I call it sitting when I talk about it with others. That’s what it is: I have a designated chair (although now I find any chair will do). I check my clothes, my collar, my pockets (must have a dog treat and a Kleenex) and the warmth. I set a timer. I close my eyes and arrange my arms, hands, fingers in mirrored positions. I feed the dog. She goes away to return in a bit, content. Then it begins: the journey towards Self.
“Why?” the men asked yesterday when I had them in for pie. I explained that I am so old now that it is time to attempt to figure out what being a human really is. I have the answer inside and so do they. I have heard plenty of people describe it, and now I want to see for myself. What I know it is not is the constant flipping through of mental chatter. That is not the “real” “me” – the possible me. Sitting increases the probability of reaching the still place. But on a given morning the sit might be far from still. Sometimes a noise outside or a bark inside startles my eyes open and the sit is over and all I did was shuffle through image after image, thought after thought. Each thought has a shape, like an image, so they are all sensations. A sit like that does not contain the reason for the habit of sitting.
A sit is to reach awareness. Awareness has no shapes.
My sits do not get graded. I trust them. The journey and the goal need no description; descriptions would fail others and I can recall them inside anterior to the words.