SERENITY NOW!!

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had problems with attention and focus.

Of course, I didn’t have them in the socially acceptable, medically fashionable way—mostly because I’ve never been particularly accepted by society. My problem wasn’t that I couldn’t focus. My problem was that I focused WAY too much, and everything moving around me captured my attention for frighteningly long periods of time.

When I was in my toddler phase—one I may not have entirely outgrown—I would fall into deep, contemplative trances.

What a toddler could possibly have to contemplate that deeply is beyond me, but I had a habit of crawling around on the carpet with my forehead pressed against the floor while I thought. Apparently, the perpetual rug burn across my forehead concerned my mother and infuriated my father.

I quickly learned that I shouldn’t grind my face into hamburger while mentally calculating the thrust vector required to launch a hot dog out of Earth’s orbit—or whatever the hell I was working on.

So, when I got a little older, I started hiding whenever I needed to think.

As I saw it, this strategy offered two benefits. First, no one could throw off my chi while my brain was in gear. Second, if I were sent to Vietnam, I would already have considerable experience hiding from people who wanted to find me.

I guess that explains why I joined the Navy during the war. All that hiding had apparently made the infantry seem too obvious.

I barely made it through high school. In fact, school officials had to pretend that all the time I spent in algebra class hadn’t really happened because acknowledging it would have done something terrible to my GPA.

Honestly—and this is true—I had no idea what a GPA was, so I remained unconcerned.

My horrific grades were clearly not my fault. Both the junior and senior high school buildings at good old RHS had windows. On a regular basis, the things happening outside those windows were far, FAR more interesting than the drivel coming out of my teachers’ pieholes.

My father said I had to be the only student in the history of education who never had homework.

He knew I was lying. My grades knew I was lying. School administrators probably formed a committee to study the scope and magnitude of the lie.

But homework interfered with my extracurricular activities—none of which were recognized, sanctioned, or even remotely understood by the school.

After class, I went directly to the cornfields, woods, or pond and—you know—contemplated shit.

That particular mental defect served me well as an air traffic controller. In that profession, obsessively noticing everything that moved wasn’t considered a disorder. It was the job description.

Unfortunately, carrying the same malady into retirement has been extremely debilitating.

Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve gone after like a Visigoth arriving at the gates of Rome with a grudge and a flexible afternoon.

When I returned to painting, I immediately turned it into a crippling drive to sell my artwork. I obsessed over it during every waking hour.

Should I build a website?

Should I order business cards?

Should I enter craft shows or local art festivals?

If I entered shows, would I need a different car to carry the paintings?

Would I need a tent?

What kind of tent?

Would the tent need business cards?

I was—and remain—exhausting.

I did the same thing with horseback competition, building touring kayaks, writing books, running, and cycling.

Today, I went on a forty-plus-mile bike ride. Throughout the entire ride, I thought about the Zwift session I’m doing tomorrow, the thirteen miles I’m running Friday, and the swimming workout I’m doing Saturday.

The only workout I didn’t think about was the forty-mile bike ride I was actually doing.

I know my brain needs calming the way a teenager on a skateboard needs to be punched in the head. So today, acting on my wife’s advice, I decided to try guided meditation.

A few months ago, when I first decided to attack relaxation with the same grim determination I normally reserve for endurance sports and invading small countries, I ordered a meditation mat.

For those who, like me, have lived blissfully unaware of meditation mats, yoga cushions, or the Kama Sutra—although I may have encountered portions of that last one—a meditation mat is basically a round couch cushion. It’s about two feet across and inexplicably stuffed with something that feels suspiciously like dried peas.

It is approximately as comfortable as a paper towel laid across a concrete step.

Still, I was determined to bring serenity into my life—even if I had to kill myself doing it.

After my ride, I took a shower, went into my office, closed the door and blinds, and found a guided-meditation video on YouTube.

I pressed play.

A sickeningly syrupy female voice, which sounded as though her other job was working the late shift at a suicide hotline, drifted from my phone.

“For this session, we recommend getting extra cozy. So, hit pause if you need to, and come back when you’re ready. Eyes lovingly closed.”

My eyes snapped open.

Partly because I was fairly certain I had already closed them, but not lovingly. I had shut them the way I normally close a junk drawer: with irritation and more force than necessary.

I was also sitting in my hard desk chair and feeling more correctional than cozy.

Then I thought, Hey, my meditation mat is sitting right there. I’ll put it on the chair and see if I can approach the realm of EXTRA cozy.

Here’s an interesting fact about meditation mats: They’re approximately five inches thick and possess all the give of a sidewalk.

Undaunted, I placed the cushion on my chair and attempted to sit on it.

