in which i pop my meditation cherry

I know, right? What am I thinking? I’m Ms. “I like my fantasy life, thank you very much,” what am I going to do with being mindful of the present moment? I mean, reality can be so disappointing. But I’ve been reading a stack of Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras and its all dhyana (meditation) this and samadhi (bliss) that, and shoot. A girl gets curious.

So, while sitting outside while the kids ran wild in the woods, I thought…how about now?

Sure. Why not.

I figured I would stack the deck in my favor, so I picked this…

…as my meditation spot. Well, not IN the creek. Imagine me sitting on the bank, looking contemplative.

And I also figured I’d best not set myself up for failure by taking on more than I could chew, so I figured I’d give it, oh, five minutes.

That ought to do it.

Then I did what any good 2010 technogeek girl would do, and I pulled out my ipod touch and surfed over to the app store, because you know there’s an app for that.

A couple minutes later, I’m downloading ‘Zen Timer’ a clock thingy that will alert me to the end of my allotted five minutes with a nice tibetan bell sound. Because it isn’t meditation if you aren’t roused by a tibetan bell.

Okay, timer set, creek bubbling nicely beside me, kids climbing a death-trap fallen tree in my peripheral vision—yep, I’m good to go.

I actually did okay with the whole ‘follow the breath’ part. I guess all this ashtanga yoga with the Darth Vader breathing has gotten me used to listening to myself breathe. I could hang with the inhale, and hang with the exhale, hey, mom, look at me, I’m meditating!

But no ujyai breathing here, and apparently my normal breathing has a loooooong pause after the exhale. With no breath to follow for what feels like years…OH the places I an go in such a pause! Galaxies can be crossed! Novel plot points can be worked out! Fantasies lie in wait to grab me and spirit me away to never-neverland in that tiny, but deliciously spacious, pause.

Still, you just keep bringing your attention back, that’s the instruction, so that’s what I did, hauling my ass back from Alpha Centauri at the start of each next inhalation.

I think to myself: I can do this. See? I’m doing it already.

At some point the kids (and cat) tore by, screaming.

At some later point the kids tore by, screaming, but going the other direction.

My back started to hurt a little.

My breathing started to look a lot more boring than my inner story life.

And just as I got fed up, certain I had forgotten to activate my little timer, the bell chimed.

Five grueling minutes had passed. Try meditation. Check.

But what mom doesn’t want to sit and do nothing for five minutes? It was nice, even with the hurty back. Can a person have a small formal mediation practice of five minutes? Is there anything to gain from such an endeavor—and, I know, I’ve already blown it by looking for gain. Arg! Maybe I should stick with chocolate as a spiritual practice.

Still, I thought I’d give it a try. Even I should be able to commit to five freaking minutes a day. I decided right then that I’d do it again the next day.

And then I completely forgot about this decision.

For a week.

So, you know, I’m not enlightened yet.

But I’m trying.

P.S. Ever since typing in the title of this post, I’ve had Joan Jett singing Ch-ch-ch-ch-CherryBOMB! in my head. Along with the song is the picture of Ms. Jett herself, playing an immortal pretending to suicide off a high rise, on a first season ep of “Highlander” (There can be only one!) while Cherrybomb plays, and WOW did she have a bad French accent, what were they thinking giving her a flashback in France? But who cares, right? I love Joan Jett. And I hear she’s got a biopic coming out.

And it’s just this sort of scintillating inner dialogue that I have to give up, to some degree, if I’m ever going to be a meditator.

This project may be doomed.