Sitting at Seventy

". . . I'd felt a sense of satisfaction so deep that it resonated in my bones and belly. It was as if I were at the very center of a green and gentle world, as if I needed to know nothing more, as if this moment in time was good and true and right and would last forever. - Nancy Thayer in "Between Husbands and Friends."

Day 43. Home again. Home to my familiar keyboard and a cushion that is becoming suspiciously shaped like my buttocks. Home to discover two new followers! Thank you! Thank You and Gassho. I am utterly thrilled and terrified, and will probably write total horse crap for a couple of days in your honor.

I was delighted last night when I read Nancy Thayer's words quoted above because they so captured my feelings about being in the mountains and being with my family. Remember said family? The beloved nephews and son who were so respectful and supportive of my blog/meditation endeavor? That was pretty short lived. That blog was BEFORE I rode in a car with my son for nine and a half hours in the deep of the night.

My son has walked on to a college football team this Spring. I'm not quite sure how working out with a football team for two short months could increase his testosterone production so exponentially, but I DO know that he passed his first NCAA random drug test. Must be the locker room water. The child is OBSESSED with football (and remember, I am a psychologist so I am credentialed to assign this diagnosis officially). He is also nineteen years old, and, as we fondly say at my practice, "His brain's not cooked" (referring to the physiological reality that the prefrontal cortext of males - the site of integrative thought, foresight, and ability to synthesize information to make good decisions - is not fully developed until around age 23-25). Even with my knowledge of brain development, I still can't fathom how he has become suddenly infused with infinite world knowledge, and feels it necessary to inform me of this in an arrogant, egocentric, ceaseless stream of consciousness. So much for being raised by a feminist, vegetarian, Buddhist single mother. Socialization is a powerful mechanism!

So my football wannabe son decides that we must get home from our trip a day early to avert missing an urgent, nay potentially catastrophic, workout requirement. (Since riding a snow board for three days at 11,400 feet isn't very physical). I am vulnerable from skiing three days at the same altitude, so I agree. This necessitates a hastily written blog entry because I don't travel with a laptop and have been borrowing my brother's. It also necessitates sitting meditation in a Nissan.

My son is actually an excellent driver. He even turned down his music for my twenty minutes, which was miraculous in itself (and might I add that our preference in genres differs ever so slightly). I precede to do some cramped bows from my perch on the passenger seat. I attempt to stretch to the sides, and am reminded of my partner's conclusion that the interior of an Xterra is comparable in size to the cockpit of a soapbox derby car. I know for a fact that we are hurtling down the highway at 70 mph - slowed from the 82 mph clocked by the good officer of Oldham County, Texas, who has just issued my son a $200 speeding ticket. I will be SO GLAD when that gray matter of his solidifies.

So there I am, at 11:30 p.m. CST in an enclosed space with a sulky teenager who issued an acoustically challenging tirade when I suggested we pull over at a rest stop for twenty minutes so that I can keep my commitment to meditate every single day. Like every night for the past 42, I sat my timer, formed my mudra, sat up as straight as the cockpit of a soapbox derby car permits, and began to breathe. My son continued to operate our motor vehicle at high speeds down the inky black asphalt of I40. Even if I wasn't sitting zazen, my eyes would have been cast downward; it was much too scary to view the blackness flying by.

I attempted to focus on my breath and sink into meditation with every strategy I know . Nothing worked. I couldn't envision tranquilly floating on water because of the bouncing and rattling of my seat (the shocks on an Xterra aren't much to brag about either). In my mind's ear, my "Hams" and "Sahs" sounded like "Help!" and "Save!". The Monkeys chattered excitedly, wondering how in the world my son could come up with $200. I couldn't find that deep cranial place where my amygdala resides because it was consumed with screaming, "Warning! Warning! Teen at the wheel! Danger!" And this particular teen was checking the time on his cell phone about every 90 seconds, waiting for twenty minutes to elapse so the he could crank the volume on his music.

I returned to the most basic of skills - the old standby taught by my teacher the very first time I sat zazen with him. Count your breaths. One to ten and over again. I was so distracted that I caught myself several times on breath Number Eleven or Number Twelve and quickly, embarrassingly, returned to breath one. I kept questioning my decision not to sell my son on E-Bay when I had the chance. Reminded myself that I had abandoned the idea for two reasons: I am too much of a cyber-phobe, and would likely have prematurely settled on a low offer and not profited from my investment. Breathe. One to ten and over again.

It was the longest twenty minutes of my entire meditating history. Uncomfortable, unnerving, and unsatisfying. But I didn't give up. I sat until the timer sounded and my son's rap music resumed with a bass line that could wake road kill. I don't know how many rounds of ten breaths I counted, but count them I did. When the timer when off and I awkwardly bowed, elation soared. Despite my best efforts, a bit of ego edged around my non-attachment and threatened to blossom into full fledged pride. Like stamping out a fire, I immediately squelched it.

Obviously, the child I decided not to sell successfully drove us home. I know the year will bring additional, unimaginable challenges to my practice. I hope the next time I title a blog "Sitting at Seventy," I will be referring to years, not miles per hour. For now, I've got some sittin' to do on a cushion that fits my butt perfectly.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc