I grew up thinking meditation was solely sitting still, no thoughts, no brain traffic. Which gets frustrating, I can’t not think. Not to say my thoughts are of value but when I run out of thinking forward, my brain starts working on the backlog of shit I’ve absorbed over the past few days.
that lad really kicked that pigeon
Russian Oligarchs = US Entrepreneurs
dots or lines in the notebook
do we trust recycling
would we survive in prison
of course we would
vodka > wine
what if w33d puts me in prison
new phone time
yoga hurts my hands
You get what I mean. Meditation didn’t have a chance.
Until I learnt what meditation is. It’s just processing. I’m allowed to think thoughts as long as they’re dealt with, categorised and stored for later use.
I don’t tell people this but it’s helped me so maybe it’ll help you. Here’s how I do it.
I close my eyes, the world goes dark*.
I look around and find myself floating in space. The depth of space is full of small white lights winking for your attention; stars.
Now picture a small meteor, no bigger than a family car, floating a few metres away. Look a little closer and see a small, knee-height figure. He’s wearing a little, white space suit. You can’t see his face past his mirrored visor, he looks up at you.
He sits down, reaches behind his back and pulls out a comically large notepad, around the size of his helmet along with a black and yellow HB pencil. In a swift motion, he flips open the pad and starts writing.
Fascinating. But not what you’re here to analyse, back to the meditation.
A few minutes pass and you feel a tickle on your arm, you grab the disturbance and bring it up to your eyes. It’s a piece of paper, with neatly scribed lines of dialogue. Dialogue that seems familiar. You look down and watch the pencil dancing against the pad. He reaches the end of his page, rips it off and releases it into the expanse of space. You watch it float lifelessly off into the distance and shift your concentration to the white dots making up the texture of the black backdrop around you. Paper, each dot a scrap of paper on its journey to infinity.
You peer down at the paper in your hand and read
Russian Oligarchs = US Entrepreneurs
dots or lines in the notebook
do we trust recycling
would we survive in prison
It clicks, you look back to the meteor and admire its occupant at work. This small spaceman is transcribing your thoughts and setting them free to float off into the universe.
Almost like time stands still, you watch and admire his craft. A few minutes pass, he rips off his page and sets it free, places his pencil on his pad and looks up at you, waiting.
That’s how I meditate. Close my eyes and look for the spaceman, with the knowledge and profound comfort that he’s proofreading all my thoughts.
*Often I meditate in the park, which rarely results in dark. Instead, I shift his meteor 20,000 miles east so we’re both facing the full width of the ball of fiery gas that makes up our sun.
I like to think this is the kind of music he listens to, sharpening his pencil in space: