I’m trying to meditate more, which shouldn’t be hard. I have an app I like. I give myself permission to fall asleep if it plays out that way, and I don’t expect anything much to come of it besides a little bit of routine and relaxation in my day. Even with all of those allowances, some days I just don’t manage to do it.
Last night I felt overwhelmed. After I washed my face, I pulled out a piece of paper and started brain dumping. The scrawl wasn’t about writing. This wasn’t a nighttime version of the infamous “morning pages” I’ve tried and tried and tried — and always fail — to implement into my routine. Literally I just started writing the things I had to do today or wanted to do today or had to write down because they need to be done this week, and I would have forgotten them if I didn’t put pen to paper.
I used one of my Mary Oliver books of poetry to create a harder surface than the extra pillows on my bed. As I sat there, wondering what else might come to my frantic — though somewhat quieter — thoughts, the book fell open to one of my favorite. (I mean, it’s one of my favorites. It didn’t fall to that page because of any sort of divine message. It fell open because the spine is cracked in that particular section.)
and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain- not a single
answer has been found-
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one. (from “First Snow” by Mary Oliver)
I often feel like the first four lines. Maybe often is an exaggeration, but many nights I go to sleep with unanswered questions weighing on my mind, waiting for me to awaken and ponder them all over again the next day. I wish I could find the answers in the solace of nature, whether its peace or ferocity, the way Mary Oliver finds her breath there.
I guess I should keep trying, though the blankets of snow always look better from my window than they do when I pull on boots and trek out into the bitter air. I do love the way the snow muffles the noise or the way it covers the gray and the brown, at least until it’s disturbed by time or rain or warmer air.
I wonder if I will ever find those moments of peace through anything except hard work, pulled from exercise or a hand cramped from journalling.
I wonder if these scribbled lists, these late night scrawls, count as meditation, at least a little.
I wonder if I’ll sleep better. (I didn’t then, but maybe tonight, with even more words spilled from my thoughts, this time on this screen instead of a folded piece of paper tucked in a planner, more tasks added than crossed off today. Somehow, though, the panic is gone.
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