Inner Peace

“Breathe. Feel the movement of your lungs as they expand. Let your stomach rise gently as your breathing deepens.” The instructor's voice drones on in the background, urging everyone to sync their body and mind. 

“In. 

The sound of a roomful of people breathing is reminiscent of waves crashing upon an ocean shore. It sinks and rises. Again and again, the room fills with silence and air. 

“And out.” 

I am intensely aware of how itchy my nose is. Which, if the purpose of meditation is concentration and awareness, means I have succeeded. I am concentrated and aware of my itchy nose in a way I have never been before. 

“In.” The instructor says calmly. This makes me jerk my concentration back to my breath. My thoughts are like a badly trained leash and I’m the asshole owner that cant stop cursing and choking it back when it tries to rush forward.  

I wonder what would happen if I forgot how to breathe? The thought is like a flinch, a reflexive and unpleasant reminder of the noxious, everyday, polluting anxiety my mind loves to produce. I shove it back behind an imaginary door, this is also how I clean my house when visitors are coming, grab everything that's dirty and shove it into an empty closet. It doesn’t make the house clean but at least it leaves it visually empty of trash. I wonder if this is the mental equival-

“Out.” 

Right.

I’m not supposed to be thinking.  Or I am supposed to be thinking but not noticing. Or I’m supposed to not be trying to think but also, simultaneously, letting myself think whatever I want as long as I don’t engage with whatever I’m thinking. 

“In.” 

Or something like that. I think. 

Something close to that at least. Am I supposed to be finding something in the silence? Myself, maybe, but I can find myself in a mirror I don’t need to close my eyes and breath like a whale or the ocean or the universe or whatever other semi-bullshit nonsense I'm supposed to do. I guess it's supposed to be good for you. In the same way that kale and jogging are. But at least when I'm eating kale and jogging I’m allowed to think and bitch about how much I hate kale and jogging. There's something so holier than thou about mediating. You're supposed to come out more enlightened, or better, or something. Some type of connection to the universe and revelation of truth.  

All I feel is unsettlingly empty. 

“Out”

Like there's nothing inside of me. Like I’m in a blindingly white room where I stand small in comparison to the vastness of the space, and dirty in comparison to the impeccable white. I become too aware of my own boredom, too aware of my own mundane and petty worries.

I know myself. I do own a mirror, after all. I can identify myself in pictures and find my location on the map. I know who I am and where I’m going. Mainly, who I am is a person filled with flaws and where I'm going is my apartment to be alone. It’s not difficult to figure out. I don’t understand the point of this navel-gazing. This enchantment with the self. I know what's inside my mind. It’s not particularly interesting or terrible. It's not much of anything really. Just the boring everyday suffering, that small constant corroding substance I call my thoughts.

“In.” 

I don’t want to know myself better. I want to know myself less. I wish the smallness of myself was less of a surprise. I wish my little vices and cruelties were less known to me. How I envy the oblivious, the stupid, the insane. How I envy those who know nothing of themselves. That seems like a much happier state.

I am aware and unable to change. Awake and unable to move. Stuck in the story and helpless to change the ending. Simultaneously the audience, the character, and the critic. 

“Out.” 

I think I need to get out of L.A., and move back to the east coast. At least their people are unhappy on the outside as well as on the inside. There’s something honest about that. I’ve learned how to smile here. You'd think that would be a good thing, wouldn't you? Smiling that all-American smile, the one meant for photographs and social masks that won’t crack. Learning how to lie is important in L.A., in the USA. Lying is an all-American pastime.  

“In.”

It’s important everywhere, really. I wasn’t good at it as a kid. All the little ways you have to lie and curry favor, balance power in a million little subtle ways. I was always something of a blunt hammer. Awkward and unwieldy. I learned better, even if that made me worse, I learned. Stupidity isn't a virtue I can claim. Although a superiority complex might be one of my more favored vices. 

“Out.” 

I’m sick of thinking. I’m sick of thinking of myself. I’m sick of being myself.  

“Katlyn.” 

My name jolts me back into my body. 

I crack open my eyes and lookup. Samatha is starting to stand up next to me. 

“Yeah.” I say absently. I feel disoriented as my mind becomes accustomed to existing within a body and not just mired in its own juices. 

“Class is over. Want to get lunch?” Samatha says as she stretches upward. “There’s this new vegan place down the street.” 

I shrug my shoulders and unfold my body, shaking out the stiffness alongside Samatha. I stand and shrug again. “Sure. How was your meditation.” 

She smiles “Good! I’m really glad you came with me. We should do this again next week.” 

I smile back, easy and nice. “Of course, I really enjoyed this. Thank you for inviting me.” 

I am never doing this again, obviously. 

 We go to the new vegan place, it’s called Real Food. Sure. 

It’s not bad, actually, Samatha talks while I eat. Slowly the world seems to brighten, maybe it was just the lack of food that had me so angry earlier. Right now I feel like I'm finding enlightenment in this salad. 

 Maybe I should actually go with Samatha again next week. I’ll bring a Snickers bar next time. That might help me find internal peace. Somehow the world looks less grim on a full stomach.