Meditation, Schmeditation … blah,blah, blah. I have ADD! You know, Attention Deficit Disorder! This is not something my brain wants to wrap around — ever! Now don’t get me wrong here. I would love nothing more than to stop my wandering mind from running like a racecar without a kill switch. Unfortunately, it seems my mind has a mind of its own.
I’ve tried all the tricks. I’ve tried burning candles so I could concentrate on the flame, but that didn’t work out. From everything I’ve read, you’re supposed to meditate in a very quiet place. In my house, there is no such place. The only room I could think of that might even remotely offer some semblance of solitude was my closet. All I had to do was clean a little space on the floor so I’d have room to sit and get a little table I could set a candle on, and — voila, instant meditation quarters. Everything was going pretty good until I let out a big deep sigh as I was instructed to by the voice on the tape so I would feel more relaxed. Idiot! I’d forgotten just how little oxygen it takes to grow a flame. The tiny little wick exploded like a firecracker. I jumped up knocking it over and, well, after the nice firemen left, I realized I had made another bonehead choice. It’s safe to say that all I got out of that experience was more panic.
I’ve listen to a lot of those soothing, mind-altering tapes, but always found myself dissecting and pooh-poohing the things they were trying to set deep into my brain. I guess deep down that makes me a sub-conscientious objector.
Nope. My brain has a separate motor that wants to waste all of its gas, all of the time.
I even tried yoga once or twice, but had to quit after my health insurance company denied my last claim. Unfortunately, the yoga instructor had to call the paramedics to rescue me. One thing you should know about me. When I do something, I do it with as much gusto as possible. Somehow, I’d gotten myself so tied up in a pretzel-like position that they had to use the jaws of life to get my legs untwined from around my neck. Who knew you could strangle your own damn self in the pursuit of peace and happiness? Dog-face-down, my ass!
I guess because I’m a writer, my brain is programmed to think at all times, day or night, come rain or come shine, come hell or high water. The shut off valve has either been hidden from me, or more likely, installed at birth by Toyota.
“Focus” is definitely not my strong point!
I’ll start out the day like any other ordinary person. Usually laundry’s the first order of the day. I can do this without waking any one up because my laundry room is outside, attached to my garage. I mean, what the hell else are you supposed to do at two or three in the morning when your brain refuses to lock down on the one thing you really want to do — write? I know I should do my exercises every time I’m out there, but the simple fact is, sometimes I have deadlines that need to be met.
Again, thank you mid-life, menopausal insomnia!
I’d put the dirty clothes into the machine, throw in some detergent and then, just as the lid shut, I happened to notice there’s a chip in the paint on the wall behind the dryer. Before you know it, I’ll have opened a can of paint, rustled through the cabinet where I keep my brushes, only to realize that I should clean out that cabinet so I can find things easier.
But that’s when I notice an errant pack of seeds for marigolds and realize that spring is just around the corner, and these seeds should be in the ground by now. I don’t have much of a green thumb (because my mother selfishly kept the green gene’s to herself), but every year I give it a shot.