As I was meditating tonight I found myself struggling to keep my thoughts where I wanted them to be. Which was gone and to leave me in quiet. What an ego I have. That I should think after a few short months I would have any control over this process at all is laughable. Actually, the further I go down the rabbit hole; the thought that I have any control over anything is laughable.
The more I meditate the more I wonder if the point of meditation is not to learn to control the mind as much as it is to purge the soul. That perhaps there comes a point in every person’s life that practices meditation, when there is just no more that needs to be purged. Once in that moment, you find enlightenment.
My memories, that once made me psychically ill or instantly angry, seem to float up to the top of my mind so slowly and sweetly during my meditations today. Like a balloon searching out its new home in the clouds. Nothing to fear from this thought. This once horrific memory taps me so gently on the shoulder, as if we are long lost friends and it just wants to say hello.
The most remarkable thing is that I find I am not scared of these thoughts as I once was. I do not work to fight them back or to make them what I need them to be. I do not need to play the victim or the villain anymore. Although sometimes I still choose to indulge myself those comforts. No, if I choose to, I can see them for what they are now. They were just moments in time, moments in my life. Moments that have made me what I am today, both good and bad. Moments that bridge the gaps between my soul and so many others.
When I began meditating I could best describe my mind like a packed movie theater. My mind was the theater, my memories were the movies playing and my emotions made up the audience. Every night was a packed house in those early days and each time I sat down to meditate it was like someone yelled “FIRE” in that theater. I would be overwhelmed with panic and could feel my emotions trying to push their way out of me, whether I wanted them to come out or not.
This, of course, would result in me berating myself for not being anything like His Holiness, The Dali Lama and serve as further proof that I was a total hopeless case beyond any or all redemption. Now having confirmed my hopelessness to be true, I would be assured of either a long, miserable and lonely existence or spontaneous combustion. I was sure those were the only two options. I was also sure that having briefly skimmed over “Meditation for Dummys” at some point in my twenties, taking a handful of yoga classes, finding Sting sexy and being on my THIRD week of rehab (not first or second, but THIRD week) made me an expert in meditation. There was just no good reason I could not sit still for hours at a time and shoot sunshine out of my fingertips on command yet.
All of this would take place over what seemed to me to be fifteen or twenty minutes. Imagine my dismay when I would open my eyes to take a look at the clock and I would see that only three tiny little minutes had ticked by. It would be about that point that I would quietly realize to myself I was totally insane.
