree
to tree, chattering away nonstop. Everybody has crazy
thoughts, the instructor said, you just shouldn’t
believe them. They aren’t real.
From the bedroom you hear laughter. One voice belongs
to your husband, but you don’t recognize the other.
It’s high-pitched and screechy like the blue jay
outside. Someone stumbles and there is more laughter.
You try to follow your breathing, try to quiet your
mind, try to relax. You try to be present in the
moment. You try not to panic.
Upstairs the sound of the bed rocking and scraping and
pounding the hardwood floor gets louder and faster.
Your breathing gets faster, too. Being present is what
meditation is all about--being present with whatever’s
happening, good or bad. You don’t have to like it,
that’s not the point. Relaxing is not the point.
Quieting the mind is not the point, either. You don’t
have to scratch the itch.
This is your training.
Things finally quiet down upstairs. Outside, the
neighbor’s puppy continues to whine and the
refrigerator is humming again. A few minutes later,
footsteps move from the bedroom down the hallway and
out the front door. Both car doors slam, the engine
starts, and the car drives away.
You breathe in, you breathe out.
The dim candlelight flickers and the shadow of your
body on the wall shudders. The incense has burned out.
A tear trickles down your cheek. You want to wipe it
away, but you don’t move. Everything changes, the
instructor said. You go back to following your breath
and being present in the moment. No matter what, like
it or not.
You are in your special room, facing the wall, and you
remember your training.
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