Marie Brennan -- Ten Minutes

Meditation is difficult when I’m distracted. But my teacher eventually got it through my head that mindfulness isn’t mindlessness, achieving perfect, blank emptiness; it’s about being aware. Sometimes what you’re aware of is the distractions. That’s no reason not to sit down.

Only ten minutes. Ten minutes is easy. That’s what I always tell myself, when I don’t want to sit. I don’t have much more than ten minutes, but I can still do this.

I perch on the edge of the chair, butt far forward so it will be easier to keep my back straight. Five deep breaths, loud enough to hear and slow on the exhale, lifting my spine, settling everything into line. My posture got a lot better after I started meditating regularly.

Getting to that point took a while, though. I started and stopped, started and stopped, kicking myself every time I fell out of the habit. But mindfulness teachers often say that when you realize your attention has wandered away from your breath, then just begin again. And that moment when you realize it’s wandered? That isn’t you failing at mindfulness; it’s you succeeding. Because you noticed your own distraction. Eventually I figured out that this also applied to the practice in general. Stopped meditating? Hey, I noticed. Begin again.

My thoughts are wandering right now, remembering how I developed this habit. Why I’m doing this now. Bring them back to the body. Begin again.

I sit. I am aware of my sitting.

I am aware of other things, too. I don’t have to close everything out -- that’s not what this is for. I’m aware of the brightness of the sky outside my window, the distant sound of a man weeping and praying, the heat of the air on my sweaty, sticky skin. I have air conditioning, but I decided to turn it off today. To feel things naturally, rather than pushing them back.

I am aware of my breathing. Not smooth and regular like it is on a good day; shallow and quick. I don’t try to control it, just let it do its thing. My heart is beating fast, too, shaking my body with every pulse. My eyelid is twitching like mad. It does that when I’m stressed.

That’s all fine. I don’t have to struggle against my anxiety and my fear, try to force them down so I can be calm. It took me a long time to understand that. There were so many problems in my life, and I wanted so badly to become serene . . . but you don’t get there by fighting. You just sit with these things, aware of them along with everything else.

We’re miracles, you know. Miracles of God or of evolution -- I don’t care which. We’re amazing. We’re these complicated sacks of meat and blood and bone, with chemical sponges sitting on top that can be aware of their own existence. Here, in this moment, I am aware.

Hot wetness slips down my cheek: a tear, followed by another. But not of fear or sorrow. As my teacher said, there’s no point in worrying about the future. If you can change it, then you’ll change it. And if you can’t, then worrying does nothing but distract you from treasuring what you have.

Here, in this moment, I have myself. My heartbeat, my breath. Even my twitching eyelid. For one transcendent moment, I truly feel and treasure the miracle of my own life.

Then the timer goes off on my phone, a gentle chime. I take one last, deep breath, bringing myself back into my surroundings, and I open my eyes.

There’s a brief flash of blinding light as the asteroid burns its way through the atmosphere, and then the shockwave hits.

Ten minutes. I’m glad I took the time.