Yoga the Bear

I have spent the majority of my life thinking that meditation was some deep spiritual practice for someone else. Someone who was slightly less impatient, or who's interior monologue wasn't quite so chaotic. OK, I envisioned a long haired new-age Yogi in loose cotton pants sitting crosslegged on a rock overlooking the forest, or gliding silently through the early morning mist towards a mountain top Ashram. The kind of person who rises before dawn to experience the new day and perpetually radiates calm, or smiles contentedly as they speak in a soft metered voice about being one with the universe.

In other words, so not me!

Meditation, for me, is something between a repetitive chore, and a twenty minute street fight between a Siamese cat and a Jack Russell terrier: a lot of posturing and noise, but not much action. Still, I keep doing it, and occasionally I'm able to wrestle my ADHD brain into a state of quietness for more than a moment or two. I'm calling it progress. And weather it's the practice, or just carving out a bit of time to be still and breathe, it is doing me good.

I'm still impatient, fidgety, and easily agitated. I still struggle to get to sleep at night. I let mole hills become mountains. I take things too personally, and I have trouble letting go of the past, while also worrying too much about the future, but, I'm not alone. The only thing I have figured out is that being truly present and in the moment, as much as we like to talk about it, is actually quite difficult. In fact, it is a life long pursuit, and a Tibetan Monk, I am not.

I've got a long road ahead, but if the past five months are any kind of example, it turns out I AM the kind of person who practices meditation. By now I should know that if I'm resisting something, if it feels uncomfortable, or difficult, it's probably good for me. Maybe someday I'll learn.

Whatever you do, don't tell my husband, it would mean he was right.

Again.