Sleep walking through the all-night drugstore,
Baptized in fluorescent light,
I found religion in the greeting card aisle,
Now I know Hallmark was right.
~Ani DiFranco
It's been a long time since I posted. First technical difficulties with the blog. Then technical difficulties with the camera software. Then . . . the funk. As Steve Earle once sang so eloquently "my old friend the blues". This is something I've been dealing with (along with most of the American population) for decades. But! I have gotten much better at taming this bully. Much better. I'm actually quite proud of my funk prowess. Next job interview, I'll say, "Oh yes. I have a graduate degree, ran a triathlon, and have my funks down from life crushing to mere blips in my life a couple times a year." OK, maybe not. Plus, 'job interview'?? Who are we kidding here.
Anyway, during my funk, which is still sitting in the car outside, not here, but not quite gone, I started reading the most . . . relevant book that I'd love to share. But first, rewind a few days before the funk and before the book.
Do you ever hear yourself say something, and then another 'you' steps out of your body and says to the Real You, "Really?" And Real You says, "Ya, really." And the Shadow You says, "Hm. Didn't know that's where we were on that. Interesting." Then returns to your body. Please say you do. Well, in any event, I do and last week I was walking with a friend and the subject of 'being still' came up. Probably because we had just ditched the slow, boring stretching part at the end of Body Pump, and I was blabbering on about how glad I was to have an excuse to leave because there's nothing I'm more uncomfortable with than being still and quiet, blah, blah, blah. This brought up the subject of Yoga.
Yoga and I have met, but are barely acquaintances. Years ago, I gave a Yoga class to my father when he retired. He, my mother, and I took the six-week class, and would go to diner after. My dad liked the dinner part the most. This might explain some of my unease with quiet stillness. We are a family more comfortable with, "Oh, waiter! Another appetizer and more wine, please!" Anyway, the instructor in the class talked about the mind being a 'drunken monkey' and for some reason that metaphor has always stuck with me. It's really the only thing I remember from the class, maybe because my mind was entertained by the image of a drunk monkey, and then I stopped listening to the rest of the instruction. An idea of what we're working with here.
My next foray into Yoga was when I was pregnant with my first child. I loved the idea of being all ethereal and bohemian in a dimly lit room with Aveda product smells wafting all around. Going from career to motherhood, I thought of my Yoga class as a perfect portal to the earthiness I was about to live. And I really enjoyed it. I loved the people, the quiet, the stretching, the smells, the instructor, and the way it had nothing to do with my regular life. The only part I disliked was the meditation part at the end. Hated that. I either fell asleep and snored for all the class to snicker at or lay anxious and annoyed planning my escape while everyone else was in a peaceful trance. The only reason I didn't crawl for the door was the Southern manners with which I was raised. How rude. So I lay there and either stewed or snored. Never getting one iota of peace, God, vision, or tranquility. Only anxiety that ended in a fake smile and a "thank you" to the instructor before I bolted for the door.
Since these short attempts at the Yoga life, I have considered my inability to quiet my mind a character flaw. I tried meditation several times since and failed dismally. When I sit, I need a good read, magazine, t.v. show, computer, conversation. Even a good daydream or plot or plan. How will I make this? When will I get that? What will I eat next? What is the deal with Tom Cruise? Not stillness. Yuk. Just can't do it. Then I became comfortable with this character trait. Gave into it. Maybe Yoga and meditation are just overrated fads (that are thousands of years old). Onward with my beautiful American life sans quiet mind, and drunken monkey and I headed toward the sunset together, both a little anxious.
Well, the conversation with my friend after Body Pump was the first time I had worn my inability to do the Yoga boogie without shame, almost proudly. And that's why the other me stepped out in moderate surprise. "We've given up on that?" "Yes, we have, now shut up." But it stuck in my mind. Well, for a second, until it was replaced with thoughts about purses.
Then the funk came, and I started cleaning stuff. A funk medicinal activity. I had a magazine stack two-feet high in my bedroom, and began wading through it. Throwing most of it out, I kept probably three publications out of twenty. Skimming through those three over the trash can, the meditation thing came up in all of them. (OK, two of them. Issue #86 of my Springsteen fanzine didn't mention meditation. Or Yoga. But it did have Steve Earl on the cover.) Anyway, two of the publications I read gushed about the zillion and one reasons humans should practice a thing called mindfulness. Pff. Whatever. Here we go again. But I couldn't ignore it given my current state of negativity and self doubt. Another, "Hm, interesting" then they were tossed into the recycle bin.
And here's where the book comes in. It's a very popular, bestseller that's worked its way through every book club in America called Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. She's very readable, very funny, and very easy to relate to. The story starts with her divorcing her husband and realizing she doesn't want children, things I do not have in common with her. I cling to my husband like a tree monkey and always wanted a house full of kids. But, she goes on a spiritual journey that is so real and truthful, you can't help but identify. And, of course, the Yoga thing comes up. Meditation. Mindfulness. Again. Good God. But she puts it in a plain language that makes it accessible, and her experiences are authentic and very American. Adding to her charm, she goes on her quest for spiritual enlightenment only after eating her way through Italy for three months. Love it.
So, I've been . . . moved by all these unrelated scraps of pop culture coming together like a vortex in my home, to try again. I have a life so beautiful it's embarrassing. I manage it well, but it could be so much better, if I could just get this drunken monkey off my back.
So, stay tuned for spastic-unused-People magazine reading-mommy-brain meets Yoga, meditation, and mindfulness. Wish me luck!
: :
On a lighter note, I found this in our sofa the other day. Any guesses as to what it is? Answer in next post.
