Sitting

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.med

“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.

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