I have developed a habit of meditating every morning right
after I wake up. Most times, I roll out
of bed first to pee, but immediately come back to the warmest spot in the house
(my bed) and sit meditation for at least ten minutes. I observe what Buddhists
refer to as monkey-mind, or what I like to call, the pendulum swing between monkeys sleeping
and monkeys going full-blown dookie-throwing ape-shit.
Because I didn’t sit meditation on this particular morning, I just *knew* my day would just be brilliant.
Because I didn’t sit meditation on this particular morning, I just *knew* my day would just be brilliant.
I sped through a bunch of errands in the morning as I
anticipated two phone calls, which never came.
I had not set up phone dates with either of these people, but because of
recent contact with them in which I solicited my services, I (or rather, Ego)
naturally assumed that I would be tied up with getting those projects going.
Of course: no phone call came.
In my irritation at them not recognizing the opportunity
that I am (Ego speaking loudly here), and not JUMPING to snatch me up, I hastily threw together a heavily processed lunch
involving a high count of sugars/simple carbs. I topped
it off with a huge mug of coffee to wash it down.
I blew off my to-do list (no one was going to tell Ego what to do) and restlessly worked on various projects for a couple of
hours with jittery A.D.D. strength when remembered I hadn’t worked out yet.
Ugh.
Treadmill? Weights? Ugh. No--that all involved with counting reps,
sets, and repeating moves over and over again.
I did NOT want to count. (Yes, I really didn’t lift weights/run for that
reason.)
I grabbed my yoga mat and stared at it for a whole minute.
Ugh.
The last thing I wanted to do was to stop or slow
down. I had to keep going, keep
moving. For me,
yoga right would be like driving a Porsche (Ego here again) at 220 mph
into brick wall deceptively camoflauged to look like feathers. How the hell was I going to move in slow motion
and focus on my in-breath/out-breath?
Naturally, my dogs sensed my mood, woke from their naps and followed my lead, but felt compelled to vocalize their ape-shit thoughts. Here, let me translate their
conversation :
Mom! Mom! Juno won't play with me!
No, look at that hot
bitch outside walking their human! Aye mami!
Let me get a sniff of that!
Oh look, half a
ball. Let’s toss it on Mom’s mat!
No, I’d rather
copulate with myself ! Noisily!
Hey look! A bird!
I want to pee!
I want to talk!
Loud noises!
I want to talk AND
pee!
(Believe it or not, I’m still a dog lover.)
(I also want to apologize for how this font turns my exclamation points into lower case Ls.)
I let my wily canines out, rolled out my mat, and said, “I HATE YOU.” I meant it. My mat said nothing in return.
(I also want to apologize for how this font turns my exclamation points into lower case Ls.)
I let my wily canines out, rolled out my mat, and said, “I HATE YOU.” I meant it. My mat said nothing in return.
What followed was a violent barrage of quick asanas. There was no hold-this-pose-for-three-breaths.
Instead, it was a furious dance of anger. Plank was held by pissed-off balled fists
instead of flattened palms. Jumping my
feet forward to move into Chair pose felt like a stomping into a person's chest. When I moved into Warrior I, I fought the
urge to raise only my middle fingers to the sky.
Somewhere in my yoga tantrum, I stopped thinking about my
anger. I can’t say that I stopped feeling it, because the rate of my
movement through my free-style sequence would say otherwise and I can still feel the agni (fire) burning through me while writing this. But that violent, bitter edge is off.
I know I could have gone hard with weights or pushed it on
the treadmill, but somehow my body knew that the fight was me-against-me (that
is, the collective “I” against that one pushy sector, Ego) and that I needed to
take it to the mat.
Do I feel like skipping on the playground and planting
flowers right now? No. But I certainly
don’t feel like shoving kids off the jungle gym & ripping bulbs from the
ground. Tomorrow, I won't hastily throw a sugary lunch together and I certainly won’t forgo my morning
centering practice. But if I ever do, at
least I know where I can get free 24-hour access to a boxing ring.
