I tried to have a weekly archive of my fabulous life. An online gratitude journal, if you will. It puttered out at the three month mark. I am not proud of this, nor have I been slacking off. Instead, I throw in the towel. Too much pressure.
And some things aren’t so fabulous. They just are what they are. Take, for instance, my current journey into meditation. I am trying, really trying. A weekly class. A conscious effort to try every day. But it is SO hard. Getting my mind to acknowledge then dismiss random thoughts is a chore. My patience is tried by other people. Long wandering questions. Slow movers. The woman who’s watch beeps every so often.
But I am try. And will keep trying. I have heard too much about the benefits. And I need to find more stress relievers. Or one that works. And so I keep trying.
One of the challenges of being a writer, especially a mystery writer, is that the observer is never able to be quieted. Ever. Perhaps that is part of my struggle. I can’t help but wonder why the guy who can barely put down his blackberry is really in a meditation class. (Doctor’s insistence? A girlfriend or boyfriend’s ultimatum? A part of his parole?) What is the story of the man who never gets out of his pose (meditation bench, on his knees. I can’t do it for a minute, never mind a two hour class) and never stops smiling. And what about the woman with all the jewelry who dresses with an 80’s vibe and has a wicked Boston accent? And what about the older guy who I sat next to who had a small scrap of paper and kept taking notes with his green ink pen? What was he writing?
See, this is how I roll. I wonder, and then make up stories. And then put them in mine. Or maybe I focus on how he could be poisoned during a meeting. Or how she could smuggle something in under her too tight coat. Or what would happen if the huge statue in the meditation room fell off the platform during the walking meditation exercise.
No wonder I need to take the class.