Just Breathe, Ali...

I remember the late summer afternoon in 2003 when I first learned how to meditate. I was desperately sad that day. Everything around me seemed to be falling apart, and I was in the middle of it all and unsure of my path. Guilty. Alone. Depressed.

I had gone to the mountains to try and fix a relationship that had taken a spectacular turn for the worse the week before. Foolishly, I thought that if I just tried hard enough, my boyfriend at the time would see how much I loved him and how sorry I was for the whole situation. I took him to the Jemez for the day, to the special camping spot my dad and I had found years before. There were tall red cliffs on either side of us, the Guadalupe River trickling in the distance, and Ponderosa pines all around that smell like vanilla if you stick your nose in the cracks in the bark. I wanted to share something close to me, create a good memory in the midst of so much hurt.

We sat on a blanket looking out over the river below. My boyfriend loved music, and I gave him an iPod as a surprise. He unwrapped it and was happy, but not happy enough to make things better. I had gone to Wild Oats that morning and bought hummus and pasta salad with blue cheese for a picnic lunch. We ate in silence. He hated the food. Twigs snapped and lizards scurried around in the sun. We kissed a forced, uncomfortable kiss. I hugged my knees tight and started to cry.

At first, I was crying to get a reaction. I wanted my boyfriend to hug me, acknowledge the tremendous effort I was making, apologize for being insensitive. Or I wanted him to do nothing so I would have a reason to be mad at him later. Tears spilled down my cheeks. I was filled with a hundred thousand painful feelings that would not go away.

Suddenly my perspective changed. I stopped crying and entered a state of detached calm. None of it mattered. I took deep gulps of air and concentrated on the big juniper bush in front of me. The trunk was beautiful, thick twists of bark peeking out under the fat crown of leaves and berries. I breathed and imagined myself exchanging energy with the old juniper. I wondered if the Anasazi ancestors that built their dwellings and formed their clay cooking pots from the same earth I sat on had also looked at the juniper. With each breath I honored the tree, gathered strength from her, realized how insignificant we all are. I also acknowledged my sadness. It was still there – present and painful as ever – but I stopped willing it away. It was simply part of me, together with the mountain air and the juniper and the afternoon light. Not good, not bad. Just there.

I am increasingly aware that I need to cultivate a practice, call back that juniper and the stillness of breath and just let go…

Everything here is going well, despite the introspective tone of this post. I’m happy and aware, and simply need something to ground me in the midst of this experience.