Twenty minutes to sit down and close my eyes to meditate most days and there’s much luck in that opportunity being available to me. The breath in and out, the sound of the washing machine clicking through cycles, the birds singing and tweeting and fighting outside the window, the popping of the house’s steel frame, strange images that come from nowhere and have no reference point in my past, the odd thought roaming through everything and morphing me into an other, the wobbling of consciousness from pinpoint focus to bodily awareness to an overarching observation of everything that threatens to distract me by spilling into euphoria, a panicky intellectual back and forth that can only be described as self fighting self.
The eyes open, the minutes pass, the hours between the next meditation, and I’m sitting down with a strange idea that life is mediation. The difference between the day-to-day and mindful practice is not as clear as it once was. This may or may not be a sign that I’m on the right path.