I shouldn’t be writing this. No question. I should be on a chair at home staring at a speck on the wall.
I’ve just come home from a four day meditation retreat.
You know the kind.
They take your watch, your phone, your wallet, and your keys when you get there.
You don’t talk unless it is a part of the meditation.
You don’t talk when someone meets you in a hallway.
You don’t talk while you eat miniscule, grainy, leafy meals.
You don’t talk to your roommate. Just nod and get in and out of the bathroom quickly, and into bed. Which is just as well because these days go from maybe 5 or 6 am (there are no watches to look at) to perhaps 10 or 11pm.
You meditate your face off in between.
This sounds awful.
I loved it.
Loved the quiet, loved meals being made for me, and portions being chosen for me. (I assure you I would have chosen portions seven or eight times larger. I would have chosen desserts, too.)
I loved the singular focus of the work, the focusing on one thing all day instead of making breakfast, who walks the dog, where’s my clean shirt, god is it that time already, ooh, I ate too much porridge, jesus, look at my hair, etc. And all of that before leaving for the office to begin a day of ridiculous multi-multitasking.
I love the way my head emptied and stayed empty.
I loved the way my stomach and body felt like a really great dream. Effortlessly.
I love the way, at the end of it all, I stared at my car and my phone and wondered why I own those things.
I love the way I felt about myself, my lovely man, my kids, and my dog when I arrived home.
Do yourself a favour. Meditate.
Some way, somehow, give it a whirl.
Thanks for the conversation,