Technically, I don’t think you could call what I did “sitting.” The chair seat was now roughly level with my butt cheeks while I was standing, so I sort of leaned backward and tried to dock with it.

I felt extra ridiculous, but not extra cozy.

Still, I had bought the damn thing, and by God, I was going to use it.

I leaned back, burrowed my ass into the cushion, closed my eyes—lovingly this time—and restarted the recording.

“Let awareness of breath and body be all you need to focus on right now. With a sense of kindness and compassion in your heart, observe…you.”

I was instantly distracted.

There is absolutely NO way I can observe myself sitting on this stupid-ass mat. I would have to leave my body, walk around the desk, and look back at myself. And if I could do that, I wouldn’t need a free meditation video on YouTube.

I removed the mat, backed up the recording, and pressed play again.

“Let awareness of breath and body be all you need to focus on right now. With a sense of kindness and compassion in your heart, observe…you. Letting whatever the experience of you…just…be. Nothing to think about. Nothing to force.”

Hold up. How am I supposed to think about nothing while simultaneously following your instructions? Now you’re just being an asshole.

Relax. She probably isn’t an asshole. Pay attention to the nice lady inside your head.

“Your only role is to observe and allow. Staying present with breath and body. Letting both feel so relaxed. So at peace as you release the muscles in—”

My phone ring tone exploded beside my head and I got religion quick.

“JESUS CHRIST!”

I dismissed whatever life-changing information POTENTIAL SPAM had called to share and attempted to center myself again.

Okay. Just breathe. In…and out. In through the mouth and out through the nose.

Wait. Is that right? Or is it in through the nose and out through the mouth? Hang on—I think in yoga you’re supposed to breathe out through your anus.

But isn’t that just a fart?

I suppressed a giggle because I had thought about farts.

Knock it off, you freaking child.

The soothing voice continued.

“…your forehead, face, and jaw, as well as your neck, shoulders, arms, and hands. Getting heavier…and heavier.”

Wow. They really are getting heavy. Far out.

I wonder if I’ll leave a permanent butt print in my meditation cushion.

Oh, wait. I threw that thing on the floor.

Damn it. Get back on track.

“Use only the muscles you absolutely need while allowing the others to relax.”

W the actual F?

I didn’t know I needed a degree in anatomy to relax. Which muscles do I absolutely need? Who makes that decision? Is there a committee? Do the muscles vote?

Oh, shut up and get your Zen on.

“Flowing awareness down through the chest and torso, abdomen and back, releasing and relaxing as you go.”

Abdomen. That’s a weird word.

Ab-dough-man.

Ab-duh-men.

Ad-doe-men.

Ab-oh-man-el.

Ah-bom-en-el.

SNOWMAN!

“Traveling down through your bones and legs, all the way to your feet. Letting the whole body become heavy and simply at ease, as though you’re preparing to float away.”

Float away? How the hell am I going to float away when you just made every part of me heavy?

I understand the principles of flight. Anything will fly if you shove enough thrust up its ass, and anything will fit if it’s moving fast enough. But I don’t see how either principle is going to help me here.

“Now, as the messages continue quietly in the background, trust and know that what you are receiving is for your highest good.”

Hang on. What messages?

Was I supposed to be receiving messages?

Maybe that’s why I can’t float away. I haven’t received the instructions yet. I’m sitting here fully weighted and cleared for departure, but nobody has issued me a heading.

“I am radiant. I am whole. I am complete as I am, and yet I am ever expanding, ever growing further into greater heights, greater possibilities, greater timelines for me.”

I burst out laughing when I imagined my radiant hole and stopped the recording.

I suppose the biggest lessons from my attempt to reach a more enlightened version of myself were these:

First, there is clearly no enlightened version of me—anywhere, in any form, temporal reality, parallel universe, opposing space-time construct, or reasonably priced meditation retreat.

Second, I’m certain meditation works for some people. In all honesty, I began to experience some of the sensations the nice suicide-hotline lady said would relax me.

Unfortunately, humanity contains certain unalterable truths.

Someone with anger issues should never carry a gun, use Facebook, or teach second-grade mathematics.

A person with only one eye should wear a safety monocle at all times.

The lane you choose will always be the slowest.

The nurse who says, “This will only sting a little,” is a liar.

There is no such thing as a five second fuse on a hand grenade. 

Anyone who uses Vise-Grips to repair everything should not be permitted near household plumbing, electrical wiring, or a nuclear reactor.

And a man who still giggles at words like poop, fart, and booger—a man who studies strangers on the sidewalk and imagines what they would look like wearing wetsuits and red rubber noses—should never be allowed to meditate, practice yoga, or attempt to breathe through his anus.

It could cause an irreparable tear in the cosmic rift.

And nobody wants to explain that to God.