Knees to the floor



{a recurring series, a post between friends, inspired by a mini-meditation retreat led by Karen Maezen Miller.  we are grateful she showed up.}

 

I woke up early and made the coffee, went to my office, lit a candle and waited for Clair.  If you've read the past couple of days worth of posts you may know we've committed to something, I'm not sure what.  It involves meditation, yes, I know that much, but the rest I'm leaving open-ended so we can just watch together and see what happens.

I'm sorry if you've come looking for big answers or a great miraculous event, some wide awakening, one great stone unturned, the result of two people sitting together, breathing in and out in the quiet of early morning before the rest of the world is awake. I can't deliver.  But on this morning with the uncertainty of a hurricane working her way inland and two busy mothers both with husbands and three children apiece and jobs and flooded lives the miracle was merely in the fact that Clair showed up.  Well, we both did.

She came to my house at 6:30 on Sunday morning in her pajamas with cushion in hand, book, camera and zen timer on her iPad.  She looked freshly showered and bright, and me, like my kids do after a week with the flu.  I think I scared her and her perfect hair.  "I hope you don't trip over anything," I said.

I had prepped my husband the night before.  "Is it okay with you if Clair comes over at 6:30 tomorrow morning?"

He paused, turned and looked at me with hesitation, "Sure, but I don't think I'll be up, is that okay?"

I smiled, "No problem.  It's probably best."

And that's how it started.  We readied ourselves and sat for fifteen minutes and I heard every tummy gurgle and swallow and gust of wind blow through the trees and car pass by and rooster crow and the cat jump up and down off the ottoman fifty times.  I waited for a child to stumble in. I slumped and straightened and fidgeted and pondered my poor posture and brought myself back each time with the counting, like Karen had said, in, out, one, two, one, two and at some point there was a shift.  My cupped hands felt huge like they usually do, no longer part of my body, like they were carrying something big and whole and the shadows looked shadowy-er and the lights looked brighter and I knew I was relaxed so I kept at it. 

I waited for something to happen, I guess that's what we all are waiting for, some sort of answer, a remedy for our shortcomings, the cure for our ailments, some great opening of the clouds and a lightening bolt scribbling out the ultimate enlightenment in the driveway gravel, the one, big answer, but it didn't come.  It won't come, I know that and as frustration feeds my persistence as it did when I was teaching myself to knit, I am sure I'll be back tomorrow.  By then, I won't have any more idea what I'm doing than I did today.