Deep Exhale

I don't always meditate, but when I do, I find that it helps me in significant ways.



It's been a long time since I've pursued meditation as a mode of living....that is, made time for it on a consistent basis such that it became foundational in my life. A very long time. This is unfortunate, but understandable....I just fail to carve out a station for it in my day-to-day activities. Perhaps it is that I am unwilling to commit to it because I've got more important priorities (unlikely, considering how much time I spend socializing and imbibing, etc.), or perhaps it is that I am intimidated by it. I can't precisely calculate the equation which leaves me in vapid stupors of non-reflection. The more frustrating angle, however, is that each time I *do* make time for it, it ends up being incredibly fruitful and rewarding. I have such a solid track record with it making me feel good, feel great, that I don't know why my brain refuses to make a habit of it. Maybe I feel the need to do it in a social setting, so that I don't feel so secluded during my time spent sitting. I'm sure that Portland, of all cities, has active communities who pursue awareness and presence together. Perhaps I've just slipped into a mode of being too hedonistic, and I need to consciously redirect my intentions towards the more fulfilling motions of thought~

Regardless, I sat down on my meditation cushion the other day with the intention of just staring out my floor-level single-pane window and trying to void my mind of thoughts. This, as some of you may know, is a startlingly difficult task to accomplish the first time that you sit after a long drought of meditation. Your mind rebels against you, trying to prod you towards social activities or the numbing sensations of the internet. Your body clashes with your intention as well, persistently trying to realign itself into poor postures and arched limbs. Posture may be an even bigger struggle for me personally than the thought redirection, to be honest...it's one of the things I've hoped that meditation would help me to improve (and it has, but only when I am consistent with it). A distracted mind is mildly frustrating when you cannot reign it in, but an ill-postured body causes physical pain after about five minutes....which - at least my mind - tends to treat on a higher order of attention.

I didn't have a terribly long sit; perhaps twenty minutes all said. Mental frustration, bodily fatigue, communicative distractions all in play. Near the end, however, I remembered a little technique that the Shambhala crew in Boulder taught me during one of their classes...."Breathing in, I am myself. Breathing out, I am here". It sounds nonsensical if you haven't shared in the stock of meditative frustrations, I am sure, but this little phrase has helped me immensely over the years. Most seasoned meditation initiates that you speak to (or yoga, or tai-chi; what have you) will tell you that one of the most important functions is breath. From what I gather, both in word and in practice, is that this is because focusing on your breathing gives you something simple, something rhythmic, to sharpen the blade of your mind upon. It does not involve words - which as far as voiding your mind goes, helps significantly - and it caresses your entire being, lulling you into a focused complacency (perhaps it mimics beta waves in your brain, or some such hard science). All I know is that it leaves you with purely physical responses....an inward-focus that observes the breath as it enters and exits your body, and the general path of that lifeblood as it circulates through you in between the two.

Personally, as I breathe in and out, I find it helps me greatly to focus on the aforementioned mantra...breathing in, I am myself; breathing out, I am here. When I flow over the first half in my mind, as I breathe in, it somehow delivers to me a wordless phantasmagoria of all the most significant images and notions in my life which I have come to associate with myself. Pictures swirl around my head like turning pages in a photo album, and trails of words, morals, demons, personal meanings and truths snake around the contours of my body and mind, informing and defining me in all the ways which I have become accustomed to being an isolated, self-contained consciousness. There are countless reasons why this is a powerful experience, but most prominently and forefront in my mind is that is plucks me from the amalgam of society like some sort of spiritual crane-game, focusing me on myself, both my meanings and my methods, for best and for worst.

Secondly, I exhale, reciting the second half of the guidance: breathing out, I am here. This phrase immediately grounds me....wraps up my whole from the in-breath, wordless but colorful, and plants it firmly in the ground wherever I happen to be. My roots flood outward, connecting to objects and expanses which surround me, and I feel the empowerment of being a sentient being placed in a specific time and place, with the self-capacity necessary to change all of it, any of it, if I so choose to, either by plotted plan or capricious whim. It stirs up a frenzy of appreciation for the ability to be here (there), to perceive and process everything that is going around me, and for the gift of self-agency which brought me here and continues to bring me farther still in every waking moment.

The I repeat, recycle, until clean or overly-fatigued.

These two concepts, anchored on the in-breath and the out-breath, create a powerful orbit of awakening within me, a cadence which structures my mind. When I step away from meditating, these things stick with me for a time (sometimes short, sometimes longer) and generate an intentional consciousness which is less distracted, more precise and yet more open. I do it for the perspective, I do it for the appreciation which is suddenly infused into each object, each person, each motion and feeling. I do it because it makes me feel, for a time, like the best incarnation of myself that I can possibly be.

