Doing It In Public
December 12th, 2011“Every time I try to meditate outside, some A-hole interrupts me.” I was complaining to a friend today. “Why were you doing it outside, Liz?” Well, the answer is this. Most, if not all, of my God moments have happened in nature. By “God moment,” I mean that singular moment, or spiritual epiphany, that brings you into the timelessness of the present and suddenly, it all makes sense! (I’m using the term God here as a blanket term for whatever cosmology you ascribe to.) One’s first God moments require extra special circumstances, just to excavate beneath the business and noise of everyday hamster wheeling. I discovered God a top a giant sand dune in Jericoacoara, Brazil. After a moonlit run along the naked shoreline, I climbed about 120 feet to the top and settled down into the fluffy sand, eye level to the moon, blanketed by the thickness of silence. The stars, now closer and brighter, shone their energy into my tired muscles. The silence was absolute, the ocean muffled by the sand and height. The silence grew into a comforting thickness, the feeling I could sit there forever, and that even if I died, this would be a fine time to go.The boundaries between me and the beauty around me began to blend and that is when it all made sense to me.
Of the all the megatropolis-es I’ve lived in, Los Angeles is the least social. One can run errands all day without getting one smile. However, I’m beginning to notice that the moment I stop moving, people pop out of the woodwork. In addition to the villains from yesteryear blogs like the Woody Allen-esque carpenter who interrupted by Memorial Day silence vow to the lady with the casserole dish in the woods on July 4th, I now have a neighbor who comes over and interrupts me when I sit alone in my car.
Terry’s first trespass was three months ago. I was just arriving at home after a grueling 405 commute, and was not looking forward to walking in on my roommate and his girlfriend shagging on the futon again. I had seen her bike parked outside. I turned off the engine and appreciated the night sky for the first time, and then closed my eyes, letting the music pry my fingers from the wheel and drain the tension from my shoulders. Music sounded so much better in the surround sound of my car. I noticed that the deeper I relaxed, the deeper I could listen, until I felt the music reverberate in my core. Knock, knock, knock! on the glass outside my left ear. It was Terry – asking if I needed help. “Help?” I thought, “I am, was having the time of my life.” Irritated, I rolled down the window to explain to him that I was meditating. “You aren’t meditating, you’re listening to music.” he said. He swaggered away with an air of disapproval. Simpleton. Ignoramus! Man I was pissed, he broke my bliss! Ironically, had I been truly hurting myself, by say, smoking a cigarette, or being bitch-slapped by someone in the passenger seat, he probably would NOT have interrupted to ask if I needed help.
Last night, I pulled into my parking space, and something stopped me from grabbing my bundles and hauling them inside, the great song I was listening to. Relieved to see Terry’s truck nowhere in sight, I took a moment, closed my eyes and really listened. Comforted by the ‘cloak of night,’ I drifted away from all the tension of traffic, and impending duties waiting for me at home. I let the music seep into my ears and beneath my eyelids, float into my nostrils, and deepened my breathing. My vision came into a central point, which, call it third eye or whatever, has become the pulpit of my imagination. I began to see unforeseen possibilities blossom and unfold, kaleidescope-like, and kept sinking into this creative abyss. I experienced my car as a golden bubble like the cars on the Jetsons, that would allow me to feel the sky without feeling the cold, where I could relax, expand, and calmly explore the recesses of my mind. Myriad epiphanies were flowing full force when I heard the gargling engine cut as it whipped into a distant slot. My eyes cracked open and I saw the looming shadow of Terry’s extremely long and tall suburban. “Oh no!” I thought, lending the minimum amount of attention possible to preventing another interruption. I could not get up and walk into my house and stay in the zone. I could not talk to Terry and stay in the zone. If telling him I was meditating did not work, telling him I was doing Nada yoga wouldn’t work much better. Plus, the simple act of explaining was going to pull me completely out. This process, whatever it’s called, is akin to dipping oneself in an extremely hot bath, it’s a gradual submersion of ankles….then knees and only when I’m submersed completely do I begin to relax. Being pulled out, would mean starting at the ankles again. Since he interrupted last time on the “Do you need help?” premise, maybe I could pull myself out halfway, like open my eyes, do something auto-piloty like bring my cup up in front of my face and not stray too far from the zone. I went with this plan, realizing that the longer I strategized about how to avoid him, the more he was succeeding again in interrupting me. Resolved, I picked up the cup in my console as he walked away from his vehicle and kept my gaze away. Among the other 20 cars he could have crossed between to get to his house, he chose to walk right past my car, and then turned on one heel to lean down to the window to say in an almost disciplinarian tone. “You spend waaaaay too much time in that car.” And stood there until I waved him away, pretending my mouth was full of said beverage. He begrudgingly backed away and I tried to return to my meditation, but was incensed. He broke my God moment. “I’m going to go set the record straight,” I thought and bounded after him into the building, only to find he had disappeared.
The nest morning at 7:20 am, I took my dog out for a walk. To make matters weirder, at this time, I also do my morning kriya, which involves a lot of gargling. What can I say, I have to multitask. I made a point of avoiding the lady who’s like a yard troll in waiting, popping out of her house to gripe at me about X, Y or Z when I pass by. We stayed on the opposite side of the street. A few blocks down, Prince found his spot, I scooped it, and stood up slowly, feeling the soft sunlight on my face. The morning air was calm. Almost peeling out, the yard troll sidled her minivan into the curb beside my house. “Hey, I don’t see your baggies, you need to be cleaning your dogs poop. Where are your baggies?” Prince’s poop isn’t that big, so it had been discreetly dangling behind my leashed wrist, and my mouth was full of sesame oil; I was ten minutes in. I smiled a tight-lipped smile, and waved the bag of refuse at her. She drove away, but left her cloud across my sunshine. F^cking 7:30 in the morning….
Well, Liz, you are meditating in public places,” my friend said, “You’re almost asking for trouble.” But really, I’m not. It’s just the opposite. I’m asking for peace when I am at visibly at peace. Not wanting to be a Goldilocks, or someone who can only meditate in the perfect circumstances, i.e. a Himalayan cave, I have been pushing the envelope outward so that eventually, I can calmly function in the very epicenter of chaos. Having resigned myself to the fact that the Brazilian sand dune is out of my reach, I can still be inspired by the view of the pale city sky through my windshield, and the surround sound of my car stereo. But why must I fear neighbors rapping on my window to heckle me for sitting? And besides, with so many yogis and other meditators in Los Angeles, am I really the only one doing it in public? These days, it seems the most provocative thing you can do in public is pause.
