Mornings are the best part of my day, when the realisation of my physical state has not registered. Eating a leisurely breakfast, followed by coffee, brewed from just ground coffee. The morning is full of promise, and my day is undecided.
After this meal, I put my dishes in the sink, soaking, so I can clean them later, I make my way to the couch. Fingers grasping the coffee table edge, lifting it closer, so I can rest my leg. Falling into position, and using both hands to hoist a heavy limb into a less painful position, I then reach for my phone. Finding my meditation
Focusing first on my breath, I inhale, feeling and hearing the rush of air, into my lungs. My chest still, and stomach swelling as I finish a deep intake of oxygen. Holding this for four seconds, I concentrate. Slowly releasing through my mouth, I feel every second, losing myself in the process. Letting my mind relax into the moment. Repeating this process until my shoulders drop and the knot between them oozes away.
This is how it starts, and I don’t know how long I continue. When my mind is clear, the vacuum pulls in memories, thoughts, and idea’s. Trying to focus on the now, I look at the yellow tulips. Looking at them, trying to push away the deluge. Looking at the leaves and petals, seeing the once vibrant green now a pale pastel shade. The colour leeched away. Stems no longer rigid, but straining under the weight of the yellow petals. They are twisting in the agony of age, wrinkled, pale, and the tips shrivelling into brown. Seeing how time, and the sickness of being severed from their life-giving roots, is causing them to lose their once vibrant existence, I wonder. My mind floats.
Is this what has happened to me? Am I like these flowers, with the source of my energy, cut away by accident? Once minor events becoming cataclysmic as my vibrant life and resilience is soaked away. Even though I nourish myself, as we freshen the water for the flowers, it is not enough. It can’t be, just as the roots are no longer feeding the tulips, my body has disconnected its ability to rejuvenate itself.
Shaking myself, reaching out and pulling myself from this self-defeating inner speech, my eyes move frantically to find a different focus. The small statue on the mantle catches my glance and I smile. Although hewn from granite, a stone created by fire and destruction, in the empty space there is a heart. I feel it in my chest, pulsing, beating. Despite the adversity, and loss, I smile. Grateful for the love in my life. A life I am still living. There may be a part of me damaged beyond recovery, but the greater part is strong, and virile.
Tension in my shoulders fade, and my focus returns to my breath, bringing life affirming air into my lungs.
Bong, bong, bong.
My session is over.
Stretching, and bending over to pull my lazy limb from the table, settling my hand to push myself up. Standing tall, I turn towards the stairs, ready to descend to my cave. To begin the next part of my routine, writing my journal with a scratchy fountain pen. Ready to take these meditative thoughts and commit them to the page.
