Leaving the Circus

“We usually don’t look, we overlook.”

Alan Watts

I’m off to a meditation camp this morning. It’s a good thing.

There are days, like today, when I begin to overlook, when landing fully and immediately in the moment is something that only happens to calmer people. I’m no circus act or anything.

There are no plates spinning on my nose.  There is no unicycle. No monkeys, except for my monkey mind.

My thoughts on waking are, “Oh, god, I’m pinned between Pat (my lovely man) and Rosie (my sometimes lovely dog), it’s no wonder I can’t sleep. I’ve got one sixth of the bed to myself. I’ll have to amputate my legs to get a good sleep with you two. And rats, I forgot to open the window last night, which is why there is no air to breathe in here. And shoot, who left the suitcase on the floor for me to trip over in the dark? I did. Rats.”

It’s only a minute or three before I catch this thinking and wrestle it to the ground, but that’s three minutes of my one and only life spent body slamming an opponent who looks more like me than a monkey should.

Today’s practice, while my coffee drips, is Forever Downward Dog. This means Downward Dog until I meet my monkey mind once (oh, this is ridiculous, I’ve got to pack), twice (oh, great, now the coffee’s just sitting there, getting cold), three times (shoot, I’ve got a load of laundry in the washer and I need that purple shirt for my trip. I can’t meditate without that shirt), and four times. I hold Downward Dog until I know I’m in Downward Dog and nowhere else.

And then, ahhhhhhhh, something lets go, the monkeys and rats and spinning plates go back to sleep, and I’m here. Here is such a good place.

Do you wake up with monkeys, ever? (Do you sleep with your dog? Don’t start.) Does yoga bring you here?  Do you have a Forever Pose?

Thanks to the monkeys for teaching me what here isn’t. Thanks to yoga for stopping the circus. Thanks to you, always, for the conversation,

Kristin