Body Journey: January

In January I started out on a journey to discover what my body can do. I went into the journey imagining myself as an explorer following my curiosity and taking note of discoveries. I would not judge what I found. I would not aim to change.

My biggest discovery was the power of an exploratory mindset and of meditation. Both work on the same premises—slow down, take notice, don’t judge, and connect with yourself in the moment.

Exploratory Mindset

When you approach things like an explorer rather than a conqueror, you really cannot fail. Your goal is simply to observe, not to change. For example, one day I ate a radish mindfully. Then three hours later I mindlessly ate popcorn while I worked at my computer. All week I thought about the radish. A radish tastes like the air one inch above freshly turned earth on a breezy, sunny day.

While eating the radish, I slowed down, I took notice in such a way that I now have this precious radish vision, and I didn’t dwell on the fact that I mindlessly ate the popcorn and most other meals that week. I treasure the radish moment. It led me to eat this mindfully as well. 

It took me almost 30 minutes to eat but when I finished, I felt I had just been to Italy lying in a field watching tomatoes grow. The spinach made my teeth feel matte. I consumed the rain that nourished the arugula and olives. I was left with a warm surrounding feeling like someone taking care of me.

It turns out that this exploratory mindset is the survival kit for my body journey. No actually let’s call it the hiking boots because a survival kit is only used in emergencies and this mindset is really the shoes I’m walking in every day.

In my last post, I said that my January focus would be:

                          snow activities                                                  hibernation

  

massage
I tried restorative yoga nidra and gong baths—not technically a massage but man, it feels like it. After this practice I feel all gooey and buttery like a pool of street light on a rainy Paris night. I have lavender drops melted into one palm and clove melted into the other. Nothing aches. Nothing buzzes. The practice is only about 4 or 5 long-held poses supported by bolsters, blankets, the wall, blocks. At the end the guide plays the gong. It is a big, full, rich sound with layers and layers. Like hearing a heavy drop of water plopped into a lake in slow motion, concentric circles rippling out to infinity. The sound has energy and substance, like a sun pulsing through the room in radiating circles.

meditation         

https://www.calm.com/

               

Making snowbirds, hibernating, and taking gong baths were all fine and nice but meditation was the Holy Grail discovery.  

Meditation

Before: Alarm goes off. I wake with dread. I should get up and go to the gym. I haven’t been all week. But it’s dark and cold out. I push Snooze. All that pizza last night. And then ice cream. I eat like a teenager. Who do I think I am? Why can’t I get it together? Why can’t I change? I’m stuck in a rut. I’m so tired. I push Snooze. If only I had a partner. He’d motivate me. But how will I meet anyone? I can’t even get out of bed, let alone look up and smile at someone. I push Snooze. I have so much to do. I can’t possibly get all this done. My head throbs, my heart races, I feel heavy. The dog is sleeping on my foot, probably getting my bed dirty.

After: Alarm goes off. These are the sheets my mom gave me. At first, they smelled like her, like a California desert. Now they smell like my coconut foot lotion and my lavender sleep spray. I stretch my feet past the warm zone to the cool, crisp part of the sheets. My dog’s back is snug up against my back. I turn and scratch his warm furry head. I sit up and rub his belly for a long time. My phone is within arm’s reach from last night’s sleep story on the Calm app. I smile trying to remember what the story was about. But again, I fell fast asleep and can barely recall. I tap to the Daily Calm meditation. To the sounds of birds and lapping waves, I picture myself sitting on a river bank that is softly padded with moss that muffles the sound of the crashing waterfall. The waterfall represents my run-away thoughts. I am watching the waterfall, observing it with detached curiosity.

 

With my exploratory mindset, I spent January tuning into my body signals. I noticed that for the majority of my days, my head spins with negative thoughts, worries, future scenarios in which I am “perfect,” regrets, and fears. Life is happening around me, but I am deep in my thoughts. I am talking to someone, but my mind is elsewhere—mostly in my To Do list and the stress of how it will never get done. I have been largely unaware of the impact of these thoughts on my body. Now I see that the stress and anxiety make me flush red—it blossoms from my chest up my neck and flowers all over my face. My heart races. I feel jittery. My jaw aches. It feels like a dangerous physical state of being. I decided to try meditation.

Years ago, my therapist told me to meditate. I sat and sat and tried not to think and just got itchy. A good friend recommended Oprah & Deepak. I listened and listened and said the mantras and waited for change. I went to an Apache group meditation. I imagined purple light cupping my brain and I put my hands on the drum and I did have unusually clear vision driving home. But until my January body journey, I never really got it.

The difference this time is a gift from my best friend—a subscription to Calm—a guided meditation app. Calm told me to imagine the negative, distracting thoughts floating by in a cloud. Or as a gushing waterfall, but I am on the river bank watching, observing, noticing—not getting pummeled standing in the waterfall, but sitting on the calm shore, just watching.

Meditation does not require that you clear your mind of thought. In fact, it works best when you instead give space to your thoughts—notice them but don’t let them carry you away. Every time they start to take over, you breathe. Focus on finding the place where the air comes into your body.

Meditation is not about change. It is about acceptance of what you think and feel—noticing but not getting swept away. Every time you start to get swept away, you breathe. Fill your lungs, belly, back, chest and then slowly let it out.

Meditation brings you to the present moment and away from your distracting thoughts. Not so far away that you stop thinking but far away enough that you get perspective on your thoughts. 

I like thinking of my thoughts as an energetic, disobedient puppy.

It’s not his fault he’s all over the place. But if his owner doesn’t tame him, he won’t stop. If his owner yells or loses her temper, he’ll get even more wild. He needs a calm presence to teach him what to do. With meditation, I can make my run-away thoughts sit like a good dog. They eventually even nestle into a sleeping ball after turning in circles a few times.

I still love my thoughts because they are problems that I am trying to solve. But in the shape of an obedient, even peacefully sleeping dog, they are manageable. While they sleep, I check in on how my body feels. I don’t try to stop the heat wave or jaw ache. I just notice it. And I breathe, breathe, breathe. When I feel grounded and at ease, I carry on with my day. Eventually I go wake up my little doggie, toss him a ball, scratch his ears and before I know it, a solution to the problem starts to form.

I worked hard all month on meditating. I meditated instead of drinking, eating, working, yelling, thinking, sleeping, playing Cooking Craze and Wordscape. That is not to say I did not drink, eat, work, yell, think, sleep, and play my apps. But I did not do those things as a way to shut out or distract myself from stressful and anxious thoughts.

Before: I try to make myself invisible. I want to be unseen in a room of people. Pretending not to exist doesn’t make me go away. My body is my interface with the world. People do see it even if don’t see it. I can hardly imagine what I look like living my life. I try to blend in, camouflage, or I end up being outrageous, funny, awkward on purpose to just get it over with and make like it’s my schtick. As if me just being there isn’t good enough—like I have to offer something up, put on a show, do something to pay for the space I’m taking up. It’s like I’m in a transformer robot—there’s the body/machine and then real me inside—tiny, in the head of the giant robot—clumsily controlling the body parts like I’m working a machine that I never operated before.

After: I practice meditation each morning and twice on Sundays. I begin to see myself as someone calm and in charge. I breathe into the moment and the frayed buzz and jangle of my nerves stops. I begin to move forward with stamina, willpower, confidence, resilience, determination, and sureness. I go to a party with my best friend. We dance. We talk to people. I’m not fully out of the transformer suit. I drink a lot of wine, which kind of keeps me in the transformer suit. But as I write this, I am not getting carried away by shame or guilt. Imagine me in my hiking boots, observing and taking an objective note in my explorer field journal.