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Happy New Year, Baby
And, “Baby” is me
I meditated this morning. It was a pathetic facsimile of meditation, I’m afraid. I placed the new purple zafu and zabuton that I got from Luigi for Christmas at the top of my yoga mat. I set the timer on my phone for twenty minutes. I sat cross-legged, straightened my spine, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.
My mind ricocheted wildly within the confines of my skull. A list of things to do began to write itself. It got so bad that I had to get up for a notepad and pen. Or, I believed I had to.
I went on many rides from the platform of my head, down all kinds of alleys, most of them dead-ends. Only occasionally and briefly was I able to bring myself back to the task at hand: my breath. Simply noticing the breath. Simply allowing myself to be breathed.
Even though it was paltry as far as a practice goes, I noticed a change in myself on the walk I took afterward. I went to the mountain, where I knew I wanted to go for the afternoon of New Year’s Eve to, hopefully, assess my Self, my life, 2020. 2021.
The first fifteen minutes, however, were as they often are when I begin these hikes. The trail was muddy. I felt tired. Out of breath, out of shape. Daisy bounded ahead of me. She pooped on the trail. I bitched under my breath.
