A Sheep in Woolf's Clothing

Virginia Woolf valorizes the present. Why can’t I? That thought bubbled up one humid morning as I stopped, in a rush-hour fugue state, and picked up a thin, ivory pamphlet from the train station floor. It laid on its back like a wounded animal – I connected with that. It outlined the practice of meditation. The edges were torn and folded, and the sketch of the sitting monk was Xeroxed in an ancient, American fashion. Whoever had it wasn’t very mindful. It said, “Watching one’s breath symbolizes the relativity of voluntary and involuntary events. It’s as easy to feel that ‘I breathe’ as that ‘It breathes me’”. I wonder if my wife would argue “It fucked me” rather than “I fucked him”. 

It started when she came home at four am and jumped in the shower. I listened to the echo of water barely hitting the porcelain. Laying in bed with Lady, her Shih Tzu from her first marriage, I rested on the damp pillow beneath my head, juggling joyless thoughts. Just being with the acid of horror in my belly was my first experience with awareness – I couldn’t be anywhere else except that moment. It was on her second night's absence that I decided to try. 

I walked into our office with more hard-to-kill plants than books and sat on the maroon club chair. The Dumb Cane bounced the sliver of moonlight off its fat, brown leaves; the Chinese Evergreen was still. The pamphlet encouraged, during meditation, to look at thoughts and feelings as they arose, without judgment. I grunted like a pig as I sat. 

Inhale for four seconds, exhale for five. Expand and contract the stomach. Rinse. Repeat. Bring awareness to the points of contact. 

My ass was in contact with the microfiber we got at no extra cost. Was it the salesman from Ethan Allen? They had chemistry. She laughed effortlessly at his jokes. He was handsome in an easy, Timothy Olyphant-type way. My father compared me to Junky Jeff.

Listen for ambient noise as if listening to music, naturally and effortlessly. 

Her over-priced air purifier hummed in the living room. She said in passing it was a gift, but never said from whom.

Scan the body from head to toe, being mindful of how the body feels. Point out what’s comfortable and what’s uncomfortable. 

My head swam, my shoulders and back were tight, my stomach was in knots, and my legs were restless.

Bring awareness to the breath. Notice the rhythm, and let your breaths follow one another without effort.

That first night, her breath smelled of Raspberry Caipirinhas and hookah. She didn’t shower, then, but she fell asleep with a sly grin and an orange wristband with a black cat stamp. It was a club she wanted to go to but I thought we were too old. She said she was out drinking with coworkers, but they’re all happily married with children and husbands with soft bellies. She didn’t tell me how her night went.

Start counting breaths to maintain awareness. When you reach ten, start over with one. Inhale cool, clean positivity, and exhale hot, dirty anxiety. 

The second night, she was out longer. Earlier that morning, we got into a fight at the dog park. I cried towards the end in frustration. I hated my job, and I was jealous of a twenty-something coworker who was more confident and better-liked. Her lip curled in disgust; her father grew up in the shadowy rubbles of Dagestan. The old Manolos she hadn’t worn in years came out of the closet and clicked out the door with her thigh-length skirt. She came home later, barefoot, and jumped in the shower.

If distractions arise, note the distraction and come back to the breath. 

Outside, brake pads squeaked as I exhaled. The violent urge to jump up was swallowed by fear. Sit with it. Watch the memories like a Siodmak film. Let them come and go, like the first time she clicked past in her Manolos on the busy street, framed within the diaphanous café window and out of view; watch the rainfall later on that spring morning, her tan raincoat dotted with black drops as she ran across the street on runners legs and into the café and my life; now it’s a slideshow of destinations, Jamaica, Aruba, Dominican Republic, St. Croix; the beach sex, the hotel fights, the buffet silences, the drink laughs. There’s her first look of contempt when I drunkenly sang karaoke in that prismatic discotheque. She was embarrassed. Oblivious buffoon. I completely missed it.

The front door opened and closed, and Lady jumped off the bed for belly rubs. Inhale. 

I want to run and slide onto my back for rubs. I’m not weak, I just can’t stand the thought of divorcing like my parents. I submit to you. Exhale.

Her heels clicked across the tiled kitchen. She dumped her bag and keys on the counter and talked baby talk to Lady. Inhale. 

She groaned as she stretched. Exhale. 

The sound of black satin heels hitting the floor with careless abandon. Inhale. 

She picked Lady up and sang to her. She stopped singing a long time ago. Here, she sang like gold drifting through a late-afternoon window. She walked into the bedroom.

“Where’s daddy?” she said to Lady, fake gasping. 

Exhale.

I’ve always tucked my shoes in the back of the closet. Growing up, my brothers ridiculed my tiny feet – they never failed to remind me what that meant. And I’m not one for jackets or sweaters. I sweat. Everything was in drawers.

Inhale.

My wife didn’t bother looking for me. She unlocked her phone, dialed a number from memory, and sang, “I think he got the hint.” 

Exhale. 

My lower back throbbed. After a while, I couldn’t move. A car pulled up. The knock on the front door was loud, aggressive, and confident. 

Inhale.

Suddenly, my breathing became a sensation – a calm washed through the folds of my anguish, leaving my thoughts to fade into the background, except for one: Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; but a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end. I am but a hollow stone in the river of life, watching it wash through me and around me. My senses sharpened. I smelled the tequila on their breaths; I heard the belt buckle collide with the floor; I tasted the fire of their passion. The bedroom door slammed closed. 

Valorize the present.

Inhale. 

Exhale.