Tough love might help me meditate
a response to yesterday
I hate the idea of meditation. Not certain why.
I just hate it.
I won’t do it.
There’s something all encompassing in how the people I respect agree about mediations’ importance and impact that the deviant little prick that I am refuses, full stop, to engage in a meditation practice.
Nor would I ever waste time with a client engaging in a calming meditation that they bring into the world.
I’ve done this. I was desperate. It didn’t help that much other than to fill part of the hour. This therapeutic relationship we had was not a long one.
There’s something about mediation that makes me balk. I still associate the act with a certain type of person I met in University in the early 1990’s: Round glasses, colourful Himalayan hats hiding dirty blonde hair, djembes, and of course, patchouli. I think it was patchouli. Either that or it was vapid arrogance. I’m not sure. Either way, cynical Jim had little time for those guys.
But am I still cynical Jim?
A little bit. Yeah.
I’m ridiculous: here’s this thing - meditation - and it’s really good for me. Like a vaccine is good for me. I like vaccines. I took that. But meditation? I struggle with the idea.
I struggle with the idea because I would hate to tell those smug bastards they are right.
I struggle with the idea despite that I associate some pretty good people with meditation.
First impressions are really tough to shake. The first meditation people I met made a big impression. Despite that, I think there are and have been many times in my life where I meditated by mistake.
Theatre school was filled with guided meditations.
Yoga practice regularly had meditation.
None of these experiences were bad. In fact, they were pretty damn great. Meditation seemed ok if it was part of something else.
But meditators, people who were really into meditation? I was and still am somehow put off by this.
My apologies if you are a ‘meditator’. I don’t mean to offend.
I mean, some of my best friends dabble, a bit, with, you know.
That practice thing.
I’ll say it.
Now I feel a bit dirty.
There are days lately I don’t recognize myself.
Writing about meditation?
What’s next? I shudder to think.
Don’t worry. Becoming vegetarian would only become an option if I ran out of people to eat.
No. I don’t eat people.
My apologies friends if my post from yesterday had a brutal edge.
In my mind, this is a story about resilience and play.
When my father used to undo my work with a joke, the younger me was pissed off. I called him every name in the book after he left.
Looking back, the older me loves how well I can stack wood. This skill helped me. It helped when I worked at the campground and was able to do things well. That felt good. Learning to work efficiently did not feel good. I dreaded working for my dad.
It wasn’t fun. It was work. And the sense of mastery that I enjoyed years later makes the struggle worth it in retrospect.
The tough love was my father trusting that I could take having a pile of wood knocked down and betting that struggling would help me in the long run. It worked. Kinda. Good enough for the time.
Now? I stack wood how I want. I play with it. After the tough love of learning how to stack wood well, I have skill in stacking wood. This allows me to play with the skill and do things differently.
Though I hated learning to stack wood at the time, learning how was a gift to my future self.
Meditation might also be such a gift.
Perhaps I need some tough love to get over the hump.
And as such, do any of you want the biggest window in your house broken?
Because you know the famous saying:
If you’re going to learn to meditate, you’ll have to break a few windows first.