Toss Your Timer

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'. . .
Into the future- Steve Miller Band from Fly Like An Eagle

Day 60. Two solid months of blogging. I am feeling every day of it. The honeymoon is over. Ten more months seems like an eternity. I keep thinking about how busy gyms are during the month of January, when everyone has just made their resolution to work out and lose weight. The masses diminish in February, and by March the gym populace is back to normal. Is it a law of physics that change can be maintained for six to eight weeks before people bail? I'm not bailing, but, at least for tonight, I'm not blogging for joy, either.

The content for tonight's blog has been percolating in my mind since I got off the bike after our 52 mile ride this morning. Alas and alack! Events during zazen are preempting it. I just read the previous sentence, and it seemed ridiculous. There aren't supposed to be any "events" during zazen. Of course, there also aren't supposed to be any aren't supposed to be's. Oh, what a word salad I am tossing.

I altered my routine of the past 59 days, and sat zazen before I wrote my blog. I approached my cushion with the somber mindfulness I am trying to cultivate, sitting very, very still, and flagpole straight. The Monkeys chattered a lot about the ride, then about the blog I should write about the ride. I kept breathing, focusing on the physical sensations that have been assisting with quieting my mind. Perhaps because of the three hours I spent in the saddle today, I was exquisitely aware of where my sits bones rested on the cushion. I was waiting for excruciating pain in my legs, but registered only heaviness. The timer was set for the still new 25 minutes. The house was quiet. All was well.

The non-event had to do with the timer. We sparred. We wrestled. We battled. I blew through a gamut of emotions ranging from forbearance to anger to incredulity. Inwardly, I bargained, pleaded, and cussed. Had a lengthy conversation between my id and my superego. Id: "I want to get up." Superego: "You can't. It's not time." Id: "I want to get up right now!" Superego: "If we get up now, we have to be honest and blog about it." Id: "I don't care. I'm done. It's been too long." Superego: "Just stay put and breathe through it."

It was interesting to simply detach and watch the timer urgency escalate. I really had an opportunity to observe a feeling state and not get attached to it. It was kind of fascinating to experience the distinction between the reality of staying on my cushion and the abstraction of the battle waging in my mind. At one point I felt my Buddha smile tug, and found the whole absurdity amusing. That didn't last long. My legs and feet fell soundly asleep, my back slumped, my mind raced. I counted innumerable sets of ten breaths. Became cognizant of how ludicrous it was to have so many thoughts and feelings about the measurement of time. Watched stubbornness and competitiveness come and go. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, I checked the timer.

The actual time read something like seven hours, twenty-nine minutes and some seconds. I have no idea what those numbers mean. I'm not exactly sure what time I began to sit, but I know I was on my cushion for less than an hour but much, much longer than 25 minutes. I also know I set the timer with my contacts on, and I haven't been able to see anything in print without my glasses in the past four years. I know this is ego driven, but I feel compelled to note that, upon realizing the timer trauma, I didn't actually toss it. I very meticulously performed my bows and placed my cushion on the chest. This was no small feat, considering I couldn't feel my feet!

I want to analyze and extrapolate from this most recent timer tussle, but I am exhausted from the ride I originally wanted to blog about, so I'm headed for sleep. First, however, I'm taking out my contacts.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc