Meditation Musings

Fuck I hate meditation; yes, the full on cure all for every mental or physical ailment.  It is touted by every alternative and allopathic  - Guru gaggles or disconnected doctors alike. It is always some nasally dude chiming on about breath and “just being”.  I am always “being”  anyway, and when I am meditating my “being” is in overdrive.  

Stream of consciousness madness escalates and you all know the feeling:

 “I think my breathing is shallow and escalating to heart palpitations; how hard does heart disease run in the family? Didn’t Great Aunt Ruby have a heart attack? No, her arteries were hardening and she became demented.  Am I becoming demented? I forgot Ed Sheeran’s last name yesterday.  Oh no, I am not following my breath; do I have bad breath?  P had some of that nastiness, but he had some weird sphincter issue.  Isn’t your sphincter in your ass?  That’s not it then; is there an esophagus style sphincter?  Remember Scope, that stuff was green; supposedly it left you with a fresh feeling; it sat on the fake grey marble vanity in the pink, papered bathroom at Mom and Dad’s.  Scott used it and loved Zest soap too.  I think it stained my teeth brown like old Joe’s from spitting his tobacco in a Metamucil jar.  It looked like runny poo; all that from the burgundy back couch too many years ago.  Was he my great grandpa?” Christ, this guy says to let the thoughts float by like clouds…they consume me and melt me down.” 

Does this really work well for me?

I will find my quiet wits on the highway with Mazzie rockin her 4 cylinders to Tori Amos.  This is where “I’ve been here; silent all these years”, my meditation.