Last night I sat by the warm light of a table lamp reading, thinking, and clicking and unclicking a pen. It, the pen, had a push button on the top, and a release button on the side. Push the top, click, the pen appears. Push the side release, click, the pen recedes. I appreciated the sound of it – the stop short of the click and quick snap back action of the release. Thankfully, I was alone. It’s the type of thing that would annoy the shit out of someone sitting nearby, at first drawing a a gaze of consternation followed by the short-tempered “would you stop!” Left to my own devices, I sat there clicking away – staccato successive clicks of twos and threes. Click click. Click click click. In a small and odd experiment, I put the top button next to my right temple. How close could I get it without being hit by it? What’s the distance at which the force is maximized? Too close and it barely unclicks, too far and it’s just a glance. I did this for about five minutes, maybe ten. At a certain fundamental level, it was a type of meditation – a concentration on a very specific action in the here and now. Click, unclick. Breath in, breath out. Feel the air enter. Feel the spring release.
It’s cold out. I chose not to leave the house yesterday. I probably won’t leave today either. I’m up at 5 or 6 in the morning, and I go to sleep and 11 or midnight. That’s a lot of time when you’re intentionally un-busy. Aside from feeding myself and the cat, I have very few things that need to get done. I’m trying to find a groove – to build back some good habits, mainly reading, writing, and exercising. I did a little of each yesterday. I’m hoping to do more today. I’m reading a few different books right now. I’m always picking up books of poetry and reading a poem here and there. I’m reading a book on the science and philosophy of meditation. I’m also reading Kurt Vonnegut’s love letters to Jane – who became his wife. He was intense and goofy and a little desperate in how madly in love he was. I’m trying not to draw parallels.
Quoting Stephen Dobyns the other day sent me back to his collection Velocities. In it are some of my favorite poems, but I don’t think I’ve ever read the entire book cover to cover. Last night I was reading, in sequence, and was in a section of poems that just weren’t doing it for me. Aside from a line here and there, the poems didn’t speak to me. I jotted down those lines and phrases that stood out:
comfortable houses
wagons of wisdom (I then spent some time contemplating the image of a wagon, black plastic wheel, white center “mini hub cap”, short red metal sides, long handle turning side to side, rust)you grew older to put time between us.
reading family histories, stories of people / who die quietly in books,
the poor memory of a healthy man
This put me in a contemplative mood. I tried writing a bit, but didn’t get far – it was a sombre piece about falling into myself, leaning to winter. That’s when I started clicking the pen.
This morning, I got back into reading while having a second cup of coffee. It was the book on meditation. The author shares some of the same sentiments about meditation that I’ve felt – mainly that he’s not very good at it which is sort of against the very purpose of meditation (you’re not supposed to be good or bad, you just are). I paused to practice. I heard the neighbor yelling at the dog in the yard. Try again. Eyes closed, breath, feel shoulders rise and fall. Short lived – maybe try later. I reached for my phone, but stopped short. I decided I’m going to track (for a little while today) how many times I reach, or am tempted to reach, for my phone out of boredom or looking for stimulus or just because. It hasn’t been an hour, I’m aware of the habit (intentionally trying not to reach), and I’ve reached for it three times so far.
Sitting quietly, un-busily in the moment, being mindful of distractions and how I fill my time. This, to some degree, is the benefit of meditation and metacognition – even if I’m not that good at it.