I've discovered that I am not very good at sitting. I don't mean sitting--I mean sitting. Sitting as in being absolutely still, mind as open as the endless sky, connecting with my deepest unspoken self, trying to tune in to whoever/whatever governs the universe.
When it comes to ordinary, everyday sitting, I'm a champ: Sitting in front of the television, sitting curled up with a book, sitting with my arms wrapped around my dog, sitting drinking coffee with friends, sitting at the dinner table with my kids. To steal a line from Garrison Keillor, I can sit with the best of them.
Sitting, on the other hand, is an art I have yet to master. But I keep trying.
When I am alone in the house I settle onto my bed, or on a pillow on the floor, cross my legs meditation style, place my hands--palms up and open--on my knees, and close my eyes. I am sitting; physically, at least.
Then comes the tricky part--quiet, spiritual, internal sitting. I work to sweep my mind clear of all thoughts, whisking aside the dust bunnies of minutiae in order to clear the path to a higher level of consciousness. I focus on my breathing. In, out... I am at peace, I am a blank slate, awake, aware...
Did I say I was alone in the house? That wasn't quite accurate. With two cats and two dogs in residence, no one is ever truly alone in my house. And if you ever want to pique the interest of your four-legged cohabitants, try sitting absolutely still in absolute silence. Lack of human movement exerts some kind of inexplicable magnetic pull on dogs and cats.
As I sit, as I slowly approach that gossamer-thin line between "awake" and "aware," I feel the pressure of two small but weighty paws on my thigh, followed by a damp, chilly speck of a nose pecking my cheek. It's my Sadie, whose feline logic dictates that if I am sitting absolutely still, the only activity I should be engaged in is brushing her thick, silky, coat while repeatedly assuring her of her tremendous beauty.
I push her away four or five times before she understands that her presence is not welcome at this particular moment. Insulted, she flicks her tail haughtily and stalks away. I blow my nose to clear away the loose cat hair and begin again. Palms up and open, eyes closed, all thoughts swept aside...
The deep silence is broken by a dry, grinding crunching, the sound an army of boot-clad cockroaches marching over gravel. Opening one eye, I see Sadie crouched over her food dish. She's chomping viciously, as though devouring a fresh kill. Is she truly hungry, or is this deliberate, malicious chewing, Sadie's revenge for my rebuff? I can't stop to ponder that now.
I shake my head, close my eyes, try again... Breathe in, breathe out. Silence. Emptiness. Peace.
What can I make for dinner? Daniel and Melissa will both be home. Dan will eat almost anything, but Melissa's a vegetarian. Spaghetti!
But it's awfully hot out; won't boiling the pasta make the kitchen even –
STOP. I rein in my swirling thoughts. Such mental meanderings while meditating are sometimes referred to as the monkey mind. The monkey mind and the ego work in tandem to prevent those who meditate from reaching a higher spiritual awareness. It is the job of the spiritual seeker to calm the monkey mind and silence the ego. It takes patience, persistence and practice.
So. Another deep breath. Another clearing of my mental palate. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in the swampy scent of warm, damp dog breath. Open one eye. There's Indy, my schnauzer, his adoring, grinning, dopey dog face inches from my own face. Apparently I've been sitting still too long, and Indy is reminding me that there are other tasks requiring my attention, such as rubbing his belly and doling out a few Milk Bones.
Indy is more easily dissuaded than Sadie. One gentle push and he's back to his spot at the foot of the bed, back to sleep until his dog timer goes off again.
So. Eyes closed, focused on breathing... stillness. Ah, peace.
A door slams downstairs. Indy springs from the bed like he's been shot from a cannon. His wild barks mingle with familiar voices and laughter. At least two of my kids are here, possibly all three.
"Mom? Mom!" Daniel calls.
"Upstairs!" I yell back, untangling my legs, feeling the silent hum of meditative peace dissipate in a single breath. I hurry downstairs to sit in the midst of my family, and while it isn't sitting sitting, it brings me joy, it gives me peace, and it unfailingly connects me with my deepest, truest, happiest self.
The "absolutely still" part can wait until tomorrow.
Deb Pascoe of Marquette is a freelance writer and a peer recovery coach for Child and Family Services of the U.P. A former columnist for The Mining Journal, her book, "Life With a View ," a collection of her past columns, is available in area bookstores.