Confessions of a Chronic Meditator

Hi, I’m Tyler and I’m a chronic meditator. I have been for 10 years. I sit for 10 minutes, twice a day, and breathe. I watch the thoughts–the clusterfucked cornucopia of emotional states including, but not limited to: crippling insecurity, self-loathing, self-pity, self-congratulation, bitterness at slights both real and imagined and a refusal to accept that I am back in Ohio –flow around my head, like the bats in BATMAN BEGINS, flapping and smacking and screeching. In those 10 minutes, I have a simple goal: watch my breath and hopefully, face my thoughts like Bruce Wayne faced the bats, by rising to my feet and letting them swirl around me, accepting the flapping, screeching, shitting flying rodents for what they are: both part of me and imagined fantasies that do not constitute who I am, rather the author’s instinct to fashion the world in a way he sees fit.

I’ve been reticent to write anything about my practice of meditation and running and yoga, because I don’t want to be one of those self-righteous assholes who thinks what they’re doing is amazing and illuminating. It isn’t. I meditate to see the bats and live with them; I run because I like pizza, beer, bourbon and candy, plus it gets me the fuck out of the house; I do yoga because I want to touch my toes and be, well, flexible. My intentions are simple, really.

I’ll be honest, I don’t remember why I started meditating in the first place. It was probably during one of the nine times I tried to quit smoking (after the ninth try, it finally stuck, because I would rather kiss Katie than orally pleasure a coffin nail (Happy Valentine’s Day)) or during a patented early-twenties “search for self.” Whatever it was, it stuck. Sure, I’ve quit meditating here and there; I’ve faced moments where sitting doesn’t do shit and I get frustrated and then I remember that the point is sitting so I go back to sitting and sit some more and then I quit again and start the whole vicious cycle all over again.

Let me describe the process of sitting and breathing for you, something I feel is sorely missing in all the endless self-help texts, bullshit Facebook inspirational quotes and assorted pablum written about the practice. Here you go:

First, at around 5:40AM, I put the kettle on and grind coffee beans. I sit and wait for that to boil, then depress the plunger halfway and wait for four minutes. I stretch. I depress the French Press plunger all the way. I stare longingly at the coffee, knowing that in ten minutes, the sweet life blood nectar will be flowing through my body. I remove my glasses. I sit down on a pillow, Hildy’s (the morkie, a dog) heart-shaped, leopard-print “Wild Thing” pillow, to be precise, because, well, my ass isn’t that comfortable. I set a timer for 11 minutes. Then, ensconced by two sleeping greyhounds and sitting cross-legged on the Wild Thing pillow, I put my hands on my knees, close my eyes and breathe: In/Out. I visualize In/Out in my head. And then I think about the next sentence I should write. In/Out. And then remember that time that that crab-ass cut me off, stupid idiot winter Ohio drivers? No probably didn’t – In/Out. And I wonder what the Kindle sales of some book I wrote look like; nobody reads it because why the – In/Out. Potty training puppy, can’t believe she shit in the house again, manipulative little OH SO CUTE PUPPY. In/Out. You know, maybe I should write about meditating, and write about how you shouldn’t be a self-righteous asshole because you – In/Out. Stupid cancer and stupid house of empathy and stupid tests and stupid chemo and dammit mom and jesus christ I want my life back and what the fuck everyone I love is dying or almost dying and stupid dog dying on me and please don’t let the puppy shit in the house, what do you need Hildy, it’s my fault if jesus fuck my back want to stretch, need to stretch, have to stretch, have to quit because OH MY FUCK NO I WON’T LISTEN YOU EVIL BELA LUGOSI-ASS-BATBITCHES! – In/Out.

The bat-taming goes on for 10 minutes. And then I have my coffee; it is wonderful motor oil. Do I feel like a freshly-rappelled Christian Bale in the nascent Batcave? Not especially. Over the years, I’m less likely to drown in the waterfall or get rabies from bat-bites to my testicles, but I will say that a clarity emerges, for about two hours, that enables me to get to work and get out of my own way. When I first started, it was a few minutes, now I’m hovering at a couple of hours (on a good day).  And when those couple of hours fade into flapping, shitting flying rodents, I engage in the next bit of self-medication, yoga or running, to give myself another few hours before I hit the afternoon uselessness and clean house, do dishes, chop wood, or play GRAND THEFT AUTO V.  And then, around 7PM, after a day of who knows what, I do the same process again, only without the coffee.

Look, I’m not going to be one of those pricks who says you have to do this. You don’t. This is what works for me, even when it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean I’m free of my insecurities or terseness and harshness or my loathing of small talk or my moments of self-anger or self-pity or my moments of resentment and hopelessness. It means I can identify those things as the bats they are, and, in my weaker moments, pull myself back from the brink, a precipice I’ve been facing for most of my life. Put simply, it means I’m human and I’m learning to live with that. Dare we forget the prophet George Carlin on religion, a statement applicable to everything in life?

“Religion is like a pair of shoes…..Find one that fits for you, but don’t make me wear your shoes.”

So, pick out your own shoes. If meditation works for you, give it a go. If it doesn’t, let the phrase OH MY FUCK NO I WON’T LISTEN YOU EVIL BELA LUGOSI-ASS-BATBITCHES! stick with you.

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If you want to keep up with the things I’m working on, get access to exclusive stories and discounts, or learn recipes for candied bacon, I have a newsletter, THE SPINNER RACK, that’ll float your boat. Trust me, I hate newsletters, but I like mine. – TW