We all have some form of magical thinking when it comes to dying. It’s how we attempt to gain control over our fears. My particular brand of magical thinking is that if you eat well, exercise and meditate, you will most likely have a long and healthy life. I know this is not entirely rational…
I longed to be grounded once again in the reality of my everyday life. The familiar messiness. These very piles of paper. My work. The cacophony of street noises on my New York block. The personalities that drive me to distraction.
There should be a rule against writing about meditation retreats immediately after they’re over. In those first hours and days post-retreat, it’s as if I’m experiencing the world through a fresh set of eyes. The cosmos have aligned. Nothing could be a problem. It also smacks of a certain smugness.
Fortunately for me, New York City is a very easy place to learn to meditate. In the midst of all the hustle, there are meditation centers of all stripes. I pretty much tried them all, finally alighting on the non-sectarian vipassana meditation as the one most in sync with my disposition. All these years later, what do I get out of meditation?
When the volunteer coordinator called me, she said she had a woman who was “too mean to die” and that she trusted that I was the right person for her. With that introduction, I left with an open heart and open mind, intending not to judge, but send loving energy to her. She was the most miserable, unlikable, complaining, woman I have met!
I used to have a neighbor who would yell at her young children a lot. I would listen to her voice reverberating through the thin walls of our building and vow that if I ever had kids, I would never do that. Plain and simple. Fast forward a decade plus and – well, you can guess where this is going!
If you can spare 15 minutes, take a look at this beautiful video about the organization founded by my teachers — the Zen Center for Contemplative Care.
My friend Ibrahima does not know which day or year he was born. He came into this world in Guinea, West Africa, where his native language N’Ko had no written form until very recently. To obtain a passport, he had to approximate how old he was and select a day that felt right to him.