Proud Mary...Tina Turner Style

Keeping it real. I don’t meditate...or, rather, certainly not like I am “supposed” to. Formal meditation remains as elusive to my practice as the fountain of youth...or the Philosophers Stone. Friends of mine have, of late, told me that I “should” meditate. For reasons of self-development. For a way to release this bridled love that I carry...that we ALL carry...inherently. And, perhaps, more specifically...to help me process the dramas of raising a family with diverse issues. Yep. Well. I have a great intention to begin a formal meditation practice. Soon. Really. When are they adding that 25th hour to the day? I hear it’s soon...Congress is working on it.

I’ve struggled with my lack of meditation...FORMAL meditation...for awhile now. So. I’ll sit. In my room. On the floor (not in Lotus). With my back supported. And all the props I need to sit still comfortably for 10 minutes. Just ten. Not the 15 minute marathon. Just the 10K (...which is really just 6.2 minutes...) I breathe. In. Out. No really. I do. Breathing is, well, part of meditation...right? Follow the breath. In. Out. Repeat.

[*CRASH*]

In. Out. Repeat. (change legs...)

”MOM!!!”

In. Out. Repeat. (heart rate slightly increases...)

[*SCREAMING*]

In. Out. (ok. respirations rapid and pulse following in good form...)

“MOM!!! He won’t stop HITTING ME!!” He, “SHE started it! Broke my favorite pottery motorcycle!” She, “MOM! He called ME a DUMBO!” He, “DID NOT!”

[*more SCREAMING. CRYING. Pounding of doors.*]

In. Sigh.

Eyes open. 3.1 minutes. A new record.

Rock ON!