Normally this process is incredibly frustrating the first few times that I sit down to do it after being away from any semblance of a routine, but a few days ago, for whatever reason, mental calm pervaded quickly (if not briefly). Each time I am able to relax into the situation, I learn something new about it....information seems to come in waves throughout life; when repeating the same activity, you will gain new perspective upon it. Regardless, a bit of the meaning of what I realized was infused into the last few paragraphs, but essentially it was that the breath embodies both of our human functions within the universe. When breathing in, I effectively breathe the world into myself....taking in its objects, thoughts, sensations, triumphs, and maladies. My body processes them in what way it sees fit, which usually I ask for minimal oversight on, and stores them accordingly. Then, breathing out, I release these transformed impressions back into the world in the form of new thoughts, new actions, new objects and achievements. Essentially I am a processing agent for the universe, perpetually draining it and destroying it, invigorating and renewing it. I see how easy it is to lose control of your own thoughts, your own processes, and in some small way this is doing the world a large injustice. If you find the ability and the strength to maintain focus, to output something equal or better than what you take in, it will transform everything around you.

To breathe is an art form; to breathe is life. Our breath is the breath of the universe.

The Art of War

Alright, I haven't updated this business since I was in Europe, which last I checked was over 2 months ago. I'm bordering on a large amount of frustration with my novel, and I think the main problem is Colorado Springs. I mean, perhaps it is my mindstate, and I shouldn't be blaming something as mindless and unlikely as an entire city. Still, though, I feel like there is some merit to the claim when analyzed in the proper light.

Moreso than anything else, it is MY particular experience of this city. I have a few scattered friends left here, but the majority of them are either running in ruts that they have dug for themselves, or trapped in downward-spiraling relationships which rust over most of the basic enjoyments of life for them. This is a frustrating position for me to be in, because I feel like I don't have a correct or healthy social outlet to really satiate my appetites for interaction. In Portland and especially in Europe, I had droves of people to express myself to and explore with. Here, I barely have a reason to leave the house. You would think, at first glance, that this would be good for a writing project...giving me plenty of time to buckle down and get invigorated about the world that I am creating in my head. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, this is not working well for me. When I get up in the morning, I often look at my computer and feel a shiver of revulsion towards it. I occupy myself in other ways, with books or movies or something of the sort. Then I start to feel guilty because I know I have so much progress that I need to be spindling off my fingertips, and it is not happening.

Sometimes I do find bursts of inspiration....I usually try to write at least once or twice a day. Most of these efforts end in frustration (and moreso, distraction, I think because I feel socially unfulfilled for the time being), but some of them do result in writing and story progress which I am proud of. I'm at least making progress, even if not at the clip that I would hope for. The mainline of this post, however, is a concern about writing in general, because I feel that my hesitance and dodging of it is beginning to color the activity, the experience of actually writing, in a dismal grey. Whereas before....perhaps before, it was a vibrant green, or a cerulean blue~

Karl at Trident (where I currently am, coincidentally) once told me that the most important time to write, to his mind, was when you were most frustrated with your writing process and lack of inspiration. It rung somewhat true to me at the time, but I'm beginning now to realize how many pages of experience that sentence probably resonated with in his mind. I was amateur (at best) then; hell, I would be hard-pressed to call myself anything but amateur still. This guy was probably in his mid-fifties, though, so to him it must be (even though I didn't know it at the time he spoke it) an overarching axiom which governed his life, his entire creative process. Now that I can apply my more seasoned perspective to this one-upon-a-statement of his, it begins to snowball with meaning. I can only imagine that it will continue to do so for the rest of my life, or writing career....whichever turns out to be shorter.

I know deep down that if I continue to press on in my efforts to write (I am talking now about a singular instance, one moment where I apply my fingers to the keyboard and try to push one of them a millimeter down, enough to make a single character register - but knowing that to do this is a first brushstroke, and it will necessarily govern every one which follows it), I will eventually break through to expressing something potent, something which I feel is meaningful to me personally, to the point where sentences will begin to tumble through my mind faster than my hands can record them. That's the goal; also the rub. Many times that I end up sitting with my hands resting gingerly on the keys, I cannot make that first millimeter-drop. I get anxious. And when that happens, your body expresses itself as it usually does in situations of anxiety: activating your fight-or-flight response; stealing electricity from your imagination and surging instead straight to the amygdala. Then I just close the screen....then I just turn on an episode of Seinfeld.

I feel like if I had more satiation, my creativity would flow much more freely. My mind would latch easier onto concepts, and develop them in intriguing ways. This city in Winter, however, leaves me feeling stagnant on many fronts. It drones and buzzes and dulls the blade of my mind, and I think this is fatiguing me....physically, from just sitting much of the time and perhaps not getting enough exercise (a writer's curse as well), but also mentally, crushing my creativity by not supplying an outlet for interaction with nature, for witticisms traded amongst friends, for philosophy which juices the mind for all its contents.

I'll do my best with the situation as I can until I get back to Portland. Only a month more~ The goal is a first draft by the time I arrive. We'll find out if that's a reasonable expectation.