My mind races. Often it races at the same brick wall again and again.

I was sitting down at the computer earlier trying to compose a post about something I’m working through in my recovery. My mind was spinning and spinning on the topic, but the right words wouldn’t come. I have learned when that happens that I need to leave that topic and come back to it, but I was feeling like an animal trapped in a cage, desperate. “I have less than half an hour until I have to pick Baby Girl up from school. I have to write something today and if I don’t do it now, when am I going to find the time?”

Still, I was getting nowhere and “have to” generally signals trouble for me. So, I closed the computer, dragged myself away from it, pulled my meditation bench away from the wall, set a timer for the twenty minutes I had available before I had to leave, lit my incense, rang a gong and sat.

I love this ritual. It always feels like a luxury to me, though I often wish it didn’t. I love the smell of the incense. I love my gong and the way the sound resonates and hangs in the air. I love the meditation bench that keeps my body upright and my feet from, as my daughter says, “snoring.” And I love my timer. My mind, like my kids, likes to say, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? You know what, I’m just going to go get up and check the clock and see.” And I love being able to tell it, “No, the timer will tell us when we’re there. Sit still.”

I sat with my eyes toward the wall and felt my heart race; I could see my heart pounding in the throbbing of my vision. I felt every tense muscle in my body, my shoulders at my ears. I sat. I felt my mind racing too, saw it like a rat in a cage. I heard a voice inside me say, “You don’t have control over this situation you’re struggling with.” And my mind said, “Ok, lesson learned! Let’s get up now.” But the timer hadn’t chimed yet. So, I sat.

I felt those still tense muscles. I tried to balance and release. And the voice inside me said, “Let go. What are you afraid of?” And I cried as I sat, with tears running onto my hands, as I relaxed just a little. Then my mind said, “Ok, see. This is a good stop. Let’s get off here. I feel better. I’m all fixed. Come on. Let’s go.” But the timer hadn’t chimed yet. So, I sat.

I have had meditation teachers tell me to picture nothing, and I have had meditation teachers tell me to picture something. I find I like to picture a figure floating in space like a star, surrounded in golden light. The light is tangible and I can breathe it in. I breathe in clouds of golden light coming from the figure, and I breathe out black clouds, which the figure takes in and purifies into golden light. I breathe in more light. I breathe out brown clouds, then indigo, then blue, then green, then spring green like new leaves (so beautiful, more tears), then golden. My mind says, “Now I’m really fixed. See. The light is golden. Let’s get up.” But the timer hadn’t chimed yet. So, I sat.

I let my shoulders fall away from my ears. I sat. My mind scampered a little slower. My heart beat steadily without pounding. And at last, the timer did chime. I sat for just a few breaths more. Then I got up feeling, not perfect, but clearer headed and more serene.

I went to pick up my daughter and left that topic I was struggling with for another day, because guess what? As so often happens, it turns out that what I was really struggling with today wasn’t that topic I was so insistent about pursuing after all, but the pursuit itself.