“The problem with introspection is that it has no end.”― Philip K. Dick 

Prrrow. His glowing, goblin orbs pierce me to my soul, as I roll back over, pulling the delicately, paisley patterned pillow sham over my head. This is what I frequently wake up to. 

I resist but he is insistent. Meeah. His sleek, grey-black, sinewy body pounces off my own, as I peek out checking for daylight. “Not yet!” I grumble. “It’s still your curfew.” He can’t be out between ten at night and six in the morning, or he breaks into people’s houses through the cat doors. Seriously. 

He scratches at the grey upholstered chest at the foot of my bed. Honestly, it reminds me of one of those couches from the 90’s. It’s not entirely grey; it has some odd pastel pattern worked into its nubby fabric. It was probably once part of a couch set; most likely it came from a thrift store. I store my sweaters in it. 

Prrrow! Scrtich, scratch, ratta ta tatata. That’s the noises his little nails make in the fabric, but it might as well be my brain at this point. “Cut it out!” I bellow. 

I know damn well I’m not going back to sleep but I pretend it’s a possibility for a moment longer, not knowing what time it is, as the sun has not announced itself, yet, through my giant, uncovered southern facing window. A small, muscly body bounds onto the bed and nestles in near my face, gently placing his paw on my chin as if to say, “Sorry mom.” 

“Dick” I mumble, as I doze back off just as my alarm jangles it’s all too cheery elevator tune from the bedside table. I fumble for it under the iron legs of the lamp and switch it off. 

Might as well get up now, I’m supposed to meditate anyway. I tend to meditate in odd places; a city bus perhaps, if I rode the bus, or maybe while I’m getting a tattoo. That one is true, I always wind up meditating when I get inked. Another place I like to mediate is in the cold pool at the spa. The water is usually about 60 degrees and I dunk my tingling body in, after a turn in the pool that is legally kept at 113, but is often at least a few degrees hotter. Now that is a great way to mediate. 

Where I don’t meditate is in the privacy of my own home for the five minutes in the morning, and the five minutes in the evening, as I committed to do, as part of my Mindful Life challenge, a facet of the Elephant Academy course I’m once again attending, this time as a mentor. I chose this challenge; no one foisted it on me. It was clearly the right challenge as a month into class, and I have not done it once—gasp!—what? no. 

Yes, I confess, on this I have slacked, but it’s time to face the music, or in my case—the silence. I figure to ease myself into this process I will just do it in my bed. Grabbing my phone, I set the timer. It’s only five minutes. I can do anything for five minutes. I write for hours on end, my neck and shoulders say so. Surely I can sit in an upright position and breathe for five measly minutes.

Pulling my legs into a lotusish position, I take a breath and bow as I begin my practice. Dropping my eyes, I let them rest on the bright red-orange-yellow, and blue, butterfly patterned, Pendleton blanket. I breathe in the colors and breath out my annoyance, focusing on my exhale. 

Thoughts parade as a herd of trampling elephants, led by Waylon Lewis whispering, “Just label the thoughts: thinking, thinking, I’m thinking, and return to your breath.” Apparently my thoughts think about Waylon telling me I’m thinking, silly thoughts. I smile and breathe. Oh butterfly blanket, you sure are pretty. 

Then they get more serious. A bill I need to pay pitter-patters across my brain plate. A student I feel guilty about flashes next. Return to my breath. I’m thinking about thinking. Sigh. Oh blanket, you sure are pretty. Geez this is taking a long time. Maybe I should check the phone. No one ever told me time stops when you meditate. 

Return to my breath. Notice my body, some tension in my lower back; my writing chair is not ergonomically appropriate, I think to myself, as I am the only one here. I should pick a new spot other than that low chair without enough back support, but it looks over the street, and out my giant lever operated windows. How else will I spy on my neighborhood when I am writing? Thinking about not using my favorite writing spot is beginning to kind of stress me out then suddenly I remember—I am meditating. 

“Label it thinking and return to your breath.” Who installed Waylon as my inner meditation guide anyway. Sh. Oh yeah. Still thinking. 

This is seriously the longest five minutes of my life. How do people do this? Time is not right. This isn’t right. I am not right—oh yea, that’s ’cause I’m thinking again. I surrender to my breath, into the moment, eyes gazing downward I let it all go. Sigh. Pretty butterfly blanket. 

Ahhh. Seriously though. I reach for my phone, suspicious. Twenty minutes have gone by. I had set the timer for five hours, instead of five minutes. So this is how meditation works!

William Blake nailed it:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 

And Eternity in an hour

…or at least 5 measly minutes.

Author: Justice Bartlett

Image: Author’s own.